Page 43 of The Tracker

Evangeline sat down opposite him, her expression sharpening. Dawson watched her carefully, noting the way her jaw set, the flicker of steel in her gaze. There was no panic—just resolve. And something in him tightened, equal parts admiration and fear. She was walking straight into the fire with him, no hesitation. That kind of courage didn’t come without cost, and it made him want to shield her even more.

"You think it’s about more than the leak."

"It’s not a leak. It’s a purge," Dawson said flatly. "Rhodes was expendable. So is anyone else who steps in the way. That includes you."

She held his stare. Brave. Stubborn. "Then we step out of the way. We hit back."

Dawson leaned in, his tone shifting. "You’re not the one with the training. You’re not the one with the weapon. You’re not the one who knows what a hit looks like. This isn’t PR. This is war."

Her chin lifted. “And I’m a born-and-bred Texan with a concealed carry license, steady aim, and more backbone than most of the suits I’ve had to deal with. Are you going to keep underestimating me, or are we doing this together?”

Something dark and heated curled in his gut. Hell, he liked her like this. Fire and steel.

But liking her didn’t make her bulletproof.

He stood, circled the table, and gently caught her chin in his hand. “Then you follow my lead. In every room. On every call.”

Her life might have been built on press kits and careful optics, but what they were walking into didn’t care how well she could spin a story. The words came out as instinct, as training—yet a quiet thread of guilt ran through them. She wasn’t a soldier. She hadn’t signed up for any of this. Still, here he was, asking her to step into a world where the rules were brutal and the risks were real.

“No freelance heroics, Evvy,” he continued. “You run point with me, or you don’t run at all.”

Her breath caught. She nodded. "Fine. But if someone starts shooting, I’m not ducking behind you. I’m shooting back."

Dawson’s mouth twitched. "Good girl."

Her pupils flared.

And just like that, the air shifted.

“You don’t get to win every argument just because you’re barefoot and naked,” he said, his voice low.

She raised an eyebrow, mouth curving. “That’s a bold statement from a man who just called me ‘good girl.’”

His grip tightened. “Keep talking like that, and I’ll make sure you can’t sit through your next board meeting.” The mug clattered as it hit the table. Her hands went to his chest, palms flat. He didn’t kiss her. Not yet. He needed her to feel it—his command, his restraint, the promise in every inch of his body pressed to hers.

"Bedroom," he said.

She opened her mouth, sass ready to fly, already forming something wicked on her tongue—but then she saw his eyes. Heat and hunger warred with something deeper—command, possession, promise. It cut through her bravado like a blade. Her breath hitched, the retort dying unspoken. She swallowed hard and went.

He followed. Her hips rolled just enough as she walked that it burned his restraint. He wanted to toss her over his shoulder, growl out a warning, fuck the danger out of both of them. But control was everything. He wanted her soft but willing, trembling but brave.

Dawson didn’t stop her with commands this time—he watched. His pulse thudded in his throat, hands flexing at his sides with the effort it took to stay still. Every nerve in his body felt coiled tight, waiting to snap. This wasn’t about controlanymore—it was about need, heavy and alive, crackling under his skin like static.

Evangeline turned, chest rising and falling, her eyes were wide, pupils dark, but there was steel behind them.

He stepped closer, slower than before, letting his presence fill the room like a storm rolling in. "You’re not afraid of me," he said.

She shook her head. "No. I’m afraid of what you make me want."

Dawson closed the distance and took her face in his hands—not gentle, not rough. Just real. "Then we’re even." His voice was gruff, but there was a flicker of something raw beneath it—like evening the scales was his way of hiding how deep this went. He wasn’t ready to say what she meant to him. Maybe he didn’t even know yet. But this? This was him protecting whatever it was, in the only way he knew how.

He kissed her with a bruising intensity, more heat than finesse, like a claim staked in flesh and breath. It wasn’t a question. It was a declaration—of need, of control, of something unspoken tightening between them like wire drawn taut. She gasped, her nails digging into his arms, and he growled against her mouth. She stood before him, breathing like she’d run a mile.

“On your knees,” he said.

She knelt, hair spilling around her shoulders, hands resting on her thighs. Her lips parted slightly, waiting.

He unbuckled his belt. "Hands behind your back."

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