Slade had tried.

God, he had tried.

Kevlar. Reinforced plates. Tactical bodysuits designed for mobility and protection. He’d laid them out on the bed like a man presenting logical arguments.

She’d looked at them.

Then walked past them.

Tonight’s “mission attire” involved heels sharp enough to classify as weapons and fabric that seemed personally offended by the concept of coverage.

Slade stood in the doorway, arms crossed.

“That’s not armor,” he said flatly.

She adjusted an earring.

He exhaled slowly through his nose.

“We are infiltrating a weapons broker’s private party,” he continued. “Not auditioning.”

She gave him a look.

A look.

And suddenly he remembered the last time he pushed this argument.

It had ended with him flat on his back and her standing over him proving—very effectively—that she didn’t need extra padding to win a fight.

He still had the bruise.

Slade dragged a hand down his face.

“…Fine.”

She paused.

He stepped closer, adjusting the strap at her shoulder—not changing the outfit, just making sure nothing would slip at the wrong moment.

“You get grabbed,” he said evenly, “you break fingers.”

She smirked.

“And if this goes loud,” he added, checking the concealed blade at her thigh, “I’m not explaining to the paramedics why you outperformed half the room in six-inch heels.”

He stepped back, eye scanning her once more.

Annoyed?

Yes.

Worried?

Absolutely.

Impressed?

Always.

“Do not make me say ‘I told you so,’” he muttered, grabbing his mask.

Because Slade had learned something important:

If she chose to walk into a contract dressed like temptation and violence wrapped together—

The only thing worse than arguing about it…

Was losing the argument again.