Page 42 of The Tracker

The commanding way he handled her shattered her final restraint. The orgasm ripped through her like a violent tide, crashing against every nerve ending, forcing spasms along her inner walls so intense they bordered on pain. Her cry tore from her throat, raw and wild, Dawson’s name breaking loose like a confession she couldn't hold back. Her back arched, limbs trembling in the ropes, tears springing unbidden to her eyes as pleasure consumed her. Her body quaked beneath him, trapped and free all at once, every aftershock making her cry out again—so raw, so open, she could barely think.

Dawson didn’t relent. His hands soothed even as they commanded, coaxing her down from the high with the same intensity he’d used to bring her to it. As her climax finally ebbed into sobbing breath and full-body shudders, she felt the emotional release just as hard—the unraveling of fear, rage, grief, and desire. Everything she’d buried surged to the surface, and he caught it all. Not with words, but with the weight of his presence, his body braced over hers, pressing her into the mattress like a vow: you are safe, you are mine. And in the space between their breaths, she let herself believe it.

And when it was over, when her skin buzzed and her heart slowed under the weight of his arms and his breath against her neck, she realized what scared her most wasn’t the threat waiting outside these walls—it was how completely she needed this man to survive it. Her climax had already ripped through her moments ago—violent and raw—but the aftershocks dragged her under again in a final tidal wave that left her sobbing his name into the pillow. The tension she’d locked into her body since the gala broke apart, leaving only shivers and slack limbs, her heart pounding in the aftermath. It wasn’t just the orgasm that left her undone—it was everything that came with it: the safety, the surrender, the aching intimacy of being truly seen. As she clung to Dawson, her body trembling against his, she realized she hadn’t just unraveled—she’d been stripped bare and made new.

Later, wrapped in his arms, her voice trembled against his chest. “They’re not going to stop.”

“No,” he said. “But neither are we.”

Outside, her world was still on fire. But inside Dawson’s bed, she was steel and sex and starlight. And tomorrow, someone was going to burn. The low buzz of Dawson’s phone on the nightstand cut through the quiet.

He glanced at the screen, eyes narrowing as he read the message from Jesse.

We located Ana. She’s not alone. And they know we’re coming.

Dawson's jaw tightened. Evangeline stirred beside him, sensing the shift.

“What is it?” she whispered. He hesitated for half a second, fingers tightening slightly around the phone.

“Jesse located Ana. She’s not alone, and whoever she’s with knows we’re on to them.”

Evangeline sat up, the sheets pooling around her waist. “Do you think it’s Langley?”

He didn’t answer right away. “Maybe. Or someone higher. But whoever it is, they’re not running anymore. They’re waiting.”

14

DAWSON

Dawson hadn’t slept. Not really. After Jesse’s message, he was certain Ana wasn’t working alone and someone knew they were closing in. His mind had stayed sharp even as his body held Evangeline’s through the night.

Morning crept in through the blinds like a threat, not a comfort. The air was heavy with anticipation, tension wound tight along his spine. Outside, the world was unnaturally still—no traffic, no birds, just the low hum of an AC unit and that dense, watchful silence that comes before a storm. Every instinct warned him that something was off, that something was coming.

Evangeline stirred beside him just before dawn. Words hadn’t been necessary—they’d reached for each other in the dark, drawn together by heat and need, leaving no space for anything but touch. But now, daylight pressed in, demanding decisions.

He rose, leaving the warmth of the bed, and moved to the edge of the hallway, arms crossed as he watched her pad naked toward the kitchen. Morning light caught her bare back, illuminating the faint rope marks he’d left behind—marks he’d wanted to see, reminders of everything that had changed between them.

Last night had changed something. Not just between them—but in him. Something had unlatched deep in his chest, a pressure valve he didn’t know existed. Her trust, her surrender—it had settled into his bones like truth. He felt it now, heavy and unsettling: the pull to protect her not because it was the job, but because it was personal.

For the longest time sex had been transactional for him—not prostitution, but two people fulfilling a need for a few sessions maybe more. Fast, forgettable nights with clean exits. But it had never been that way with Evangeline. She had found the cracks and widened them.

She hadn’t just warmed his bed—she’d stayed. And that meant more than he’d expected. For the first time in years, he felt like he could finally exhale. He remembered a different woman and a mistake that had cost him everything, but pushed the thought aside. This was different. Evangeline didn’t hide her fire—she shared it with him, and he found himself wanting more.

Evangeline stopped at the coffee maker, her fingers hovering over the buttons, then glanced back at him over her shoulder with a teasing flick of her eyes. "You’re staring." Her voice carried a sleepy drawl, but there was amusement woven in, like she already knew exactly what he was thinking.

"You’re naked," he replied, voice low and rough.

"You expecting modesty now?" She smirked—no, not smirked, she smiled with bite—and turned back around with that slow sway of her hips that made him want to throw her over the counter and start all over again.

But there wasn’t time. He checked the front lock again, scanned the shadows along the floor for movement. His phone stayed silent, but his instincts weren’t. They whispered danger was coming—soon.

He pushed off the doorframe and crossed to the table, grabbing his phone. No new messages from Jesse yet, but that didn’t mean things were quiet. Langley was dirty. Ana was either a pawn or a traitor. But who else stood to gain? Dawson mentally ticked through the board—Langley was obvious, but there were others with motive. That jackass from accounting who’d been too nosy about international contracts. The legal chief who refused to chase down the paper trail on Peter’s projects. Hell, maybe even someone in marketing—the leak could’ve started anywhere. But only a few had access, and fewer had the balls to silence Rhodes. He needed names. Connections. Movement. Peter Rhodes had been silenced. And someone wanted Evangeline to take the fall. The web was tightening.

"We need to talk," he said, setting the phone down. "And not about how good you look wearing nothing."

She poured coffee into a mug, no cream, just how he liked it, and for a split second, something twisted in his gut. That she remembered, that she noticed, made his chest pull tight. It wasn’t just the familiarity—it was the intimacy of it, the quiet way she knew him without asking. And he didn’t know if that comforted him or scared the hell out of him. She walked it over. "Then talk, cowboy."

He took the mug but didn’t drink. “Langley’s been dirty for years,” Dawson said. “Back when I was still with the Rangers, his name came up in a defense contract that went sideways—phony shell corporations, missing funds. The case vanished before it ever reached an audit. Another time, I heard his firm had used insider info to corner a market before a major acquisition. Perfectly legal, if you didn’t mind getting your hands dirty. Langley always had people to bury things—he knows how to cover his tracks. But Rhodes getting killed? That was a message. Someone inside Shaw is helping cover it up.”

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