Page 4 of The Tracker (Cowboys of Silver Spur Security #5)

DAWSON

T he 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 a blade 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 left its 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.

He turned away and wiped his hands with a damp cloth, the scent of arousal still thick in the air.

That’s when he saw Reed, standing at the edge of the dungeon in a black button-down, arms crossed, eyes sharp.

Jesse was with him, lounging with that easy Texas charm that masked a mind as sharp as any blade.

Reed tilted his head once. “Come.”

Dawson rolled his neck and exhaled, the motion tight with irritation.

He pulled on a black T-shirt from his bag near the wall, tugging it down over still-warm skin with more force than necessary.

Reed knew damn well he was scheduled to disappear in two days—off-grid, no calls, no responsibilities.

His annual escape into the wild was more than tradition; it was self-defense.

Last year, he'd spent three weeks alone in a ridgeline cabin so remote he had to snowshoe in the last mile. No phones. No chatter. Just him, a stack of old survival manuals, and a stubborn black bear that kept testing the perimeter like it wanted to spar. By the second day, his head had started to clear. By the tenth, he’d remembered how to breathe without the weight of responsibility tightening his chest.

He needed that solitude the way some men needed confession. No masks. No orders. Just the primal rhythm of existence. And now this—whatever this might turn out to be—was threatening to drag him back into the noise before he’d even had the chance to shut it off.

He strode across the dungeon floor, his boots silent but his jaw clenched, annoyance simmering just under the surface with every step.

“You need something or just here to critique my form?” Dawson asked as he approached.

Reed’s jaw flexed. “We’ve got a problem.”

Dawson folded his arms across his chest, already not liking the look in Reed’s eyes. “Unless that problem involves me leaving for the mountains in forty-eight hours, I’m not sure why 'we' includes me.”

Reed didn’t flinch. “Because you're the only one who can handle this."

Dawson snorted. Reed shrugged.

Jesse grinned. “We can promise it will be... entertaining.”

Dawson raised an eyebrow. “That usually means Keely.” Jesse was engaged to Keely, who was Reed's younger, pain-in-the-ass sister.

Reed nodded. “Keely and her plus-one.”

Dawson’s shoulders stiffened, and he let out a sigh that bordered on a growl. “Please tell me it’s not another bachelorette escape mission.”

He could already picture the glitter, the shrieking laughter, the over-perfumed cloud of chaos.

The last time he’d been dragged into something like this, it was because a senator’s daughter had accidentally turned her private security detail into the entertainment for a bachelorette party.

He’d spent the night wedged between two screeching bridesmaids who kept trying to lick his dog tags while the bride-to-be cried into her mojito about a cheating fiancé.

By the time the limo pulled away at 3 a.m., he smelled like hairspray and regret and had sworn never again.

He'd done that circuit once—reluctantly—and it was enough to last him a lifetime. Fake sobs, mascara running like war paint, and some drunk socialite trying to crawl into his lap because he 'looked like a cowboy from a movie.' Jesus. He needed a drink just thinking about it. Or ten.

"I need tequila," muttered Dawson.

“It’ll be fun… really,” Jesse drawled. “This one involves two tails, a stolen flash drive, and someone took a shot at her through a window.”

Dawson’s frown deepened. “You led with fun and buried the part where someone tried to kill her.”

Reed cut in. “It’s serious. Evangeline Shaw—yes, that Evangeline—is upstairs. Someone planted a corporate spy in her company, who then turned it around and tried to lock her down with a ring. When she got too close to the truth, they moved to silence her.”

Dawson stared at him. “Who is they, and why did you bring her here?”

Reed’s gaze didn’t waver. “It was the closest secure location." Reed sometimes talked like he was still in the Navy.

"We needed the team ready to move fast.”

Jesse leaned in. “She’s not what you think, man.”

“I think she’s a rich girl who’s never had to follow orders in her life,” Dawson snapped. “And we all agreed after the last time; I don’t babysit debutantes.”

His voice sharpened with old irritation.

"You remember Brielle LaSalle? The senator’s daughter?

She thought her daddy’s checkbook gave her diplomatic immunity?

I spent ten days shadowing her through Aspen while she flirted with cartel runners and dared paparazzi to catch her snorting coke off a yacht. "

Dawson’s jaw tensed. "She played helpless until I put her on a no-fly list and marched her ass back to Texas with a well-spanked backside and a sealed record."

He looked between Reed and Jesse. "I don’t do spoiled and suicidal, and I sure as hell don’t do clean-up for people who think danger’s a punchline."