Page 9 of The Tracker (Cowboys of Silver Spur Security #5)

EVANGELINE

I f tension had a scent, Dawson would be drenched in it.

It clung to her like velvet steeped in adrenaline—soft, but sharp enough to make her chest tighten and her stomach twist. The air around him pulsed with unspoken intent, every heartbeat hammering like a warning in her throat.

It was thick and charged, the kind of weight that comes before a storm—oppressive, electric, impossible to ignore.

It slid across her skin like invisible silk, cool at first, then prickling hot, each breath catching like the air had teeth.

Every breath near him carried a charge, sharp and metallic, like the air before a lightning strike.

The tension between them coated her like static, taut and humming, as if the atmosphere might snap and tear with a single wrong move.

The man radiated command, not just in the way he moved—but in the way the atmosphere shifted when he entered a room.

She felt it in the elevator, during the short ride from her office down to the curb.

She sensed it even more in the black truck he drove like it was an extension of himself.

He didn’t speak much as they pulled away from the Shaw Petrochemical tower, but the silence wasn’t awkward.

It simmered. Like a held breath between lightning and thunder.

Evangeline found herself bracing, waiting for a sound that never came—a verdict, a warning, anything.

Part of her feared he’d say something that would break the fragile calm she’d built around herself—part of him wanted her to do just that… and part of her didn’t.

“So,” she said finally, sliding a glance his way, “am I allowed to know where you’re taking me, or is this a blindfolded, zip-tie situation?”

One corner of his mouth curved. Not quite a smile. More like an acknowledgment.

“We’re stopping by your place so you can grab what you need. Then we’re staying at mine.”

Her brows rose. “And this decision was made by...?”

“Security protocols.”

“Not by the woman whose security you’re managing and who’s paying the bill, huh?”

He glanced at her then—quick and sharp. “You’re not safe in that penthouse. It’s too exposed.”

She frowned. “Wait—how do you even know what my penthouse looks like?”

“Silver Spur borrowed Keely’s spare key. We swept the place last night.”

Her eyebrows lifted. “You went in without me?”

“You weren’t there, remember? The team waited until we were at the loft,” he said evenly. “They didn’t enter until I knew you were safe. They found three listening devices—one in the den, one near the bedroom vent, and another in your master bath. All removed.”

Evangeline blinked. “Seriously?”

“Seriously. You’re compromised, Ms. Shaw. That’s why we’re staying at my place. You’ll be safer there.”

“My penthouse has three layers of biometric entry, a panic room, and a private elevator.”

“And let me guess who hired the staff and installed the security—Peter?”

Touché. Damn him. Her righteous indignation fizzled out like a match in the wind, leaving only a flicker of something else—something far more dangerous than anger. Awareness. Attraction. The gnawing realization that his logic wasn’t just right—it was infuriatingly, inconveniently protective.

He parked in front of her building like he owned it, stepping out, scanning the perimeter while she waited, arms crossed and temper simmering. When he finally opened her door, she got out with a roll of her eyes and stalked toward the front entrance.

Once inside the penthouse, it was exactly as she remembered: clean, polished, lifeless.

Chrome and marble gleamed under cold light.

Rich fabrics draped the furnishings—cashmere throws, velvet cushions, silk curtains—but none of it felt soft.

Not like Dawson’s loft. Not like a home.

Here, everything was curated, expensive, distant.

Not a single piece out of place, not a single trace of warmth or her personality.

Dawson stepped in behind her and didn’t say a word. His silence was damning.

She could feel him watching, that silent, braced presence pressing at her back like a shadow with heat.

Was he judging her? Waiting for her to notice the sterility she’d been pretending didn’t bother her?

She didn’t want him to say anything, not really—but part of her craved it.

Craved something real in a space that had always felt hollow.

She'd once wanted this place to be warm, more bohemian, more like Keely’s place with its hanging plants and mismatched charm.

But Peter had convinced her this was better—sleek, professional, presentable.

A space made to impress and entertain. It didn’t matter that it never felt like home.

He’d convinced her that this was what success looked like.

“Say it,” she muttered.

He raised a brow. “Say what?”

“That it looks like a catalog page for lonely billionaires.”

He didn’t smirk—thank God—but his voice held quiet amusement. “I was going to say it looks like it belongs to someone who doesn’t live here.”

She hated how accurate that was.

“I’ve been busy,” she said, yanking open drawers and grabbing her overnight bag. “Running the PR Department for a major petrochemical company, dealing with traitors, trying not to get killed. You know, the usual.”

He stepped closer, slow and deliberate, reaching past her to grab a charger cord from the counter. His chest brushed her back. Just lightly.

But she felt it and every cell in her body snapped to attention.

“Ten minutes,” he said in that low, rumbling voice. “Then we’re gone.”

They made it out in nine. Not that she was counting. Okay—she was. Because walking out of that cold, empty penthouse with Dawson at her back felt like slamming a door on the version of herself who used to pretend she didn’t mind being alone... even when she was with Peter.

Dawson’s loft, by contrast, was...warm. Not just in the physical sense but emotionally grounding in a way that surprised her. Evangeline exhaled slowly, only then realizing the pressure that had gathered in her chest, her shoulders easing as the tension unspooled from her spine.

It shouldn’t have felt this comforting. But it did—and the realization made her chest ache with a strange, unspoken longing.

Maybe she’d never had a space that welcomed her like this.

Maybe she didn’t even know she wanted one until now.

Not just in the subtle, saturated colors—it was still a masculine space, all dark wood, iron accents, clean lines—but it felt lived in.

There were boots by the door. A jacket tossed over a chair. A half-finished book on the table.

And him. That was probably the biggest difference.

Dawson made spaces feel anchored. Solid.

As if his presence alone could exorcise the hollow places and breathe warmth into sterile rooms. He didn’t fill the silence—he owned it.

And in doing so, he made the air feel less empty, more charged.

Like maybe this wasn’t just a safehouse. Maybe it could be a haven.

She curled up on the worn leather couch with her Kindle, while he settled at the counter with his laptop and a bottle of something brown and strong.

The silence stretched between them again, but this time, it felt like an invitation.

A strange warmth settled in her chest—something between relief and wary comfort.

For the first time in days, she didn’t feel like she had to perform.

She scrolled to the next chapter and found herself in the middle of a particularly steamy scene—leather cuffs, whispered commands, a heroine baring herself with breathless anticipation.

Her breath hitched. Suddenly, it wasn’t the book’s Dom she saw—it was Dawson, all steel and silence, with those dark eyes that promised consequences.

She blinked, heat rising in her cheeks. God help her, she wanted to be that heroine.

Just for a little while. Just to see what it would feel like to fall and know he’d catch her.

“So,” she said, peeking over the edge of her e-reader. “What’s for dinner? Or are we just drinking our way through this apocalypse?”

“I was going to order in.”

She shut her Kindle. “Let me cook.”

He looked up. Blinked. “You cook?”

“Shocking, I know. But yes. I’m not completely useless.”

“I never said you were useless. I could think of lots of uses for you.”

She stood, bare feet silent on the hardwood, caught off guard by the heat sliding through her veins. “That almost sounded like a compliment, Dawson,” she said, a little shocked, a little flattered—and more than a little turned on.

He didn’t move as she passed him, just watched. Silent. Intense. Her shoulder brushed his arm—barely—but the contact lit up her skin like a downed powerline, sending a shockwave of heat skittering down her spine and leaving her flushed, breath catching in her throat.

She didn’t flinch. Didn’t look back. But she knew he felt it too by the way his breath hitched—just once—before the silence closed over them again.

For a heartbeat, she let herself imagine what would’ve happened if he hadn’t pulled back—if he’d leaned in, if she had.

Would he have kissed her? Pinned her there and claimed her mouth with that ruthless precision she saw in his every move?

The thought sent a rush of want spiraling through her, dangerous and sharp, a craving she didn’t dare voice—but couldn’t ignore.

Her skin tingled where his chest had brushed her back, a shiver dancing down her spine like the delayed shock of a near miss—dangerous, electric, and impossible to ignore.

She pulled open his fridge and gave him a smile over her shoulder.

“You’ve got eggs. Cheese. Pasta. Garlic.

Congratulations, we’re making carbonara. ”

By the time she served it, the tension had eased a little. Or maybe it had just shifted. He still hadn’t touched her, but he didn’t have to. The air between them crackled with potential. Unspoken things. Dangerous things.

He ate slowly, silently. But she caught the way his eyes dropped to her lips when she licked a bit of sauce from the corner of her mouth.

Heat bloomed in her chest and spilled downward, slow and molten, pooling in her abdomen and sending sparks of arousal through every nerve ending.

He reached across the table. His thumb brushed the corner of her mouth. "Missed a spot."

She went utterly still. For a moment, the world narrowed to the press of his thumb, the rough warmth of his skin against hers.

If he hadn’t pulled away—if that connection had lasted a heartbeat longer—she might’ve leaned in.

Might’ve kissed him. Might’ve done something reckless, like beg for more.

Not out of love. Not out of weakness. But because the idea of surrendering—just for a second—called to something deep and molten inside her.

Instead, his hand dropped, and he went back to eating like nothing had happened. Bastard. And yet, if he’d let that moment stretch just a breath longer, she might’ve surrendered that last inch. Just to see what it felt like. Just to know what it was to let go.