Page 10 of The Tracker

"You take the bed," he said. "I'll crash on the couch."

Evangeline arched a brow. "Chivalry or strategy?"

"Both," he replied.

She gave a slow, sardonic nod. "How very noble of you."

He didn’t rise to the bait. Just watched her, unreadable, as she moved past him into the shadows of his home.

She turned, sharp as ever. "We going to pretend this is just about security?"

He dropped the drive on the counter. "Wouldn’t dream of it."

Her smile was a dare. "Good. I hate liars."

So did he. Especially the ones who fooled themselves.

Fuck me. Let the games begin.

3

EVANGELINE

She blinked awake just after dawn, light spilling across the bedroom in soft bands of gold. For a moment, she remained still, cheek pressed to the pillow, inhaling the faint scent of cedar and something unmistakably male. The sheets were cool against her bare skin, his presence embedded in the fibers—both grounding and unsettling at the same time.

Evangeline stretched slowly, legs brushing the linen as she took in the silence. It was disorienting. Most mornings started with blaring alarms and buzzing notifications. There was always noise, always motion—calls to return, meetings to prepare for, staff to manage. But here, now, she lay wrapped in cool sheets and unfamiliar quiet, a stillness so complete it pressed against her skin like a presence all its own.

The absence of sound pressed in like a held breath. It made her feel exposed. Off-balance. Like the world had paused around her, waiting to see what she’d do next. No buzzing phone. No champagne flutes. Just stillness. Her pulse eased as her gaze shifted toward the bedroom door, left slightly ajar. For a moment, she hesitated. What if he was gone? What if the calm she'd woken into was a lie, already fractured? The quiet made her chest tighten, like the moment before a storm broke. Shedrew a slow breath, forcing herself to move. She slipped from the bed and padded barefoot to the doorway, peeking into the loft beyond.

Dawson was stretched out on the couch, one arm thrown over his eyes, the other resting flat on his chest. Even asleep, he radiated control. Muscles taut beneath a worn T-shirt, blanket pushed low across his hips. She smiled and repressed a small laugh. His boots were still on. Of course they were.

She watched him for a long, quiet moment, unease rising in her chest like smoke curling beneath a closed door.

The last time she’d seen someone hold themselves that still, it had been at her mother’s funeral—her father standing beside the casket, too composed, too perfect in his grief, already mapping out his next move.

Dawson was different. Still and powerful, but not cold. Just... contained. As if he only allowed the world to see what he permitted, and not a flicker more. That kind of restraint both intrigued and terrified her. Because it mirrored her own. And somehow, he saw that. How could someone forged for violence, trained for danger, make her feel like the safest place she could stand was behind him?

Gently, she pulled the door closed and leaned against it, heart thudding harder than she wanted to admit.

After a long minute leaning against the door, she finally pulled herself together and padded back toward the bed. She crossed to the en suite and started the shower, letting the water heat while she stretched and tried to work the stiffness from her shoulders. Behind the bathroom door, a robe hung on a metal hook—clearly his, oversized and retaining a faint trace of his scent. She left it there for now and stepped beneath the spray, welcoming the rush of heat and steam that began to melt the tension lodged deep in her spine.

The hot water helped. Not enough to completely erase the tension knotting her shoulders, but enough to make her feel almost human again. She took her time—washed her hair, scrubbed off the clinging remnants of adrenaline and dread. When she stepped out, steam curled around her ankles, and she toweled off with methodical care, grounding herself with each movement.

The slouchy sweater and leggings she'd changed into the night before were folded neatly over the back of a chair, the cowboy boots tucked beneath them. Beside the pile was a neatly folded outfit—a soft, slouchy silk sweater, skin-tight black jeans, and her red cowboy boots she hadn’t seen since the last company retreat. Her brow furrowed. Dawson—or someone in his orbit—had done their homework.

By the time she was dressed, hair pinned up and face lightly made up—thanks to a slim cosmetics bag she found laid out beside the clothes on the dresser—the armor was back on. But it didn’t feel the same. Maybe because she was already thinking about the man in the other room. And she wasn’t entirely sure what that meant or which of them the mask was meant to fool.

When she stepped out of the bedroom, Dawson was already up, coffee in hand, dressed in jeans that look liked they’d faded from sun and hard work and a plain, black T-shirt. Even dressed casually, he still managed to look dangerous. He didn’t speak—just nodded once, then handed her a steaming travel mug.

She took it, grateful, then glanced toward the floor-to-ceiling windows, now glowing with the soft gray of early morning. "How long do I have?"

"Fifteen minutes," he said. "Maybe twenty if you skip breakfast."

She gave him a sidelong look. "That a threat or a time check?"

"Neither. Just logistics."

They moved through the loft in a strange sync, like two people who had been together for years instead of strangers who had only met the night before. The comfortable rhythm unsettled her, making her wonder if she was slipping into someone else’s life by mistake. She set her coffee down, watching Dawson quietly butter toast at the kitchen counter, his movements so unhurried it almost calmed her.

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