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

Reed’s voice dropped a register. “Evvy is in danger. Real danger. The kind that doesn’t care how polished her shoes are. You’re the one with the best experience here—CID, counterintelligence. You know the espionage game better than anyone.”

Dawson let out a weary sigh. “There’s a world of difference between chasing foreign agents and cleaning up after corporate sharks.

If you want white-collar security, call someone who specializes in it.

What about the new guy—Niall, the Brit? Or Lachlan, our token Scot?

Women melt for those accents. Me? I track traitors, not debutantes with a flair for spin. ”

Reed didn’t budge. “Wrapping up another assignment and out of commission for the time being. This time, the traitor came wrapped in a diamond ring. You in?”

Dawson paused. The memory of the last scene flickered through his mind—the thud of leather striking skin, the sharp scent of adrenaline and arousal, the raw focus it took to wield pain as precision and deliver it with care. There, everything had rules. Limits. Clear lines of power. It grounded him.

Whatever this chaos was with Evangeline? It was the opposite. Unscripted. Emotional. Messy. She was all contradictions—soft but sharp, polished yet reckless—and he hated that it got under his skin.

He flashed to the way she had looked through the glass when she spotted him earlier—stunned, fascinated, aroused.

Not that she’d admit it. But her breathing had changed.

Her fingers had curled slightly on the sill.

There’d been that moment when their eyes met across the shadows, and something primal shifted.

Women like her had power they didn’t understand, and it always came at a cost. He’d paid that price once with blood, stripes, and a dishonorable discharge that never should have been his.

And now, here she was. A new temptation, same packaging. It unsettled him more than he wanted to admit.

Evangeline Shaw appeared to be everything he loathed in a woman—the kind who wore charm like armor, who broke rules with a smile and expected men to clean up the fallout.

Chaos followed women like her. Always had.

Just like Sheila DeMarco had—General DeMarco’s daughter, all sharp edges and red lips, who’d wrapped Dawson around her finger and then torched everything in her wake.

His clearance, his career, his goddamn honor.

Evangeline had that same polished gloss, that same dangerous gleam in her eye.

And no matter how tempting she looked now, he knew exactly where this road led.

But walking away wasn't an option either. Not when her life was on the line. Not when Reed looked at him like he was the only one who could fix this. And that part of him—the part that still believed in protecting the innocent, even when they were wrapped in silk and scandal—wouldn’t let him refuse.

God help him.

He exhaled, jaw clenched. “Fine.”

Jesse winked. “Try not to scare her. She’s a little rattled. She got a front-row seat to your scene.”

Dawson groaned. “Yeah, I know. I saw her.”

Reed grinned and clapped him on the back. “Good luck.”

Dawson didn't answer. He just turned, shoulders set, and made his way toward the stairs, Reed and Jesse close behind him.

The music faded as he headed toward the office, replaced by the steady thump of his own boots, each step pulling him closer to a woman he didn’t want to protect—and yet, already suspected he wouldn’t be able to ignore.

As he reached the office door, he took one last breath.

His hand hovered for a beat, the weight of every bad memory pressing on the back of his neck like a phantom. He didn’t trust women like Evangeline Shaw. Too shiny. Too smooth. But the second he stepped into that room, it wouldn’t matter. She’d be his to protect.

He knocked twice, opened the door and walked in.

"Ms. Shaw? I'm Dawson Hart. I understand you have a problem."

He’d only caught a glimpse of her through the window, but seeing her now—standing just a few feet away—was enough to hijack every rational thought in his head.

Evangeline Shaw was all curves and contradiction—lush hips outlined by soft leggings, the slouchy sweater slipping off one shoulder just enough to tease, and those damn cowboy boots grounding her like she was ready to walk through fire or ride out a storm.

Her hair was a halo of tousled golden curls, slightly damp from exertion or nerves, and her blue eyes—sharp, assessing—snapped to his like she’d just dared him to keep up.

She looked like sin wrapped in silk and served with attitude.

And his cock didn’t just want to salute—it wanted to kneel.

For a split second, his mind betrayed him—he saw her tied to the cross downstairs, skin flushed, body aroused, arching under his command, her breath catching as he dragged the tails of the flogger over her thighs, her breasts, her belly.

But unlike earlier, he wouldn’t hand her off when it was done.

No. He’d keep her there, under his control, until every lie had been burned away and all that was left was truth, obedience, and need.

He motioned to the couch. "Sit. Talk."

She sat, legs crossed, shoulder bare again. "My fiancé, Peter Rhodes is planning a hostile takeover. I have proof. Copied it onto a flash drive from our servers before the big engagement reveal tonight."

Dawson leaned against the edge of the conference table. "Hell of a meet-cute."

She gave a dry laugh. "I aim to impress."

"You bring the drive?"

She handed it over without ceremony. Their fingers brushed. A flicker of something unnamed passed between them—brief, potent, impossible to ignore.

"I’ll give it to our techs," he said. "We'll see how deep this runs."

"And me?"

"According to Reed Malone, you’re under protection. Mine."

She tilted her head. "Define protection."

"You stay where I say. Go where I say. Do what I tell you."

"Bossy."

"Effective."

"And if I don’t?"

He didn’t smile. "Then I’ll make you. I'll do whatever it takes to keep you safe."

Her eyes narrowed, not with fear—but challenge. "You always this charming?"

"Rarely. Only when the boss tells me I have to play nice."

"Lucky me."

He reached for her hand. "Come on. Let’s get you somewhere safer."

They walked out of the club like they’d done it a hundred times—quiet, measured, dangerous in their calm.

The ride was quiet, but not comfortable.

Tension stretched between them like a wire—taut, humming with everything unsaid.

Dawson drove a black truck through the sleeping streets of San Antonio, one hand on the wheel, the other resting near his thigh.

Evangeline sat in the passenger seat, arms crossed, her gaze flicking between the road and him.

"So, where are we going?”

“My loft. It’s the safest place I can think of at the moment.”

“So do you always kidnap your clients without giving them a choice," she asked, "or am I just special?"

"You brought stolen intel to a BDSM club and accused your fiancé of corporate espionage. You're a walking invitation for trouble."

"I do like to make an impression."

He glanced at her. "Then you’re doing just fine."

When they pulled into the private garage beneath the converted factory, which she knew held some of the city’s most expensive lofts, she whistled low. "Silver Spur pays well."

"I don’t do cheap security."

They stepped into the elevator, and Dawson keyed in a six-digit security code. The panel beeped softly, then the doors slid shut. No chatter now—just the low thrum of the building and the hush of tension between them.

When the elevator stopped, the doors opened directly into the loft. Evangeline stepped out first, her gaze sweeping the space with open curiosity.

High ceilings. Exposed beams. Floor-to-ceiling windows washed in moonlight. It was clean, masculine, intentional. Leather, wood, steel. A space built to be controlled.

"Nice," she said, turning slowly. "Unexpected."

"Why?"

"You seem more bunkhouse than penthouse."

He stepped past her, set the keys on the entry table and shrugged. "I inherited some money from my grandmother and I like to be surrounded by beautiful things. I also have enemies so I wanted a place I could make secure. I usually don’t invite people to visit."

She looked over her shoulder. "And yet, here I am."

Dawson gestured toward the open bedroom just off the main space. The loft was wide open—kitchen, living, dining, all flowing together—only the bedroom had a door, tucked neatly to one side.

"You take the bed," he said. "I'll crash on the couch."

Evangeline arched a brow. "Chivalry or strategy?"

"Both," he replied.

She gave a slow, sardonic nod. "How very noble of you."

He didn’t rise to the bait. Just watched her, unreadable, as she moved past him into the shadows of his home.

She turned, sharp as ever. "We going to pretend this is just about security?"

He dropped the drive on the counter. "Wouldn’t dream of it."

Her smile was a dare. "Good. I hate liars."

So did he. Especially the ones who fooled themselves.

Fuck me. Let the games begin.