Page 6 of The Tracker

Evangeline's skin prickled. A slow pulse of heat bloomed low in her belly, unfamiliar and unnerving. She should have looked away, but her feet stayed planted, her breath shallow. What kind of man wielded a flogger like that—and why the hell did she want to find out?

The door opened again.

Keely breezed in holding a change of clothes, a sandwich, and a bottle of water. “Damn. Did I miss Dawson using his new flogger? He's one of the best whipmasters at the club."

“So this is the place you and Jesse like to hang out?” Evangeline murmured, not moving from the window.

Keely lifted an eyebrow, ignoring her question and thrusting the clothing—a slouchy sweater, leggings and cowboy boots—at Evangeline. "You might want to get changed. Good thing we wear the same size," she said, her voice playful.

Apparently it took more than a stray bullet and a car chase to rattle Keely. Evangeline pulled the sweater over her head, the soft fabric slouching off one shoulder with casual defiance. The leggings fit snug, molding to her curves, and the cowboy boots clunked solidly against the hardwood floor as she adjusted them. She tugged the hem of the deep V-neckline, giving Keely a look. “You couldn’t spring for something with a little more fabricup top? I’m one wrong move away from flashing your security team.”

Keely grinned. “You’re welcome. Subtle cleavage is a power move, darling. Embrace it.”

Evangeline rolled her eyes, but a small smile tugged at her lips. “Thanks for the rescue. And the sandwich. And the borderline indecent sweater.” She glanced back at the dungeon floor. "So the men here like to dominate women?"

“Roles aren't based on gender. The club is where Doms dominate or top submissives. You know what kind of playground this is, Evvy. You’ve heard me talk about it enough. And I've seen some of the books on your Kindle.”

Evangeline pointed. “So the guy with the flogger and tight pants is Dawson?” She hoped her voice didn't come out as breathy and aroused as she thought it had.

Keely grinned. “Yep. Dawson Hart. Former Ranger. Army CID. Major badass and lead tracker for Silver Spur.”

Evangeline swallowed hard, her throat suddenly dry, as though the air itself had thickened with heat and want. Her pulse skipped, then surged with dizzying urgency, each beat sending warmth cascading through her—slow, smoky, and undeniable—until every breath felt edged with need.

Every nerve in her body was suddenly tuned to that man—the way he moved, commanded, controlled. She pressed her thighs tighter, as if that could smother the ache building low and deep. But it was too late. Heat pulsed through her, insistent and overwhelming, and she wasn’t sure she wanted it to stop.

What the hell had she gotten herself into?

2

DAWSON

The last of the flogger’s tails landed with a soft, satisfying thud, the echo of impact still lingering in his bones like a remembered ache. The heat left behind on her skin mirrored the low burn in his chest, residual and grounding. Flogging wasn’t about punishment for Dawson—it was about precision, control, and the dance between tension and release. That line, narrow and calculated, demanded everything from him. In return, it gave him the one thing the outside world never could: silence.

In those moments, everything else—the past, the betrayal, the fuckups he couldn’t scrub clean—went quiet. Only the scene remained. The heat. The precision. The breath of the submissive and the exact arc of falls of the flogger. It was the closest he ever came to peace. The scent of leather mingled with the deeper, darker undertones of sweat and arousal, thick enough to taste. Dawson Hart held still, letting the weight of the moment settle into his muscles, his mind. The hum of power—the precision, the control, the raw need—still buzzed in his blood.

He exhaled through his nose, slow and deliberate, as if the act itself grounded him again. Scene complete. Tension dissipated. But the edge it left behind was sharp, clean—like ablade just pulled from a whetstone. The adrenaline still sang in his blood, not as frenzy, but focus. His skin buzzed, his senses hyperaware, every breath edged in the faint burn of smoke and sex. This was what balance looked like to him—aftercare not just for the submissive, but for his own demons. For a moment, they obeyed.

This was his sanctuary. Where intention met discipline. Where pain became release—not chaos, not punishment, but a razor-fine line that only the worthy could walk. And he was its keeper, the one who held the match with a surgeon’s hand and a soldier’s will. In here, he didn’t answer to ghosts, to guilt, or to anyone but the ones who trusted him to take them to the edge—and bring them back whole.

Dawson took a steadying breath, slow and controlled, then stepped back from the table where the scene had just played out. A thin sheen of sweat covered his chest, glistening under the club lights, but his heartbeat was steady. Focused. Unmoved.

He nodded to the submissive, who still remained in restraints, her skin flushed and her eyes glassy with endorphins. She was beautiful in the aftermath—bare, vulnerable, basking in the glow of surrender. But Dawson’s gaze stayed clinical, detached. He cataloged the rise and fall of her chest, the dilation of her pupils, the lax grip of her fingers—standard indicators. Nothing missed, nothing lingered. He had no interest in the afterglow, only in the safety and precision that got them there.

"Good girl," he murmured, voice low and even, the words rich with approval that slid over her like velvet.

She blinked at him, dreamy and grateful. He gave her a quick, efficient once-over, checking for any sign of distress or unanticipated response. She was fine. Floating.

His gaze swept over her languid form, noting the way her lips parted in response, a small shiver tracing her spine. He didn’t touch her—he didn’t need to. The weight of his voice alone leftits mark, the echo of dominance lingering in the heat between them.

As planned, her usual Dom stepped forward and placed a hand on her shoulder, grounding her. Dawson passed him the flogger without a word. He never lingered after a scene, especially not with someone else’s partner. It was more than etiquette—it was self-preservation.

Years ago, during his first months in the Club, he’d lingered. Just once. A wide-eyed newcomer had clung to him in the afterglow, whispering promises she couldn’t keep and begging for something he wouldn’t give. The fallout had been public, messy, and personal.

Her Dom had been furious. Her family had political pull. And Dawson had learned the hard way that emotional entanglements in this world could cost more than just pride.

He wasn’t here for ego or show. He was here for control. Precision. This place, this world—they weren’t emotional for him. Everything he did, including sex, was transactional. A trade. A ritual. Nothing left to chance. No one got past the layers of discipline he'd built brick by brick.

Because when everything else had gone to hell after he’d been forced out of the Army—his career and reputation in tatters—control was all he had left. And control meant keeping it professional. Clean. Even clinical. The moment the play ended, so did his role, unless sex—either a blow job or penetrative fucking—was negotiated prior to commencement of the scene.

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