Page 17 of The Tracker

Every breath near him carried a charge, sharp and metallic, like the air before a lightning strike. The tension between them coated her like static, taut and humming, as if the atmosphere might snap and tear with a single wrong move. The man radiated command, not just in the way he moved—but in the way the atmosphere shifted when he entered a room. She felt it in the elevator, during the short ride from her office down to the curb. She sensed it even more in the black truck he drove like it was an extension of himself.

He didn’t speak much as they pulled away from the Shaw Petrochemical tower, but the silence wasn’t awkward. It simmered. Like a held breath between lightning and thunder.Evangeline found herself bracing, waiting for a sound that never came—a verdict, a warning, anything. Part of her feared he’d say something that would break the fragile calm she’d built around herself—part of him wanted her to do just that… and part of her didn’t.

“So,” she said finally, sliding a glance his way, “am I allowed to know where you’re taking me, or is this a blindfolded, zip-tie situation?”

One corner of his mouth curved. Not quite a smile. More like an acknowledgment.

“We’re stopping by your place so you can grab what you need. Then we’re staying at mine.”

Her brows rose. “And this decision was made by...?”

“Security protocols.”

“Not by the woman whose security you’re managing and who’s paying the bill, huh?”

He glanced at her then—quick and sharp. “You’re not safe in that penthouse. It’s too exposed.”

She frowned. “Wait—how do you even know what my penthouse looks like?”

“Silver Spur borrowed Keely’s spare key. We swept the place last night.”

Her eyebrows lifted. “You went in without me?”

“You weren’t there, remember? The team waited until we were at the loft,” he said evenly. “They didn’t enter until I knew you were safe. They found three listening devices—one in the den, one near the bedroom vent, and another in your master bath. All removed.”

Evangeline blinked. “Seriously?”

“Seriously. You’re compromised, Ms. Shaw. That’s why we’re staying at my place. You’ll be safer there.”

“My penthouse has three layers of biometric entry, a panic room, and a private elevator.”

“And let me guess who hired the staff and installed the security—Peter?”

Touché. Damn him. Her righteous indignation fizzled out like a match in the wind, leaving only a flicker of something else—something far more dangerous than anger. Awareness. Attraction. The gnawing realization that his logic wasn’t just right—it was infuriatingly, inconveniently protective.

He parked in front of her building like he owned it, stepping out, scanning the perimeter while she waited, arms crossed and temper simmering. When he finally opened her door, she got out with a roll of her eyes and stalked toward the front entrance.

Once inside the penthouse, it was exactly as she remembered: clean, polished, lifeless. Chrome and marble gleamed under cold light. Rich fabrics draped the furnishings—cashmere throws, velvet cushions, silk curtains—but none of it felt soft. Not like Dawson’s loft. Not like a home. Here, everything was curated, expensive, distant. Not a single piece out of place, not a single trace of warmth or her personality.

Dawson stepped in behind her and didn’t say a word. His silence was damning.

She could feel him watching, that silent, braced presence pressing at her back like a shadow with heat. Was he judging her? Waiting for her to notice the sterility she’d been pretending didn’t bother her? She didn’t want him to say anything, not really—but part of her craved it. Craved something real in a space that had always felt hollow.

She'd once wanted this place to be warm, more bohemian, more like Keely’s place with its hanging plants and mismatched charm. But Peter had convinced her this was better—sleek, professional, presentable. A space made to impress and entertain. It didn’t matter that it never felt like home. He’d convinced her that this was what success looked like.

“Say it,” she muttered.

He raised a brow. “Say what?”

“That it looks like a catalog page for lonely billionaires.”

He didn’t smirk—thank God—but his voice held quiet amusement. “I was going to say it looks like it belongs to someone who doesn’t live here.”

She hated how accurate that was.

“I’ve been busy,” she said, yanking open drawers and grabbing her overnight bag. “Running the PR Department for a major petrochemical company, dealing with traitors, trying not to get killed. You know, the usual.”

He stepped closer, slow and deliberate, reaching past her to grab a charger cord from the counter. His chest brushed her back. Just lightly.

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