Page 15 of The Tracker (Cowboys of Silver Spur Security #5)

EVANGELINE

T he chill in the loft was the first thing she noticed—sharp, slicing through the warmth of sleep like a blade of ice.

It wasn’t just the temperature; something about the silence felt.

.. wrong. Too still. Too clean. Her skin prickled with a quiet foreboding, the kind of instinctive warning that had no voice but rang loud all the same.

The air felt still, too still, carrying a faint, metallic tang laced with something chemical and unfamiliar.

It teased her nose—unsettling in a way she couldn’t quite name.

A whisper of instinct raised goosebumps along her arms as her body stirred, her mind slow to bridge the distance between the comfort of dreams and the quiet, uneasy emptiness surrounding her.

The space beside her in the bed was empty, the sheets cool where Dawson’s warmth had once lingered.

The air in the loft brimmed with an uneasy tension, pressing against her chest before she even opened her eyes.

The contrast between remembered heat and the chill settling into her bones struck with brutal clarity—whatever fragile bubble had held them last night was gone.

From the other room, she could hear him speaking softly. "Jesse, I want a sweep. No, not just of the loft. The entire building. Top to bottom. No exceptions."

She sat up slowly, her thighs tender from the night before—a pulsing reminder of pleasure and surrender that lingered beneath her skin—a carnal echo that made her gasp.

It wasn’t pain. It was memory, need, the ghost of pleasure still imprinted on her skin.

The contrast between that heat and the chill in the air was jarring, like being yanked from a dream into a nightmare.

Her breath caught, chest tight as dread surged like a cold tide through her veins, dragging her from the remnants of heated dreams into a stark, bitter present. The whiplash—body still humming with phantom pleasure, mind recoiling from horror—left her adrift in a storm of sensation and confusion.

The ghost of his touch still pulsed low in her belly—a phantom heat that now felt like betrayal.

Hours earlier, that warmth had been intoxicating, but it curdled against the chill crawling up her spine as the memory of the photo surfaced—Peter, lifeless and defiled.

The image rose behind her eyes, suffocating and acrid, as if smoke was seeping through every crack in her resolve.

Her limbs ached with traces of pleasure, skin raw and exposed from the night before, yet her gut twisted with a sick, bitter churn beneath her ribs.

Bile scorched the back of her throat—a taste metallic, like blood and fear knotted together—while the weight of that photo clawed deeper into her chest.

The collision of want and horror sent her reeling, as though she’d been plunged naked into icy water. Her pulse galloped, sharp and erratic—not with lust, but with the bone-deep knowledge that everything had shifted for the worse.

She reached for Dawson’s shirt on the floor and padded out of the bedroom, wrapping it around herself like armor.

He looked different now: tense and remote, a fortress sealed tight.

The warmth she’d begun to trust had vanished, replaced by the hard shell of the protector.

Gone was the man who'd kissed her with aching reverence just hours before.

In his place stood a soldier, distant and unreadable—a wall dropped between them, thick and cold.

His posture was like a high-voltage cable, drawn tight and humming with the threat of release. The raw, commanding heat she’d tasted hours ago remained, but it was now wrapped in steel, shuttered behind unreadable eyes. It chilled her more than the empty bed.

He ended his call without acknowledging her. His eyes swept over her once—quick, assessing—then returned to the screen of her phone on the counter.

"You're awake. Good. We’ve got a problem."

She wrapped her arms tighter around herself. "Is it about Peter?"

He nodded once. "Jesse has a team en route. No one’s getting in or out without going through Silver Spur.”

He nodded toward the phone. Her breath caught—sharp and involuntary—as her eyes landed on the screen again. That same nightmare image stared back: Peter, slumped at his desk, eyes wide and unseeing, her letter opener shoved deep between his shoulder blades. The sight turned her insides to ice.

Her stomach lurched violently, a convulsive twist radiating through her core.

Nausea surged with a cold sweat breaking along her spine, her knees trembling.

She clutched the counter to steady herself, knuckles whitening as a sour burn surged into her throat.

There was no love lost for Peter, but seeing him like that—killed with something stolen from her own sanctum—stripped her nerves raw.

It wasn’t just a murder. It was a desecration.

A warning. A blood-signed declaration that she wasn’t just a target—she was the bullseye.

Dawson’s voice came from behind her, low and even. "They want you scared. They want you isolated. That’s not going to happen."

She turned back around, the weight of his words sinking into her chest like a stone dropped into still water.

Her pulse quickened, breath catching as she searched his face for confirmation, denial—anything.

“You think this is about me,” she said, the words dry and rasping as they scraped past the knot rising in her throat.

“I think this is a message. And I think you’re the intended recipient.”

The room suddenly felt too small, too bright. She crossed to the windows and looked down, but all she could see was her own reflection. Her skin was pale, hair a wild mess around her shoulders. She looked like a woman who’d been well and thoroughly fucked—and then hit by a truck.

"So what now? I just sit here like a good girl while the rest of you handle it?"

His gaze cut to hers. "You stay in the loft. For now. Jesse’s bringing in a second team. I’ve already pulled building schematics and entry logs. Nothing happens without me knowing about it."

"And me?"

He crossed the room in two long strides and stopped just in front of her. Close enough that she could feel the heat radiating off his skin, but not touching her.

“You,” he said, voice low and uncompromising, the weight of the command sinking into the air like a steel door slamming shut. His tone coiled through her—not just dominance, but possession, unmistakable and unyielding. “don’t leave this loft unless I say so.”

Her pulse fluttered—part instinct, part defiance—but also a visceral awareness of how her body still responded to him, drawn and tense, despite the fear unfurled in her belly, slow and sinuous.

Her skin prickled, heat blooming beneath her ribs as if his words had branded her.

Some reckless, hidden part of her—restless and raw—ached for those boundaries, not to be caged, but to feel the intensity of being known, claimed, and irrevocably seen.

It wasn’t a suggestion. It was a command delivered like a steel trap—snapping tight around her ribs, hot and cold all at once, leaving no room for negotiation.

And despite the ice tightening around her heart, part of her responded to the command.

Her body remembered last night. Remembered what surrender felt like in his hands.

But this? This wasn’t that. This wasn’t about trust or desire or the heady rush of control.

This was a wall. One she hadn’t expected to hit so soon.

He turned away before she could speak. A dismissal.

She slipped back into the bedroom and shut the door with a decisive click, the sound too loud in the silence that followed.

Her breath came in uneven pulls, each one shallow, like her body couldn’t decide whether to rage or unravel.

Behind her eyelids, Peter’s vacant eyes still burned, overlaid with the image of Dawson’s retreat—commanding, cold, and untouchable.

She sagged against the door for a beat, the wood cool at her back, then pushed off and crossed the room with stiff legs, each step fueled by equal parts fear, fury, and something darker.

Something that trembled with the ache of denied connection and the sting of feeling shut out.

She dropped onto the edge of the bed, her fingers trembling slightly as she stared at the screen.

Her chest ached—not with grief for Peter, but with the echo of confusion, betrayal, and a sick sense of inevitability.

She wasn’t sure what she was looking for in the contact list. Maybe just a lifeline.

Maybe a thread back to normalcy. But her thumb hovered for only a breath before she tapped Keely’s name.

The dial tone seemed louder than usual, echoing in the hush of the room like it carried weight. Her skin prickled, not from cold, but from the sharpness of her spiraling thoughts. What if she was next? What if this was only the beginning?

Keely picked up on the second ring, voice groggy but alert. “You okay?”

“No. Peter’s dead. Murdered. And someone sent us a photo.”

A beat of silence, then Keely’s breath caught. “Jesus, Evangeline…”

“I know. It doesn’t feel real. I woke up and Dawson was already on the phone. He’s different now. Shut down.”

“Like emotionally checked out?”

“Exactly. Like last night never happened.” Evangeline clutched the phone tighter, lowering her voice. “We’re being locked down. Dawson’s not saying much, but I can feel it. He’s scared. Or angry. Or both. I just… I needed to talk to someone who doesn’t speak in tactical jargon.”

Keely made a sympathetic sound. “You’re allowed to freak out. Just don’t do it alone.”

“Wasn’t planning on it.” Evangeline pinched the bridge of her nose. “The letter opener used was mine. From my desk. Whoever did this wanted me to know they could get that close.”

Keely’s voice lowered, worry edging her words. “Who the hell?—?”

“I don’t know. But I need to talk something through—just as friends, off the record.”

“Name it.”

“I keep going back over the faces I saw at the gala,” Evangeline said quietly.

“Not because I think I’ll suddenly remember something useful—but because something about that night felt wrong.

Off. There was tension in the air, and not just from Peter.

Someone was watching me—maybe more than one someone. ”

“Anyone stand out?”

She paused, searching her memory. “There was a moment at the gala—Peter was arguing with someone. I couldn’t see who it was; I was on the other side of a door.

I could hear Peter’s voice—tense, low, like he didn’t want to be overheard.

I couldn’t catch every word, but the tone…

it sent a chill through me. This wasn’t just some corporate posturing or a drunken spat. It felt darker. Out of place.

“Whoever was replying, sounded measured, cold and deliberate. Peter sounded smug. Confident. Like he was pulling strings that no one else could see.” Evangeline took a breath, “And now Peter’s dead. With my letter opener.”

Keely exhaled slowly. “This isn’t over, is it?”

Evangeline shook her head even though Keely couldn’t see it. Her voice, when it came, was quieter—steady, but hollow. “No,” she whispered, staring at the window’s reflection where city lights blurred into jagged ghosts.

A shiver raced down her spine, dread tightening like a steel band.

Her arms wrapped tighter around herself as the magnitude of it all settled in—Peter’s murder, Dawson’s retreat, the isolation clawing at her ribs like a scream trapped in her throat.

Her breath fogged faintly against the glass, a ghost of warmth on the edge of something cold and unforgiving.

She didn’t know what scared her more—the killer's message or the silence that followed it. Either way, she felt it down to her bones: this was only the beginning. “Whoever did this? They wanted me to see it. They’re not done. They’re just getting started. ”