Chapter 6
6
HAWKE
H awke was up before the sun.
Not because he hadn’t slept—he had. Deep and uninterrupted, Vanessa curled against his chest like she’d belonged there all along. But the moment light began to cut across the ridgeline, his body snapped back into work mode. Protector. Strategist. Sentinel.
He moved quietly through the cabin, barefoot on cold wood floors, eyes alert as he checked the cameras first and then the file Reed had sent overnight before heading out to check the perimeter.
When he returned, he noticed Vanessa’s laptop was where he’d left it, untouched since she’d fallen asleep. She had neatly folded her scattered clothes and placed them on the edge of the dining table.
She hadn’t said a word about what they’d done. Hadn’t needed to. But this morning, he had hung back. Not out of guilt. Not out of regret. Hawke didn’t regret control. Not when it kept people alive.
But he needed to observe her now. Watch how she moved. Gauge what walls had gone back up. She’d given him everything last night—her mouth, her body, her submission—but the fight in her wasn’t gone. It lay coiled, sleeping beneath her skin.
And he needed her sharp. She couldn’t fall apart now.
When she emerged from the bedroom around eight, her hair was damp and coiled at the base of her neck, a fresh bruise blooming at the base of her throat. His mark. She was wearing another one of his shirts and a pair of leggings she must’ve found in her overnight bag.
He didn’t speak, and she didn’t look at him right away.
She poured herself some coffee, padded across the floor, and dropped into the armchair near the fireplace. Then she lifted her gaze, met his.
“You always stare at people this early in the morning?”
He kept his voice level. “Only when I’m trying to figure out if they’re about to self-destruct or make coffee.”
She sipped. “I can do both—the two are not mutually exclusive.”
“They are in my house.”
That earned a slight lift of her eyebrow, but she didn’t argue. He stepped away from the wall where he’d been leaning and dropped into the chair across from her. No table between them. No distance that would make either of them feel too safe.
“I need a list,” he said.
Vanessa didn’t flinch. “Of what?”
“Even though we’re going to focus on Brenner, I want the names of every submissive scene partner you’ve had in the last two years. Anyone you rejected. Anyone who asked and you declined. Anyone who lingered too long at your author table or tried to cross lines outside of the club.”
She took another slow sip before answering. “You think it’s someone I scened with?”
“I think whoever this is has a fantasy about you that feels personal. Like they’ve constructed a shared past that never existed.”
“That’s not rare.”
“True. But this one’s been close. In your space. Watching. He’s studied your schedule, your writing style, your triggers.”
She frowned. “Triggers?”
“The quotes he picked. The scenes. It’s not random. He knows which ones carry weight.”
Vanessa set the mug down on the floor beside her and curled her legs under her. “I don’t keep a journal of ‘guys who couldn’t take a hint.’ Some of them only showed up once. Some never touched me at all.”
“I don’t need the entire roster. Just the ones who felt off.”
She exhaled slowly. “Okay. There’s a guy named Brent who used to follow me out of the club. Security warned him off eventually. A scene partner named Mark—he was fine at first, but then he started pushing outside the negotiated limits. Tried to surprise me with gifts. I shut it down fast.”
“Last names?”
“No idea on Brent. Mark went by Mark Langston. But I don’t think that was real.”
Hawke made a mental note. “Anyone else?”
“There was a writer’s conference last year. I gave a talk on erotic tension and power exchange. Some guy showed up three different times during the weekend but never came to a signing. Just watched. Kind of glassy-eyed.”
“You remember his name?”
“No badge. But I think he used a fake name when he asked for a photo. Said it was for his wife.”
Hawke’s gut twisted. “And you let him take one?”
She gave him a look. “I was in a packed room. I smiled and moved on. I didn’t hand him my address.”
He didn’t like it. But she wasn’t wrong.
He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, voice dropping. “There’s a line in one message. You missed it, but I didn’t.”
She stilled.
“He wrote, ‘You keep hiding the truth, but I remember that scene. I remember the one that wasn’t fiction.’”
Her eyes narrowed. “Which message?”
Hawke pulled his phone and opened the screenshot. She took it, scanned the text, then handed it back.
“I didn’t write that scene. At least… not in a book.”
“You acted it out?”
She nodded. “At the club. It was one of the more intense ones. I used the premise in my notes but never published it. No one saw it except the Dom and the Dungeon Monitor.”
“Who was the Dom?”
She hesitated. “He played under the name Julius.”
Hawke froze.
“That mean something to you?” she asked.
He nodded once. “There was an incident a few months ago. A sub filed a complaint. Said her Dom used non-consensual language mid-scene, took it beyond agreed limits. She didn’t name him directly, but the description matched Julius. We never got proof.”
“You think he’s our guy?”
“I think it’s time I had a long talk with him.”
Vanessa leaned back. “You’re sure he’d escalate like this?”
“I’ve seen quieter men go darker for less.”
He watched her eyes flick away, toward the fireplace, the flames just beginning to catch.
“You need to prep for the possibility that this person knew you before you were watching,” he said. “Before your radar was up.”
“I’ve always had my radar up.”
“No,” he corrected, “you’ve always had walls. That’s not the same.”
She didn’t answer. He stood, walked to the kitchen, and pulled a legal pad from the drawer. Set it in front of her with a pen.
“Write it down. Every name you can remember, even if it feels stupid. We cross-reference it with the list Reed’s building from your email accounts.”
She took the pen, but didn’t start writing.
“You’re doing that thing again,” she said. “Where you act like you’re fine and in control, but your jaw keeps twitching like you want to put a hole through a wall.”
He didn’t deny it. “I should’ve seen this sooner,” he said.
“You couldn’t have.”
“I should’ve.”
Vanessa reached across the table and touched his hand—just barely. Fingertips grazing knuckles. “You’re seeing it now. That’s what matters.”
He didn’t close his hand over hers. Didn’t lean into it, but he didn’t pull away, either. In his world, that was the same as a promise.
Hawke read the names on the page like they were confessions.
Most of them were vague—scene names only, no last initials, no identifying markers. Vanessa had sugarcoated nothing. She’d marked the ones that raised red flags. She even added details. Language used, energy shifts, subtle control grabs disguised as flattery. It wasn’t just a list. It was a behavioral map of men who thought dominance gave them license.
One name stood out. Charles. No last name, just a memory attached to it that made Hawke’s hand curl into a fist.
She’d written it in a tight, slanted script.
Charles—played twice. He’d pushed collaring her mid-scene. Used the word ‘mine’ without discussion. Didn't respond well to rejection. Creeped Roxie out too.
He remembered that night.
Charles had shown up at The Iron Spur with a spotless record from another club in Houston—quiet, polished, well-mannered in all the ways that made people overlook him. But there’d been something off. Too smooth. Too still. The kind of man who watched more than he took part, always two steps outside the room but listening too hard.
Hawke had flagged him in his own head, but there hadn’t been enough to act on. Not then. Now, Vanessa’s handwriting told a different story.
He looked up and found her sitting across the room, arms tucked around her knees on the sofa. Her face was blank, but he saw the truth in the set of her shoulders.
She’d known that name would hit him.
“You should’ve told me about Charles,” he said.
Her eyes flicked toward him. “What would it have changed?”
“I would’ve pulled him from the club.”
“Would you have believed me?”
Hawke didn’t flinch. “Always.”
She looked away, jaw tight. “I didn’t want to be the problem. Again.”
He stood slowly. Walked across the space and stopped in front of her.
“Vanessa,” he said, voice low. “You’ve never been the problem.”
She didn’t look up. “He didn’t touch me. He said nothing that would’ve gotten him thrown out. I just… knew.”
“Sometimes that’s enough.”
Now she met his eyes. “But it wasn’t then.”
That sat between them—heavy… true.
He crouched beside her, resting one hand on her ankle. “It is now.”
She gave him a long, unreadable look. Then nodded once.
“Good,” he said. “Because I’m starting surveillance.”
She blinked. “On Charles?”
He nodded. “I’ll get Reed on a digital trace—see if he’s using aliases. Dawson can pull his file from Spur records. I’ll handle the physical. If he’s in town, I’ll find him.”
Vanessa uncrossed her arms and stretched her legs out, letting her foot brush lightly against his thigh. “You always this thorough when someone creeps on a sub?”
“No,” he said. “Just you.”
That earned him a faint tug of her lips, but she didn’t press the point.
He rose, grabbed his tablet from the counter, and synced it to the cabin’s security grid. They installed three new external cameras that morning while she showered—two motion-activated, and one infrared. He’d also added a silent perimeter alert system tied to his phone.
She didn’t need to know all of that yet. But he needed her protected from every angle.
She stood and padded toward the kitchen, silent for a beat before asking, “You ever wonder why I didn’t fight harder to stay in your life?”
He looked up from the screen. “Every damn day.”
Her hands stilled on the counter. “Then why didn’t you ever come after me?”
“Because I thought you needed the space more than you needed me.”
Her voice dropped. “I didn’t.”
“I know that now.”
They didn’t speak for a moment. The fire crackled behind them, but everything between them stayed still. Like they both knew another line was about to be crossed, and neither of them wanted to be the one to reach for it first.
Vanessa turned slowly, bracing her hands behind her on the counter.
“You think Charles is the guy?”
“I think he’s high on the list.”
“You think he’s been watching me for two years?”
Hawke’s jaw flexed. “If it’s him, he’s been building a narrative. You rejected him. You moved on. He got obsessed. Started following your career. Your books. Your scenes.”
“He didn’t have access to my work files.”
“No,” Hawke agreed. “But he had access to you. And if he’s obsessive enough, he could’ve recreated that scene in his head, word for word. He wouldn’t need a manuscript. He’d just need memory and fantasy and enough time to let it fester.”
Vanessa’s mouth tightened. “I hate that you’re probably right.”
Hawke walked toward her, slow and steady. When he reached her, he laid his hands on the counter beside hers, boxing her in.
“I’m going to take care of it.”
She searched his face. “You don’t even know how deep it goes.”
“I don’t need to. Whatever it is, I’ll handle it.”
She swallowed. “You always say that like it’s easy.”
“It is. When it comes to you.”
He saw the flicker of something behind her eyes then. Not fear. Not resistance. Grief.
And that’s when he knew—she was still hiding something. Not about Charles. Not about the stalker. Something older. Deeper.
“You going to tell me what you’re holding back?” he asked.
Her breath caught. He waited. But she didn’t answer. Hawke didn’t push. He just leaned in, dropped his forehead to hers, and stayed there—close, steady, present.
“I’ve got you, Vanessa,” he murmured.
She didn’t reply, but she didn’t move away either. And for now, that was enough.