Chapter 8
8
HAWKE
H awke stood at the window, eyes narrowed, arms crossed over his chest. The woods beyond the cabin didn’t look any different. The trees swayed the same. The shadows stretched the same way they always did at dusk. But something was off. It had been off since the note.
He didn’t believe in coincidences. Not in their world. Not when a man got past two layers of security and dropped a threat on his doorstep without so much as a whisper on the cameras.
The cabin hadn’t been compromised… yet. But the message had been clear.
I see you. I see her. I’m close.
And if this guy had made it here once, he could do it again.
Hawke turned from the window and headed for the kitchen where Vanessa stood barefoot, still in his clothes, her red hair twisted up like she was trying not to let herself look soft. She noticed him coming and straightened.
He stopped just short of touching her. Let the silence say more than his voice ever could. She looked up, defiant as always, but her eyes didn’t challenge him.
They searched. Waited.
“We’re going to the Iron Spur,” he said.
She blinked. “What?”
He moved past her and pulled his phone from the counter, scrolling until the club’s private line came up. “Tonight.”
“You’re not serious.”
“I am.”
“You want to drag me back to the one place he probably expects me to go?”
“He’s already watching,” Hawke said. “It doesn’t matter where we are. What matters is what we show him.”
She frowned, folding her arms. “You want to bait him, using me as bait.”
“Yes.”
“And you think he’ll take it?”
“I think if we do this right, he’ll show his hand. Or make a mistake.”
Her jaw clenched, but she didn’t back down. “This is a stupid idea.”
“It’s calculated.”
“It’s dangerous.”
He stepped close enough for her to feel it. “So am I.”
Her breath hitched, just for a second. She didn’t move away. He waited. Gave her time. But this wasn’t a negotiation.
“He wants a performance,” she said. “You want to give him one.”
“I want him to believe he’s winning. Just long enough for me to pin him to the ground and break every illusion he has.”
Vanessa studied him like she was searching for cracks. When she didn’t find any, she rolled her eyes. “Of course your plan involves theatrics. How very dominant of you.”
His mouth curved just slightly. “We won’t push too far. But we make a scene. We control the narrative. Not him.”
She didn’t answer right away. “What kind of scene?”
He hesitated.
She noticed. “I don’t think I like that pause.”
“It’s controlled,” he said. “Public. Minimal risk.”
“Hawke…”
He met her eyes. “Violet wand.”
She stilled. Completely. Of all the implements at the club, it was the one that had always made her hesitate. Not because of the potential for pain. But because of what it represented—giving up control in ways she hadn’t before. Trusting someone to stimulate, push, manipulate her body’s reactions with precision she couldn’t anticipate.
“I thought you said minimal risk,” she whispered.
“You’ll be safe. Every second.”
“I hate not knowing what it’s going to feel like.”
“I know. That’s why we use it.”
Her gaze flicked down. Not submission. Not retreat. Just consideration. Fear didn’t rule Vanessa. She didn’t get spooked. But he saw the part of her that flinched at blind surrender. That had always been the line they walked.
He could have picked something else. Could’ve chosen cuffs or rope or something softer, but he needed her trust, and she needed to take it back.
After a long pause, she looked up. “Fine. One scene. One hour. Then we leave.”
He nodded once. “Done.”
Two hours later, they stepped into the Iron Spur.
The club smelled like leather and heat and low music. The dungeon floor hummed with energy—bodies moving, murmurs of Doms checking in, subs lining the walls with practiced poise. It had always felt like home.
But tonight, Vanessa’s shoulders were straight and tight, her eyes scanning the shadows like she expected a monster to crawl out of one.
He kept his hand on the small of her back as they walked. Not just for appearance. For contact. For her. For him.
Gavin nodded once from his perch above the floor. Security was already in place. Cameras checked. Dawson was behind the wall with the facial recognition running in real time. Jesse was in the crowd, mingling like always, but wired for audio.
Vanessa’s pulse ticked under his palm. Not panic. Not resistance. Readiness.
“You still with me?” he asked.
She turned her head just slightly. “You tell me.”
He gave her the smallest nod. That was enough.
They had already prepped the table with the violet wand. A corner stage outfitted with a St. Andrew’s Cross stood under soft amber lighting, the wand itself resting beneath a black cloth on a side table. The setup was subtle—no raised platform, no dramatic spotlight—just clean, restrained elegance designed for control, not spectacle.
Vanessa didn’t speak as he led her to the cross. With quiet, deliberate care, he removed her corset and slid the silk and lace thong down her legs, baring her inch by inch. Then, without a word, he helped her into position—facing the cross, arms extended upward as he guided her wrists into the cuffs. Her eyes stayed locked on his as he adjusted the grounding pad against her thigh and checked the contact points with steady precision.
He positioned her against the cross, her back to the room, arms raised above her head. The cuffs closed around her wrists, then her ankles, spreading her limbs wide. Her red hair spilled down her back, catching the light like flame against shadow.
Hawke picked the thinnest glass attachment—just enough current to draw goosebumps, not enough to leave a mark. He pressed the wand to her skin lightly and let the first crackle hum against her shoulder.
Her breath caught, but she didn’t pull away.
He worked methodically. Tracing from her shoulders down her spine. Across her hip, then back to her thigh. Her body trembled slightly with each pass, not from pain, but from surrender. He kept the rhythm unpredictable, letting her mind chase the next strike and never quite catch it.
Her eyes fluttered closed.
When he finally spoke, his voice was low and firm. “Color?”
“Green.”
His hand reached out to smack her ass. “How do you answer me, sub?”
“Green, Master.”
He moved lower, letting the wand skim the inside of her thigh. He saw her knees tense, but she didn’t stop him.
The current arced in soft pulses—just enough to prickle, to tease, to make her breath stutter. He adjusted the dial with one twist, dialing the sensation down, dragging the glass tip in lazy circles behind her knee, then up, higher, inch by inch toward where her thighs met.
Vanessa let out a sound between a gasp and a curse.
"Say the word if it’s too much," Hawke said quietly, voice close to her ear.
"I didn’t say stop," she snapped, breathless.
“You speak to me with respect.” His mouth curved slightly as he reached up to give her nipple a nasty tweak. Not a smile—approval. Control.
He drew the wand across the swell of her hip, then down again, dancing closer to where she was already wet, already shaking. She shifted against the restraints, her head tipped back, red hair tumbling down the side of the cross like fire spilling from a glass. Her eyes fluttered closed, lips parted.
"Still afraid of the wand?" he asked, trailing the tip just along the crease where thigh met groin.
"Yes, Master, but still green," she whispered.
"Then you’re mine until I say otherwise."
She moaned. The wand hovered at the edge of her sex, not touching—just close enough for her to feel the air crackle between her skin and the glass. The anticipation was worse than the contact. He knew it. She knew it.
Her breath hitched. He waited.
Then—just when her body leaned in, when her thighs opened wider in silent surrender—he slid the wand between her legs. Not inside her. Just a flicker across her slick folds. A kiss of current over swollen flesh.
Her whole body jolted. She gasped, nearly choked on it, pulling at the cuffs instinctively—but not trying to escape. Her back arched beautifully, straining for more. A low, desperate sound came from her throat.
He circled again, more firmly this time, letting the wand trace her clit in deliberate, maddening passes. Not enough to push her over. Just enough to keep her dancing on the edge, panting, fighting the climax building like a storm in her spine.
She tried to rock her hips forward, to get more friction, but the cross held her fast.
"No," he said simply. "You don’t take. I give."
She whimpered. He teased her again, this time slower, and watched her break open—soundless at first, then with a moan that started low in her chest and rose into something close to a cry.
"Please," she breathed. "Master, I…"
"Come for me." The command was soft. Absolute.
She shattered with a strangled gasp, her body pulling tight against the restraints, thighs trembling, back arching as the orgasm took her. He watched her come undone—watched the fire in her eyes turn molten and then dissolve into something raw and open and real.
And when she sagged against the cuffs, spent and breathing hard, he turned off the wand and reached up to release the restraints.
“I’ve got you,” he whispered, catching her as she collapsed into him.
The room had grown quiet around them, watchers intent but respectful. The scene wasn’t about spectacle—it was about precision. About watching a woman give more than she wanted to.
Vanessa opened her eyes slowly. They were glassy and her lips were parted. She looked at him like she wasn’t sure who she was for a second.
Then she whispered, “Thank you, Master.”
It hit him harder than he expected—not just the ‘thank you,’ but her use of the honorarium without being prompted.
She had been frightened, but she’d come for him, anyway. She trusted him with the part of herself that she didn’t give to anyone—not lightly, not anymore.
And now? Now the trap was set. If the bastard watching them thought he had a claim, tonight would drive him to act.
And when he did? Hawke would be waiting.
Hawke stayed silent as he guided Vanessa off the stage, her hand nestled inside his, her balance just barely off from the adrenaline still coursing through her system. He wrapped her in a cashmere blanket. She didn’t speak, and he didn’t push her to. He could feel the energy running under her skin—volatile and electric—but beneath it was trust, fragile and hard-won.
They passed through the crowd slowly. The club had returned to its usual pulse of low music and murmured conversation, but a subtle shift lingered in the air. People had seen the scene. Not just the wand, not just the intensity—it was her. Vanessa giving in. Letting go.
And someone out there had seen more than they should.
He scanned the room with trained precision. Faces flickered through his memory—known members, vetted players, staff with years of clean records. But that didn’t mean they were clean now.
He focused on posture, gaze, breathing. A sub might stare too long out of curiosity, but a predator would fixate—quiet, lingering, possessive. He swept the club floor again.
Then he saw him. Charles, leaning against the far wall near the bar, arms crossed, not speaking to anyone. Eyes locked on Vanessa as she passed. Not the way you look at someone in admiration or even arousal. The way you look at something you think belongs to you and got away.
Too still. Too quiet. Too controlled. Hawke kept his body language neutral as he filed the image away.
He didn’t let go of Vanessa’s hand until the club doors were closed behind them. She was trembling—not visibly, but he felt it. In her fingers. In the way her body leaned toward him like she needed the contact to stay centered.
Hawke didn’t rush her.
Instead, he drew her aside, into a quiet alcove off the main hallway where the thrum of music faded, and the world narrowed to just them. The club’s lights were low here, the hallway dim and warm. He eased her into the leather armchair tucked against the wall and crouched in front of her, large hands wrapping gently around her knees.
“Color,” he said softly.
Her eyes lifted slowly, lashes still damp, breath uneven. “Green. Just… processing.”
He nodded once and didn’t push. Just stayed there, grounded in his stillness, giving her the space to return to herself.
Her hands drifted to his forearms, gripping lightly as if anchoring. “That wasn’t just a scene.”
“No,” he said. “It wasn’t.”
She drew in a slow breath. “You broke something open.”
“I broke nothing,” he corrected. “You gave it.”
Her lip quivered, but she nodded.
When her hands relaxed, he reached for a bottle of water from the side table, cracked the seal, and pressed it into her palm. “Drink. All of it.”
She did, throat working with each swallow. He watched until the bottle was nearly empty.
“Good,” he murmured. Then leaned in, pressing a kiss to her forehead. “I want you someplace safe. We’re going down to the vault.”
Her brow furrowed. The vault was a top security safe room below the storage basement beneath the club. Strict security measures controlled entry and exit to the vault. It was called ‘the vault’ as at one time, it had been one.
Hawke rose and pulled her gently to her feet, wrapping an arm around her back. “You need time to come down. Safely. Away from the noise, the stares.”
She didn’t argue.
Hawke guided her through a private corridor that bypassed the main rooms entirely. When they reached the freight elevator nestled behind a coded steel door, he tapped in the six-digit access and waited as the lift opened with a soft hiss.
She stepped inside with him, still quiet, the echo of her submission lingering on her skin.
As the elevator descended, he brushed a strand of damp hair from her cheek. “You did well, Nessa.”
Her throat worked. “I feel like you turned me inside out.”
He cupped her cheek. “You were. But you’re still standing.”
The elevator doors opened into a narrow hallway lined with reinforced doors and touch-panel access points. He led her to the final one, keyed in the override, and stepped inside with her.
The room was silent, softly lit, and built for calm—wide bed, plush couch, mini kitchenette. No windows. No distractions. Just safety, layered in concrete and steel. The kind of room that could survive a war.
Vanessa blinked, gaze slowly adjusting.
Hawke reached down and then curled onto the couch, pulling her into his lap with practiced ease. She melted into him. Her legs folded under her, her cheek rested against his chest. His arms wrapped around her and held. No commands now. No structure. Just warmth and pressure and quiet.
After a while, she whispered, “You brought me here to keep me safe.”
“Yes.”
“But you stayed with me to make sure I came back.”
He looked down at her. “I always will.”
Vanessa didn’t answer. She just curled in tighter, letting herself rest in the silence.
And for the first time that night, Hawke let his guard down just enough to press his mouth to the crown of her head and breathe her in—safe, whole, and his.
Gavin joined them, carrying a secure laptop. “I’m sorry to interrupt—by the way Vanessa, you were amazing tonight—but I need to show you something.”
“Did you see him?” asked Vanessa.
“Rest,” Hawke softly admonished her before turning to Gavin.
“Charles? Yeah. We had eyes on him the whole time. Creepy little bastard didn’t blink for five minutes straight.”
“Pattern?”
Gavin tapped the screen and rewound the live feed. “From the moment you started, he never looked away. He adjusted his stance a few times, but the eyes never moved. Didn’t talk to anyone, didn’t drink.”
“Any history with Vanessa?”
“He tried to top her one time,” Dawson said from behind the screen. “She declined. Twice. Then filed a club notice when he wouldn’t take no for an answer.”
Hawke’s jaw tightened. “What happened?”
“Nothing actionable. He backed off after the second redirect from staff. But it put him on the quiet watchlist.”
Silent obsession. The worst kind.
“Does he know she’s staying with me?”
“If he does, it didn’t come from us.”
“Then he’ll follow,” Hawke said. “And I’m going to let him.” He turned to Gavin. “I need you to stay with her. Maybe get Keely and Roxie down here?”
Gavin nodded.
“Where are you going?” Vanessa asked.
“To put a tracker on the little bastard’s vehicle so we know where it, and hopefully he, is at all times.”
Hawke headed upstairs. Once clear of the elevator, he pulled his phone from his back pocket and texted Jesse, who was positioned by the side entrance where Charles had parked. A moment later, Jesse replied with a single word:
Confirmed.
Hawke made his way toward the door, turning on the magnetic tracking device he’d concealed in his pocket. Quick, reliable and untraceable. It would give them movement data, map patterns, track proximity.
He waited until Charles stepped out, paused to light a cigarette, then headed toward the lot. The man never looked around. Too cocky or too clueless to realize he was being watched. Hawke followed at a distance, the shadows along the edge of the club’s back lot covering him like a damn gift.
When Charles passed the corner of the building, crossing to his vehicle and then getting inside, Hawke closed the distance fast and dropped to one knee beside the rear passenger tire. In one fluid motion, he attached the tracker to the undercarriage and slipped back into the darkness. No sound. No eyes.
By the time Charles drove off, Hawke was already halfway back to the vault. Vanessa was sitting in a large chair her feet curled beneath her, her skin still flushed from earlier. She wore a soft sweater and leggings.
She looked up when he entered. “Did you ever tire of bossing people around?”
He walked straight up to her, placed both hands on the armrests of the chair she was curled in, and caged her in. “Other people yes. You? Not so much.”
Her lips parted. She didn’t move. “That so?”
He dipped his head lower, letting his mouth brush her ear. “You did well tonight.”
Her breath stuttered. “Was that a compliment?”
He pulled back just enough to meet her eyes. “No. That was a promise.”
She flushed beautifully.
“Do you think Charles is the one?” she asked.
“I think he just moved to the top of my list.”
“And if he’s not?”
“Then he’ll lead me to whoever is.”
She swallowed. “You’re not sleeping tonight, are you?”
“No.”
“I can stay here,” she said, voice quieter. “With the others.”
“No,” he said. “You’re coming home with me.”
She gave a dry laugh. “So possessive.”
He leaned down again. “You gave yourself to me tonight, Vanessa. Not to the club. Not to the fantasy. To me.”
Her voice cracked. “It was just a scene.”
“No, it wasn’t.”
She didn’t say a word, and that silence told him everything. He straightened, offered her his hand. She hesitated for half a second—then took it. They walked through the club together like they hadn’t just baited a psychopath. Like they hadn’t just made a move in a game where the rules were still being written.
Charles might have left the club’s parking lot, but Hawke was betting he was lying in wait and would try to follow them. As they pulled away into the night, Hawke glanced once in the rearview mirror and whispered under his breath.
“Come on, Charles. Take the bait.”
He had a lead now. He had a target, and if the bastard behind the threats didn’t make a mistake soon, Hawke would force one.