Page 7 of The Tracker (Cowboys of Silver Spur Security #5)

People noticed. Assistants who usually kept their heads down now stared openly, their eyes darting between her and the silent man beside her. Executives who typically interrupted without hesitation faltered mid-sentence, their tone adjusting as if on instinct.

Dawson said nothing. He didn’t need to. His presence alone drew attention like a magnet, shifting the room’s energy with silent authority. And Evangeline, who’d long mastered the politics of posture and poise, felt the social terrain shift beneath her like a fault line realigning.

The conference room buzzed with whispers, every glance like a blade against her composure. She felt them all—those sharp looks slicing beneath her skin. Her shoulders squared, her expression practiced, polished, and cold.

Then Peter stepped through the door, smug and too smooth. Her breath caught. The bastard was smiling.

It carried her back to that charity gala two years ago—Peter finding her alone on the balcony, champagne flute in hand, disarming her with that easy, practiced charm.

He’d spoken of vision, legacy, and love as if they were facets of the same polished gem.

She’d believed every word, mistaking rehearsal for sincerity.

She’d never been in line to run the company.

Everyone, herself included, understood that the reins belonged to her father’s seasoned executives.

Still, Peter made his pitch sound like true partnership.

Signing off on his ‘joint initiative’ seemed harmless, even supportive.

Letting him address the board felt like smart delegation.

In truth, it was a quiet transfer of influence. While she smiled for the cameras, he eased her from valued liaison to ornamental figurehead—slipping whatever symbolic authority she held out of her grasp while assuring her nothing had changed.

It had cost her dearly. Confronted now with Peter’s betrayal, she grasped the depth of the ground she needed to reclaim: her father’s confidence, the board’s respect, and faith in her own worth beyond a polished public facade.

For the moment, she would keep her silence—hold the truth close where it couldn’t undercut the leverage she still possessed.

But the illusion was gone. She saw Peter clearly at last, and she would not let him win.

Seeing that expression now—the same one Peter wore that night, smooth and self-assured—made her stomach knot. Whether he knew she’d finally seen through him or not didn’t matter.

He was still playing the game, but now, so was she.

“Evangeline, there you are. Where have you been?”

“Safe, no thanks to you. For the time being, Ms. Shaw is not available,” Dawson said, stepping in front of her like a wall of iron.

Peter blinked. “Excuse me?”

“You’ll speak to her through legal. She’s under protection and doesn’t meet alone. With anyone.”

Peter’s jaw flexed. “This is insane. I’m her fiancé.”

“Maybe, but not as insane as getting shot at in an evening gown,” Dawson replied, voice flat.

Evangeline almost smiled. Almost.

She could picture her father’s concerned expression—the same look he’d worn at press conferences, quarterly earnings calls, even her mother’s memorial.

It was his version of sincerity: practiced, polished, just credible enough to pass for real.

But unlike Dawson, whose bluntness left no room for pretense, her father’s concern always came wrapped in optics and legacy.

And she was tired of being a prop in someone else’s performance.

She straightened, meeting Peter’s gaze without flinching. “I can speak for myself, Peter. But for now, I’m following Dawson’s lead.”

Dawson didn’t budge. “She’s under my care. That means she doesn’t leave my sight.”

The meeting that followed was a blur of tension and wary stares.

Margaret Tierney adjusted her pearls twice without speaking.

David Langley dropped his pen and didn’t bother to retrieve it.

Even Stanley Squire, usually unreadable, drummed his fingers against his legal pad with enough force to draw glances.

One junior executive scribbled notes so furiously his hand shook.

No one met Evangeline’s gaze for long. And every time Dawson shifted against the wall, backs straightened and conversations stuttered.

He hadn’t said a word, but his presence threaded through the room like a live current.

Dawson stood against the far wall, arms crossed, eyes unreadable. But she felt him. Every word she spoke, every breath she drew—he was there. Watching.

A board member cleared his throat and leaned forward. “Ms. Shaw, with all due respect, this situation is distracting from company priorities.”

“Agreed. Someone tried to kill her,” Dawson said from the wall, calm and lethal. “Until we eliminate the threat, you’ll have to excuse the distraction.”

Margaret, ever the traditionalist, spoke next. “Are we certain this isn’t being blown out of proportion? A text message and a cracked window?—”

Evangeline raised her hand, her tone glacial. “Would you like me to circulate the photo of the bullet lodged in the window frame three inches from my skull? Or the threat sent to my private number?”

Silence.

Peter leaned in, his smile tight. “This is exactly why I said you needed better PR management.”

Margaret murmured in agreement, but the room shifted again when Dawson straightened and stepped forward.

“You think this is about optics?” he asked, voice like steel. “This isn’t spin control—it’s a matter of survival.”

Peter’s smirk faltered. “With all due respect and no offense...”

“None taken,” Dawson cut in. “If your security people had done their damn jobs, she wouldn’t need me here now. Someone sent people to kill Ms. Shaw and when that didn't work at the gala, they chased her through the streets of San Antonio.”

A gasp fluttered through the room. A pen clattered to the table. One man cleared his throat and stared at his notes like they might save him.

Evangeline sat still, heart thundering. No one had ever defended her like that. Not when Peter publicly questioned her capabilities in front of the board last quarter. She’d smiled, lifted her chin, and bled in private—never once expecting anyone to step in.

Dawson didn’t just step in. He obliterated the space around her like a shield she hadn’t asked for but desperately needed. Not without strings or expectations.

And she wasn’t used to wanting anything that didn’t come with conditions, contracts, or careful calculations. But this—this raw, wordless defense—felt like something different. Something real. And real was dangerous.

Dawson took another step, slow and deliberate. “She doesn’t need carefully crafted narratives or polished talking points. She needs protection. That’s why I’m here.”

She didn’t look at him, but the energy in the room told her everything.

Margaret’s lips parted slightly, as if she meant to speak but thought better of it.

David’s hand froze mid-note, his pen suspended above the page.

Whatever line Dawson had drawn, they all felt it—and none of them dared cross it.

She saw it in the board’s faces—the subtle recalibration, the shift from dismissal to doubt.

Stanley exhaled hard and rubbed his temple. “Let’s stick to the agenda.”

The damage was done. Power had tilted. It made her wonder if any of them was left standing on solid ground.

By noon, her nerves were frayed. She ducked into her office and dropped into the chair behind her desk, exhaling hard.

Dawson followed and shut the door.

“You held it together.”

“Barely.” She looked up at him. “You’re making this worse.”

“Maybe, but I’m the one keeping you breathing.”

She rose to her feet. “You’re also making me feel like I’m under a microscope.”

The kind she’d been under her entire life—but this was different. It wasn’t the clinical dissection of debutante committees or the hushed judgments at charity luncheons. It wasn’t the hollow smiles of executives pretending to respect her while taking bets on how fast she’d fold under pressure.

This felt sharper. Closer. Like Dawson wasn’t just observing—he was seeing. And she couldn’t decide if she wanted to shove him away because of it... or let him keep looking.

He stepped closer. “Good. That means anyone watching knows better than to try again.”

She’d lived under scrutiny her whole life—country clubs, charity galas, dinner parties where reputations rose or fell on a single glance.

She was used to polite smiles hiding sharper intent, to whispered appraisals disguised as compliments, to the constant pressure to perform.

But this was different. The tension now wasn’t about social standing or career advancement.

This was raw, personal, and dangerously close to the bone.

Sharper. Closer. Like he saw straight through her, past the armor she wore so well.

And God help her, part of her didn’t hate it.

“Are you always this intense?”

“I don’t get paid to be charming.”

His voice was low, edged with something unyielding.

She noticed the tight tick in his jaw, the way his fingers flexed once at his sides before stilling again.

It wasn’t anger—it was discipline, the kind forged in silence and pressure.

Controlled, precise. And underneath it all, the steady presence of a man who had already decided what he’d do if anyone tried to hurt her again.

“Clearly,” she said, dragging the word out with a teasing bite. “Good thing for you most people don’t require charm in a bodyguard—or you'd be flat broke.”

Neither of them moved. The space between them felt charged, like static waiting to ignite.

She should have stepped back. Instead, she asked, “Is that how you talk to all your clients?”

His gaze dropped to her mouth, lingered there for a moment before it drifted lower.

“No. Just the ones who don’t listen.”

Her pulse spiked.

She turned away before she did something reckless.

Like kiss him. Or slap him. Or both. Her hands clenched at her sides, nails biting into her palms, a flush crawling up the back of her neck.

Her breath came sharp, shallow. Every nerve felt flayed open under his gaze, caught between defiance and desire—and the terrifying urge to surrender to neither, but something far more dangerous: truth.

His voice followed her, low and quiet. “You’re not fragile. But that doesn’t mean you’re not vulnerable. Learn the difference.”

She remained behind her desk, heart pounding as Dawson held her gaze across the room. The soft click of the door locking behind him earlier still lingered in her mind, oddly intimate.

A vision flashed before her eyes—her bent over her desk, skirt rucked up and Dawson standing behind her, fly open as he pounded into her pussy. Evangeline shook her head to banish the image.

But the moment settled over her like a verdict. Unspoken, but irreversible. With every breath, she felt the fault lines inside her stretch—dangerously close to breaking open everything she’d buried.

She didn’t know what scared her more—that Dawson saw through her so easily, or that some part of her wanted him to.

Each look from him peeled back her defenses, layer by layer, revealing the parts she kept hidden under practiced smiles and curated strength. Vulnerability wasn’t new. But with him, it felt... perilous.

She tipped her head back against the high leather chair, fingers gripping the armrests, fighting the heat crawling over her skin.

The cool feel of it grounded her in the storm of everything she felt.

It smelled faintly of clean leather and something subtly citrus, likely the conditioner her assistant used when the chairs were wiped down.

The scent was crisp, professional—more about presentation than comfort.

But even that couldn’t mask the deeper note of his cologne, warm and smoky, curling through the air like a dare she wasn’t ready to answer.

Her skin prickled where the leather touched her, anchoring her to the present as everything inside threatened to fracture.

Her pulse thundered—not just fear, but heat, awareness, something sharp and alive blooming in her veins.

No one had ever gotten under her skin like this—not the polished heirs who took her to galas, nor the ambitious executives who tried to bed her as a power move.

They’d seen her name, her pedigree. Dawson saw something else.

Something raw. And it made her feel exposed in a way she couldn’t name, much less control.

What was it about this man that undid her so completely?

Part of her already knew the answer—because he saw what no one else had the courage to look for.

And for the first time, Evangeline wasn’t sure which version of herself she was trying so hard to protect. The polished executive who never flinched? Or the woman who wanted something—someone—real enough to shake her apart. One wore armor; the other longed to set it down.