Slade didn’t deal in allowances.

Money was sloppy. Traceable. Impersonal.

What he offered instead sat locked in climate-controlled cases, cataloged with the same care most men reserved for art—custom blades balanced to preference, firearms tuned to the millimeter, tech that never showed up on manifests. Tools with intent.

You never asked twice.

You’d mention something casually—offhand, almost bored—and a few days later it would appear. Wrapped. Clean. Perfectly suited to you, like he’d known you’d need it before you did.

Slade watched the exchange with mild amusement. “You’ve got expensive taste,” he said once, not unkindly.

There was no ledger. No numbers. Just understanding.

You gave him time. Attention. Presence that didn’t flinch when he came home carrying the weight of things he’d done. You listened without prying, stayed without clinging, left when he needed silence.

And when you wanted something?

You didn’t ask for cash.

You asked for power.

Slade never questioned why. He just nodded, already calculating logistics, already deciding which weapon fit your hands best.

“If you’re going to have it,” he said calmly, “it should be right.”

It wasn’t romance in the traditional sense.

It was trust. Control. Exchange.

And somehow, that suited both of you perfectly.