"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 slidshut. 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.
