Page 21 of The Tracker

“There are worse things.”

“Are there?”

Dawson didn’t answer.

By the time he got back to Shaw Petrochemical, his head was clearer. Focused.

Until he heard raised voices from Evangeline's office.

Peter.

Dawson rounded the corner just as Peter’s voice cut through the corridor. “Maybe if you focused less on playing damsel in distress and more on your job, the company's reputation wouldn't be in a tailspin.”

He spotted Lachlan standing too far from the door, jaw tight. "Out," Dawson said, his tone sharp and unyielding. "Now."

Lachlan hesitated for a half-second before nodding and stepping back, giving Dawson full command of the space. The air shifted the moment he stepped forward—charged, volatile, his presence pressing into the room like a storm front.

Evangeline stood ramrod straight, fury blazing in her eyes—but her hands were clenched, trembling.

Dawson stepped in. “That’s enough.”

Peter turned with a scoff, lips curling in a smirk that never quite reached his eyes. “Let me guess—Keely sent you in to play watchdog. How noble,” he drawled, his voice thick with mockery. “But honestly, all this cloak-and-dagger over what? Some after-hours whispers in an empty office? Some idiot fooling around with a gun and a broken window? She’s not in danger, she’s just mortified. Spare me the dramatics.”

His smile was smug, his posture relaxed—but Dawson saw the flicker of uncertainty in his eyes. He didn’t know who he was dealing with. Not really. And that made him sloppy.

Dawson didn’t rise to the bait. He didn’t have to.

The reptilian chill in Peter's eyes did the work for him. “This is a private...”

“You’re done.” Dawson’s voice was quiet. Dangerous. “Walk away, Rhodes. While you still can.”

Peter scoffed, but one look at Dawson’s eyes and he stepped back.

Dawson turned to Lachlan. “Why wasn’t he intercepted?”

Lachlan paled. “He... wasn’t on the schedule.”

“He is now. Red level. If you come back here, I want eyes on him at all times. Pass the word.” Then he turned to Evangeline. “We’re leaving.”

“But...”

“No arguments.”

She didn’t argue.

He drove them back to the loft in silence. The kind that felt like gunpowder waiting on a spark. The air in the truck was thick—tight with unsaid words and the ghost of confrontation. His knuckles flexed on the steering wheel, her stare aimed out the window but her body stiffened, alert—a subtle tightening that hummed beneath her skin. Every breath felt like a countdown.

The tension simmered in the narrow space between them as she stepped inside the loft, heels clicking against the floor in a sharp staccato. She dropped her purse with a soft thunk onto the entryway table, then turned—only to find herself chest-to-chest with Dawson. He was already there, his imposing frame filling the doorway, his proximity radiating heat and tethered restraint. Her lungs stuttered, a sharp rush of air catching in her throat as she instinctively stepped back, but there was nowhere to go. He didn’t touch her, but it felt as though he had, his presence alone commanding every molecule of air between them.

“I should walk away,” he said quietly.

She tilted her chin. “Then why don’t you?”

“Because I’m not that strong.”

He stepped in—close enough to test the boundary, to let the tension hum electric in the narrow gap. Just enough for her to feel the pulse of heat radiating off him.

“You shouldn't play games you don’t understand, Evangeline.”

---