Page 36 of The Tracker

Lachlan swept through then, tablet in hand, expression sharp and focused. “Gavin’s pulling server backups from last week. He found a fragment—might be a list of admin logins, but it’s encrypted. We’ll need Evangeline’s access to break it.”

Evangeline nodded, stepping forward, her voice taut. “Let’s do it.”

For a moment, she paused beside Dawson, who murmured, “Don’t let them see you flinch. That’s how you survive this.” His hand landed on her shoulder—a silent, unspoken reassurance.

As they huddled over the data, the mood in the room shifted. The team closed ranks, each person working their specialty, the atmosphere humming with urgency and camaraderie. The evidence wasn’t enough to clear her, but it wasn’t enough to convict, either. For now, they were chasing ghosts through firewalls and half-erased audit trails. Jesse’s desk was a mess of sticky notes, empty Red Bull cans, and a screenful of scrolling code. Gavin muttered under his breath about packet loss and digital ghosts.

Jesse muttered, “Whoever did this knows how we think. They’re always one step ahead, or we’re chasing our tails for show.”

Lachlan leaned against the wall, arms folded, eyes narrowed. “I’ve seen this before. In Scotland, we had a leak inside a bank—looked like an amateur until you realized the pros always leave a little noise, just enough to blame someone else.” His accent sharpened. “Don’t get caught staring at the wrong hand.”

Evangeline leaned over the monitors, frustration tightening her mouth. “Someone’s still inside. Feeding them information.” She was acutely aware of the team watching her—some with hope, some with suspicion.

Dawson put a steady hand on her back. “We’ll catch them. We always do.”

She glanced back at him, gratitude flickering in her eyes—small and fleeting, but so real it made his chest ache. For just a heartbeat, she let down her guard, and he saw everything she was too proud to say: 'Thank you. I trust you. I can breathe, because you’re here.' It was a moment that carried more comfort than a hundred reassurances, a silent thread of connection binding them tighter than words ever could.

As Gavin worked, a new chat window opened suddenly on one of the screens—a blank field, cursor blinking, then disappearing. Jesse swore and slammed his fist on the desk.

Lia jumped. “That wasn’t me,” she said, pale.

Lachlan moved to calm everyone, but even he was tense. “Someone’s watching us,” he muttered, and Dawson felt the hair on the back of his neck rise.

The ride back to the loft was tight with silence. Dawson kept his hands on the wheel and his eyes forward, but his mind kept drifting sideways—worrying the pieces of the puzzle, cataloging threats. Evangeline didn’t panic. She didn’t plead. She stared out the window like she could rewrite reality with pure force of will. The city lights slipped by, refracted in the glass, and for a moment he saw her reflection—eyes wide and haunted.

The moment the door to the loft closed behind them, Dawson turned the deadbolt and leaned against it, watching her—waiting for her.

“I need something,” she said quietly.

He tilted his head. “What?”

“You.” She stepped toward him. “I need you to remind me I’m still here. Still... real.”

He moved fast. One hand tangled in her hair, the other slid down to her hip. “You sure?”

Her breath hitched. “Yes.”

For a beat, Dawson didn’t move. He watched her—really watched her—and in that sliver of quiet, the need in her voice cracked something open in him. This wasn’t just about sex. It never had been. This was about grounding her. About anchoring them both to something that wasn’t suspicion or blood or betrayal. It was about control—his—and the calm it brought them both when everything else was chaos.

He didn’t give her a chance to change her mind. He took her face in both hands, drawing her gaze up until there was nowhere for her to hide. For a moment, she tried—tried to look away, to steel herself—but he wouldn’t let her.

“Don’t do that,” he said softly. “Don’t vanish on me now.”

Her throat worked. She blinked hard, and he saw the tears she wouldn’t let fall.

He kissed her—slow, searching, nothing like dominance or command. This wasn’t about breaking her down; this was about putting her back together. The kiss deepened, heat growing by degrees, need spiraling as he pressed her backward until the back of her knees hit the bed. She went down without protest, breath trembling, hands fisting in his shirt as if she could hold herself together by holding on to him.

He stripped her carefully—lifting the sweater, baring her skin to the dim, uncertain light. Her skin was warm, soft, covered in goosebumps that rose beneath his palms. He worshipped her body, mouth tracing every scar and every hollow, until she was trembling for a different reason entirely.

"You’re not broken," he whispered into the hollow of her throat, his lips brushing her skin. "You’re just battle-scarred. And so am I."

She made a low, desperate sound, wrapping her legs around his waist. "I need you," she breathed. "Don’t be gentle. Not tonight. I want to feel alive. I want to feel you."

He groaned, control fraying at the edges, and yanked his own shirt over his head. Skin met skin, heat meeting heat. The first glide of his hand down her side was gentle, reverent. The next was rough, squeezing her hip, hauling her closer. He pinned her wrists above her head and she arched beneath him, helpless and hungry, every line of her body a challenge and a plea.

His mouth found her breast, tongue swirling around the tight bud until she gasped and twisted under him, his name falling from her lips like a benediction and a dare. He sucked harder, teeth grazing just enough to make her writhe.

She tried to turn her face, but he caught her chin, forcing her to meet his eyes. "You stay with me, Evvy. Right here."

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