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 livedin. 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.
6
DAWSON
She closed the bedroom door with deliberate care, the muted snick of the latch sounding sharper than expected in the quiet loft, a soft sound that still hit Dawson square in the chest. It wasn’t defiant. It wasn’t cold. It was... final. Like she needed space. Like she’d reached the edge of what she could take for one night. He watched the door a beat longer than he should’ve, jaw tight, then turned back to his laptop. He had work to do.
The screen glared back at him, lines of data flickering past like a stream he couldn’t wade into—relevant, maybe even urgent, but slipping away too fast to catch. breach logs, traces of the leak still slipping through firewalls like smoke through a sieve. But his head wasn’t in it. Not with the scent of her still hanging in the air—vanilla and something warm, maybe citrus. Not with the memory of her mouth slightly parted when he wiped that damn sauce from her lip. And definitely not with the image of her pressed against the wall, his body pinning hers, still vivid in his mind like a scene burned into celluloid.
Discipline, Hart.He ran a hand over his face.Get your goddamn head back in the game.
He reached for the Kindle she’d left on the couch, intending to move it to the coffee table—a converted antique industrial cart once used in the sugar factory. But the moment his fingers brushed the device, the device lit up from its screen saver mode and a flicker of hesitation rippled through him. It felt like crossing a line—small, maybe, but personal. Still, curiosity edged past caution. What had she been reading so intently? He looked down as the device revealed the last page she’d read. His hand stilled.
