Slade didn’t love quietly.

He wasn’t built for subtlety or softness. He didn’t whisper sonnets or leave roses on pillows. His kind of love came with blood on his knuckles and a warning in his eyes.

You look at her wrong—he notices.

You touch her—he removes the hand.

You talk about her—he makes sure it’s the last thing you say.

She walked into a room like it owed her something, and Slade followed behind like the devil come to collect. Not possessive—protective. Obsessively so. Because in a world that chewed up anything beautiful, he knew exactly what he had.

And he would ruin anyone who didn’t treat her like gold.

She was his calm. His chaos. His sharpest weakness and deadliest strength.

And Slade made damn sure the world understood:

She wasn’t just his.

She was untouchable.