Slade didn’t raise his voice. He never needed to.

The penthouse was quiet enough that she could hear the soft click of his boots as he crossed the floor, each step measured, unhurried, the kind of calm that meant he was very much not pleased. The lights were low, the city glowing through the windows behind him, turning his silhouette into something carved from shadow and steel.

He stopped directly in front of her, one gloved hand lifting her chin—not rough, just firm enough to remind her who she had pushed too far tonight. She hadn’t said a word since they walked through the door, but Slade already knew. He always knew. Mistakes. Disobedience. The kind of reckless move that made his blood pressure spike and his protective instincts flare like a warning siren.

His eye narrowed, assessing, calculating how to handle her the way only he could. Not angry—never that. Just controlled. Intense. Focused entirely on her.

“Actions,” he murmured, voice low, “have consequences.”

He didn’t have to specify what kind. The tension hanging in the room said enough. The slow draw of his breath said enough. The way his thumb dragged lightly along her jaw before dropping away said enough.

Whatever he had planned… She was going to feel it.