Page 24 of The Tracker

He didn’t say a word. Just stared down at her like she was a question he didn’t want to answer.

Then he took her hand and led her back inside.

She followed without a word, her skin still tingling where his mouth had been, her thoughts a swirl of frustration and unspoken hunger. Every step in silence only amplified the ache. Why had he stopped? Why pull back now when her body was begging to be ruined? The quiet between them was louder than any music—tight and humming with unsaid things.

Back in the truck, she was silent. Furious. Turned on.

Every nerve in her body still buzzed from the heat of his mouth, the possessive grip of his hands. She stared out the window, city lights flickering like the chaos in her chest. Her skin felt too tight, her dress too thin, her body caught in a limbo of want and restraint. Why the hell had he stopped? Was he trying to prove a point—or simply torturing them both?

Her breath hitched with every bump in the road, the phantom press of his thigh between hers as vivid as the moment it happened. The ache between her thighs hadn’t eased. It had settled into a low, relentless hum, winding tight through her muscles, curling up her spine like a slow-moving fire she couldn’t stamp out—not with logic, not with a cold shower, and definitely not with Dawson’s maddening silence. She shifted in her seat, pressing her thighs together as if she could smother theache clawing its way through her. Her nails dug crescent moons into her palm, a poor substitute for the release she craved.

She wasn’t sure if she wanted to kiss him again—or slap him senseless.

When they returned to the loft, he held the door open.

“Go to bed, Evangeline.”

She turned. “Seriously?”

His eyes were hard. Controlled. “We do this my way. Or not at all.”

He turned and walked into the kitchen, leaving her standing there, heart racing, body aching, and mind spinning.

She didn’t know whether to scream, curse, or sink to the floor and tear at the longing he’d left in his wake. Her body still hummed with the echo of his mouth, each breath shallow and laced with frustration. In a flash, she imagined herself kneeling, wrists offered, spine bowed in submission she hadn’t known she craved. The image struck hard—a clash of vulnerability and desire that made her thighs clench.

Evangeline pictured his hand gripping her hair—could practically feel it—her wrists bound in soft leather, her cries swallowed by his kiss. She wanted to give in. Wanted to be undone and rebuilt by his hands alone. His kiss still lingered at the corners of her mouth, burning hot and unforgiving, a silent claim that dared her to demand more.

And as she stood there, pulse pounding and need clawing just beneath her skin, she knew one thing for damn sure—she was already his to ruin, and she’d beg him to finish the job.

8

DAWSON

He stood in the kitchen, palms flat on the counter, shoulders rigid with the tension knotting every muscle. The dim hum of the refrigerator offered the only sound, but his thoughts roared louder—images of her flushed cheeks, parted lips, and the fire she ignited in him flashing behind his eyes.

He’d been trained to withstand torture, interrogations, firefights—but nothing had prepared him for this. His jaw clenched, restraint pounding behind his eyes like a second heartbeat. Every instinct clawed at the edges of his control, urging him to act.

He wanted to go to her, to finish what they’d started. But years of discipline and control kept him rooted in place. She wasn’t just a temptation—she was a complication he couldn’t afford.

The echo of her footsteps still pulsed through his nerves, like the dying ring of a struck bell. One more second pressed against her, one more inch of her heat sinking into his skin, and he’d have lost every ounce of restraint and taken her against that goddamn brick wall, uncaring of consequences or control.

He wanted to—God, he wanted to—but that desire was the very thing threatening to unravel everything he'd built to keep himself in check. It wasn’t just a craving. It was a fault line trembling beneath his feet, ready to split wide open.

Dawson blew out a breath and rolled his shoulders, trying to shake the weight pressing down. This wasn’t about want. It couldn’t be. Not when her life was on the line. Not when the lines between protection and possession were already fraying faster than he liked.

She was a job. A contract. A mission wrapped in stilettos and secrets. He’d handled difficult people before—slippery informants, terrified witnesses, spoiled heirs. But none of them made his pulse stutter like she did. None of them felt like this.

Except she wasn’t. Not anymore. Not after that kiss. Not after the way she’d looked at him, touched him, molded her body into his with that raw, reckless hunger. He could still feel her heat, the tension in her thighs around his leg, the sound of her breath catching as he took control.

He paced the length of the loft, footsteps muffled against the hardwood, the stillness pressing in from all sides. The soft tick of the kitchen clock sounded deafening in the silence she left behind. Her bedroom door remained shut, the same way his fists stayed clenched at his sides. She hadn’t come out—and he hadn’t gone in. Not yet.

Dawson thought of Reed and Harper. Jesse and Keely. Gavin and Roxie. Hawke and Vanessa. Each of them had found more than just love—they’d found safety, belonging, a home in another person. Their laughter, their battles, their unshakable bonds echoed in his mind. And here he was, standing alone in a dim loft, silence pressing on him like a vice, wondering if he would ever find what they had. All of them had found a way through the chaos. Through danger. Through pain. All of them had someone who looked past the armor and demanded more.

She wasn’t just beautiful. She was smart. Strong. Brave in ways she didn’t even understand yet. And beneath all that polish and poise, there was a hunger—a need—for something deeper. Something real. Something he could give her.

His feet moved before permission caught up with reason, bringing him to her door on instinct alone. He hesitated, palm hovering midair, heart a slow-drum thunder in his chest. One beat. Another. Then he knocked once, the sound loud in the silence—and pushed the door open, stepping across the threshold that might change everything.

She was sitting on the bed, still in that damn dress, her posture deceptively casual—but Dawson’s breath hitched all the same. That fabric clung to curves already seared into his memory, the ones he’d dreamed of touching, tasting, owning. Her Kindle lay abandoned beside her like a forgotten offering.

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