Page 15 of The Tracker

She was an op. A mark he had to protect. That should’ve been enough. It had to be enough. But it wasn’t, and that worried him in ways he didn’t have the luxury to unpack. He couldn’t losefocus now. Not when the danger was mounting—and not when her life depended on his clarity.

Still, the fantasy wouldn’t let go. It hit hard and fast the second she’d stood at that desk, spine straight, eyes blazing, daring him without a word. That moment had carved itself into him like a brand. He was supposed to be reading intel—reading her—but instead, his body had read the invitation.

The image surged to life—sudden, consuming, impossible to ignore. Evangeline, bent over the polished surface, her breath fogging the lacquered wood, skirt bunched around her hips, feet braced wide. His hands gripping her hips, steady and unyielding, commanding her with nothing but voice and control. Her legs trembling—not from fear, but from the raw, unfiltered intensity of being claimed. Her spine arched, taut beneath his palms, her throat bared in unspoken surrender.

It was primal. Consuming. A breach in every disciplined line he lived by. The sharp slap of skin against skin would echo off the walls—a rhythm that didn’t belong in an office but thrummed through his veins all the same. His voice, low and wrecked with restraint, would strip away the last of her defenses as he bent to her ear and whispered how beautiful she was when she surrendered.

Not because she had to. But because she wanted to. Because she trusted him to hold her together, even as he broke her apart.

The vision made his jaw tighten, blood pounding in his temples. He hadn’t even spoken to her—just watched from across the room—and already, something about her disrupted the stillness he relied on. Not lust. Not yet. Just an itch at the edge of his awareness, a subtle shift in the air he couldn’t quite name.

He told himself it was instinct. The way she held herself—poised but bracing, like she expected to be hit and planned to smile through it. That kind of composure always caught hisattention. Always made him wonder what it was costing her to stay upright.

His jaw clenched, breath dragging through his nose as the fantasy dissolved—hot, shattering, unwanted. Not now. Not with her scent in the air and danger still circling. He shoved it down, tamping the need beneath layers of discipline sharpened over years of restraint.

He pushed off the wall and crossed the room.

"You're pushing too hard," he said quietly, eyes locked on her screen.

She didn't look up. "And you're hovering. Again."

"Because someone tried to kill you."

Her fingers paused. The corner of her mouth twitched, like she wanted to snap back with something sharp, but couldn’t quite summon the edge.

He circled her desk, hands in his pockets. “You look wiped.”

She didn’t look up. “Wow. Sweet talk like that, no wonder the ladies line up.”

“Good thing charm’s not about appearances—I get by on personality alone.”

That earned him a glare. “You’re exhausting.”

He leaned in, voice low and amused. “Not yet. But keep going—I’m starting to feel inspired.”

The look she shot him could’ve curdled cream.

And yet, he saw it—the flash of color in her cheeks. The way her spine straightened, her breath caught.

She needed control like air. But she craved the opposite, too. He knew the signs. The bite in her tone. The polished perfection just begging to be stripped away.

He leaned in, close enough to catch the scent clinging to her—his shampoo, not hers. Something clean and masculine with a hint of cedar, now warmed by her skin. His voice dropped, lowand smooth, the kind of tone meant to curl heat down a woman’s spine. "You’re unraveling."

He saw the moment it landed—her flinch was slight, just a flicker of muscle near her temple, but it ignited something primal in him.

Protectiveness, yes, but also something darker. She was standing on the edge, and some part of him—too instinctive to deny—wanted to push her just far enough to catch her. To force her to see he could hold her there, safely, no matter how hard she fell. “And you’re scared to death someone might notice."

He backed off before she could throw something. Not that it would’ve helped. He’d already memorized the shape of her mouth when she was mad.

Dawson turned back to his laptop, fingers flying as he pulled another set of server logs. More flags. More evidence. Whoever was doing this wasn’t sloppy—they knew what they were looking for.

And that meant someone on the inside.

He felt Evangeline behind him, her presence like static electricity at his back.

“Do you always work like this?” she asked finally.

He didn’t turn around. “Like what?”

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