Slade could read a battlefield in seconds—angles, threats, trajectories. But tonight? Tonight, he was reading her.

She stood at the edge of the bed, wrapped in silk and hesitation. Eyes averted. Breathing shallow. She wasn’t afraid—not of him—but of the moment. The weight of it. The way want tangled with nerves and uncertainty.

Slade didn’t move. Not yet.

He gave her space. Let the silence stretch soft between them, not tense. His voice, when it came, was low. Gentle in a way only she ever heard.

“You tell me what you need,” he said, voice like gravel and warmth. “And I’ll give it to you. No pressure. No rush.”

She finally looked at him—saw the killer, yes. But also the man who would never take more than she offered.