Chapter 3
3
VANESSA
V anessa took her time making her way up the stairs, ensuring her hips swayed in a way she knew Hawke would find alluring. She was pretty sure she was poking the bear, but she didn’t care. It took her mind off the stalker. Each footfall kept time with the voice in her head whispering all the reasons this was a bad idea.
She didn’t belong here.
She didn’t belong with him.
And yet here she was—sweaty from adrenaline, half-dressed, and hiding behind the bravado of clipped sarcasm and narrowed eyes—taking the damn shower first like he’d told her to.
The upstairs hallway was just as infuriatingly controlled as the rest of the house. Clean lines, no clutter. Every door closed, every surface bare except for a single black-and-white photo hanging by the bathroom entrance. A mountain range. Stark. Quiet. Like him.
She opened the bathroom door and froze.
Of course, it was spotless. He had folded the towels with military precision. The dark slate tile gleamed as if someone had scrubbed it an hour ago. The shower was massive, all stone and glass, the kind of thing featured in men’s magazines and rugged cabin design blogs. The scent of cedar and black soap clung to the space, and underneath it, something unmistakably Hawke—clean, commanding, male.
She turned the lock, stripped quickly and stepped into the steam.
She stepped beneath the rainfall showerhead, allowing the warm water to cascade over her skin, and let out a deep sigh. Naturally, he had adjusted it to the ideal temperature, a perfect balance between soothing warmth and invigorating heat. He executed everything with impeccable attention to detail. She tilted her head back and let the water slide over her face.
The heat helped, but not enough. Her pulse still pounded softly, her thoughts still looped around the letter and the book and the ridiculous, infuriating man downstairs who’d shown up like he hadn’t missed a beat… like he hadn’t disappeared the second things got complicated between them.
That was the problem with Hawke. He always showed up when it mattered not just when it counted.
Yet she yearned for his presence. His dominating presence and sexuality would have been the perfect solace after such a shitty night, like a comforting embrace that took her to the highest heights, let her soul fly free, and then soothed her turbulent thoughts.
Her hand drifted down her body, imagining the sensation of his touch. His hands, large and rugged, conveying a sense of strength and security, feeling just right against her skin. She could vividly picture them lifting her breasts, his thumbs expertly teasing her sensitive nipples. He had a way of savoring the moment, always taking his time, and eventually, he would have replaced his hands with his mouth, igniting her senses with gentle precision.
Her hand moved down to her clit, a desperate need coursing through her. She needed this release. She needed him, but that was no longer a possibility. It wasn't as if she hadn't taken care of her own needs before. This ritual had been her way of managing sexual frustration ever since they’d gone their separate ways. With no time for dating and no desire to scene sexually at the club, it had become just her imagination and her and her trusty right hand.
She imagined it was Hawke’s hand exploring her clitoris, tracing a path down to her core. It was his touch that made her feel hot and wet, his presence lingering in her thoughts.
A sudden, sharp knock on the door shattered the moment, jolting her from her reverie and nearly frightening her to death. “Get a move on, Vanessa. You need to eat and if you will not sleep, we need to get to work.”
Bastard. She grabbed the soap and scrubbed hard.
Fifteen minutes later, wrapped in a towel that smelled like him and fit like a damn blanket, she padded out into the hallway. Her bag sat in the guest bedroom just where he’d said it would be. The room was… sparse. A bed. A dresser. A nightstand. No fluff. No unnecessary throw pillows. Just clean, crisp order—exactly like everything else in this place.
She changed into soft cotton joggers and a worn t-shirt. No lace. No frills. She wasn’t here to tempt anyone. She was here because someone had crossed a line, and she needed to survive long enough to figure out who and why.
And yet…
As she stepped back into the hall, bare feet moving soundlessly across the wood floors, she couldn’t stop herself from slowing down. Exploring.
The door across from hers was open. His bedroom.
She lingered in the doorway.
It was more lived-in than the guest room but still maddeningly tidy. A dark wood bed frame. Charcoal sheets. No pictures on the wall. No mementos. But his scent lingered stronger here, like memory and command and danger.
Vanessa moved on.
The hallway ended in a loft-style overlook, opening into the primary space below. From here, she could see him—seated at the long kitchen table, laptop open, phone pressed to his ear. The collar of his shirt was damp from the rain. His fingers tapped out something with quick precision.
Focused. Strategic. Even now, his presence filled the space like gravity.
She hated how much she remembered. The sound of his voice behind her in the dark. The scrape of his beard against her inner thigh. The first time he’d called her sweetheart in the middle of a scene, like the word belonged to her alone.
He hadn’t changed… not really. At least not in how it mattered most. It scared her how fast the past was bleeding into the present.
Vanessa forced herself to turn away. She made her way back down the stairs, spine straight, chin lifted. He ended his call as she reached the bottom, eyes lifting to meet hers. No greeting. Just a long look, steady and assessing.
She didn’t break eye contact. “I don’t suppose you stock soy milk and multigrain muffins,” she said, brushing a damp curl off her forehead.
“No.”
“Didn’t think so.”
He stood. “There’s coffee and real food in the fridge. You’ll have to deal with it.”
She raised an eyebrow. “You gonna make me eggs, Hawke?”
“If I need to.”
She didn’t know if he meant because she was injured, or spoiled, or just his responsibility now. And she didn’t ask, but was glad to see him beginning to scramble some eggs.
He placed a plate on the table and motioned for her to sit down. “Eat. Then we talk.”
“I’m not sure I’m hungry.”
“You are.”
“I don’t enjoy being ordered around.”
He poured her coffee. Set it in front of her. Sat back down.
“You’ll survive.”
Vanessa narrowed her eyes. “You do realize I’m not some trainee fresh out of a toxic relationship needing to be saved.”
His jaw flexed, but he didn’t rise to the bait.
“You’re not a rookie. You’re not fragile. But right now, you’re compromised. That means I call the shots. End of story.”
She sat slowly, watching him over the rim of her cup.
“You think I’m going to fall in line just because you say it like that?”
“I think you’re smart enough to know this is bigger than your pride.”
His eyes met hers again. Direct. Steady.
She hated he was right.
“I want access to everything you know,” she said. “You don’t get to lock me out of my case.”
“It’s not your case.”
Her hand clenched around the mug.
“It’s my life.”
“And it’s mine to protect.”
Her breath caught. Not from fear. From the way he said it. Steady. Absolute. No flinch. No doubt. He meant it.
The silence stretched. Not cold, but close.
She set the mug down and leaned forward. “Don’t confuse protection with possession.”
He leaned forward, too, arms resting on the table. “You always knew the difference.”
Vanessa held his gaze. For a moment, it was like they were back in the club—alone in the shadows, one order away from a scene that would leave her undone and complete at the same time. She looked away.
“I want to go through the letter again. The paper, the writing. There was something about it…”
“We’ll go over everything,” he said. “But not until you eat something that didn’t come out of a bottle.”
“I’m not your charity case.”
“You’re not. But you’re mine. And I don’t half-ass what’s mine.”
Her pulse skipped. Damn him.
She picked up the coffee again and took a slow sip, letting the caffeine burn away the last of the chill in her blood, and took a couple of bites of the eggs.
Vanessa knew she should keep her guard up. Keep her distance. But being here, in his house, with the fire crackling and Hawke looking at her like she still mattered—it was beginning to feel like the part of her that left him never actually left… and that terrified her more than the stalker ever could.
“Okay, Commander,” she added, walking a slow arc behind him. “Are you actually planning to talk with me or am I just supposed to listen and answer ‘yes, Sir’?”
“Sit down, Vanessa.”
His voice was low. Not raised. Not barked. Just firm enough that her feet stopped moving before her brain caught up.
She narrowed her eyes at him. “Did you just order me to sit?”
He looked up now. Slowly. The blue in his eyes darker than she remembered, a glacial calm behind it.
“I told you to sit,” he repeated. “Whether or not you do is your call. But I’ve got ground rules to go over, and I’m not chasing you around the damn kitchen while I do it.”
Her jaw flexed. “You make it sound like I’m a misbehaving pet.”
“No,” he said, rising from the table. “You’re not. You’re a woman with a sharp mind and worse habits, who needs to know how this works while you’re under my protection.”
She crossed her arms. “So that’s what we’re calling it now? Protection?”
“You’re in my house, under my roof. Until we eliminate the threat, I’m responsible for your safety. And that means you’ll follow rules that aren’t negotiable.”
“I didn’t agree to rules.”
“You did the second you called me.”
He stepped closer, not threateningly, but with a certainty that filled the space between them. He didn’t posture or puff up. He didn’t need to.
And damn if her body didn’t react before her brain did.
That steady presence, the way he looked at her like he could peel every layer back with a single command—it made her spine straighten and her blood heat in equal measure.
“Fine,” she said. “Lay them on me. Let’s hear the sacred rules of Saint Hawke.”
He didn’t blink at the sarcasm. Just listed them off like bullets.
“One: You don’t go anywhere alone. That includes the front porch and the damn mailbox. Two: If someone contacts you in any way—email, text, social media—you tell me immediately. Three: You delete nothing or clean up anything you think might be relevant. Four: You stay in this house, unless I take you out of it.”
“Wow.” She sipped her coffee. “And people say I’m bossy.”
He didn’t flinch. “I’m not interested in what people say. I’m only interested in keeping you alive.”
She rolled her eyes. “You make it sound like I’m being hunted.”
His face stayed steady, but his voice dropped. “You are.”
She froze. Just for a second. Then lifted her chin. “You always knew how to kill a mood.”
“I’m not here for a mood, Vanessa. I’m here because someone broke into your house, quoted something from an unpublished manuscript, and left without a trace. That doesn’t happen unless someone’s watching closely. You’re not dealing with a casual creeper. This is deliberate. And it’s going to get worse before it gets better.”
She hated that her stomach twisted at his words. Hated even more that he was probably right. He might be right, but that didn’t mean she was about to roll over and make it easy for him.
“So you expect me to just sit here in your fortress and wait for permission to breathe?”
“I expect you to act like your life’s worth protecting,” he said evenly. “And if you can’t manage that, I’ll do it for you.”
Her skin flushed, a slow burn starting beneath the surface. She wasn’t used to being handled—not any more. She handled others—readers, critics, even Doms she played with at the club. She knew how to take control with a smile and a whip-smart tongue.
But Hawke didn’t flinch. Didn’t react. He just waited, still as stone, until she either folded or escalated. She hated that about him; she always had. She hated how much she wanted to see what it would take to make him lose that control.
“I haven’t decided if you’re an arrogant bastard or just the world’s most high-functioning control freak,” she said, stepping closer.
His eyes dipped to her mouth, then back up.
“I can be both.”
“I’m not one of your soldiers.”
“You’re not a soldier at all. That’s the problem.”
She arched a brow. “And what am I, exactly?”
He didn’t blink. “Mine. For now.”
Her body reacted faster than her mind. A flush climbed up her throat, her pulse kicking harder in her chest. She hated that too.
“You can’t just claim me like I’m some project to fix.”
“I’m not here to fix you. I’m here to stop someone from destroying you.”
She stepped in, almost nose-to-nose now. “You want obedience? You’re going to have to earn it.”
His mouth curved—not a smile. Something quieter. More dangerous.
“I already have.”
The silence that followed cracked with electricity, invisible but unmistakable. Vanessa stared at him, jaw tight, chest rising faster than it should. She wanted to slap him. She wanted to kiss him. She wanted to throw her coffee in his face just so he’d react with something besides infuriating composure.
But mostly? She wanted to test the boundaries he’d just laid out.
“You will not intimidate me into playing the good little victim,” she said.
“No,” he replied. “But I am going to protect you. Whether or not you like how I do it.”
Her voice dropped. “And if I push back?”
He leaned in until his mouth was at her ear, his voice low enough to rumble through her skin.
“Then I’ll push harder.”
Vanessa stood perfectly still as he straightened and walked back to the table, collected his mug like they hadn’t just been standing toe-to-toe two seconds from an explosion.
He didn’t look back. And that, more than anything, made her want to chase him down and provoke every ounce of dominance he was holding back. Instead, she set her coffee down and forced herself to turn toward the stairs.
If he wanted a brat? He’d get one. But what neither of them said—what pulsed under every word—was that she wasn’t just testing him to prove a point.
She was testing him to see if, for once, one of them would stay.