Slade walked like war incarnate—broad shoulders carved from battles long past, arms thick with the kind of strength forged through blood, not gym routines. His presence filled the room before his voice ever did, and when he did speak? It was never more than necessary. He didn’t have to command attention.

He was attention.

Even in silence, he radiated something primal—like old statues of gods with chipped marble and rage hidden behind beauty. But there was nothing cold about Slade. His body was heat, discipline, and violence in perfect sync.

And she? She watched him move with the same reverence as worship.

Not because he asked for it.

Because he earned it.