Page 19 of The Tracker

A scene flickered on the screen—leather cuffs, a kneeling heroine, a Dom coaxing trust from her with nothing but voice and rope. Dawson skimmed the words, and something primal surged through his spine and gathered beneath his skin, a visceral heat that gripped his chest and refused to let go.

She’d been reading a novel by Vanessa Ellington, a member of the club, while nestled across from him on his couch, eyes wide and innocent as she stole glances at him over the top edge—stealing fantasies while curled in the oversized chenille throw, surrounded by the scent and textures of his space—leather, cedar, heat—everything undeniably him. The juxtaposition was a sucker punch to his control.

Christ.

He set the Kindle down slowly, carefully, like it might detonate.

The pieces were clicking into place. Evangeline Shaw—polished, sharp-tongued, always in control—had been devouring a story about submission. About letting go. And judging by the electric tension that crackled like static in a storm between them, by the way her breath had caught and her pupils had dilated when his thumb grazed her mouth, by the hitched inhale she gave when he’d pinned her to the wall...

She wanted it.

Not in the way she might’ve admitted out loud. Not even in the way she might have consciously understood. But something about the way her body had arched into his touch, the way she’d flushed beneath his gaze, told him what her mouth never had. That she craved something deeper than control—an escape from the weight of responsibility, a surrender laced with trust and raw, aching need.

Maybe she needed submission the way he needed dominance—something rooted deep, primal, a mirror reflection of the hunger clawing through him.

He could almost see it: her on her knees, not because she was weak—but because she finally trusted someone to catch her when she let go. And damn if that thought didn’t make his chest tighten and his cock throb all over again.

Maybe she didn’t know it yet. Maybe no one had ever earned enough of her trust to draw it out of her. But he knew the signs. He’d trained with Reed for years, taught subs to recognize their limits, their needs. And now? Now, he couldn’t stop picturing her kneeling—not in weakness, but in power. The kind that came from choosing surrender.

He tried to focus on the breach, but the image wouldn’t let go.

Later, when he finally crashed on the couch, bourbon still ghosting his tongue, sleep came like a stormfront—hard and fast.

The dream hit like a gut punch—sudden, hot, and disorienting. One moment, Dawson was sinking into the worn leather of the couch, bourbon fogging his thoughts, the scent of her lingering in the air. The next, his mind was flooded with heat and motion and the sharp, seductive pull of need.

Evangeline. Naked. Kneeling.

Her back bore the faint, beautiful marks of his flogger—rosy, rising lines across her skin that bloomed with the precision of a lover’s promise, each one placed with reverentskill. Her mouth stretched wide over his cock, lips glossy and slick, cheeks flushed from the heady mix of arousal and anticipation. Her gaze never wavered, fixed on his with a blend of heat and hunger—worship twined with defiance, as if daring him to push her further while offering herself completely.

She moved slow—deliberate—like a symphony composed just for him, her body thrumming with the rhythm of chosen surrender. Every brush of her lips, every shallow gasp, every wet flick of her tongue painted devotion in heat and velvet. She wasn’t just submitting—she was offering herself with raw, pulsing trust, her moans an intimate promise. Utter surrender. Irrevocably his.

He fisted her hair, tugging gently as he guided her deeper, each inch a deliberate surrender to pleasure. His control frayed at the edges, slipping just enough to feel the volatile heat of abandon. Her moan—low, husky—vibrated through him, sending a jolt up his spine and down to his toes. It was electric and consuming, a siren's call that twisted his insides and buckled his knees with savage, primal need.

He woke hard and breathless, arousal surging through his system like wildfire, thick and aching, demanding release with relentless urgency.

"Fuck," he muttered.

He rubbed a hand over his face, dragged himself upright, and didn’t look toward the closed door of her bedroom.

The next morning, Dawson didn’t say much, and Evangeline didn’t push. They slipped around each other in a quiet rhythm, like dancers out of step but still bound by the same song. Coffee brewed. Doors opened and shut.

And through it all, a low burn of awareness lingered—unspoken, charged, flickering like embers beneath the surface. Every glance held weight. Every accidental brush of fingers sparked. The silence wasn’t empty—it was full of everything they hadn’t dared say the night before.

He drove her to the office, escorted her to the executive floor, then handed off surveillance duty to Lachlan—a seasoned Silver Spur operative he trusted implicitly.

“Don’t let her out of your sight,” he ordered.

Lachlan raised a brow. “You expecting trouble?”

“I always expect trouble.”

From there, he headed to Silver Spur HQ. He needed answers. And space. And maybe a punching bag—or five.

The suspect tied to the data breach was a mid-level IT contractor named Morris Gates. Dawson found him in the interrogation room—sweaty, twitchy, too confident for someone caught mid-swipe with admin-level credentials and two encrypted flash drives.

“I didn’t do anything illegal,” Gates insisted. “Just... moved some files. It’s not like I sold them.”

“Yet,” Dawson growled, stepping closer. “Who paid you?”

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