Slade was a man built from sharp edges—scar tissue, muscle, discipline. Everything about him warned against softness. Everything, except for the trail that cut down his stomach, drawing the eye lower, daring her to follow.

It wasn’t an accident. He knew what it did to her, the way her gaze lingered longer than she meant it to. The mercenary thrived on precision, on control—but in this, he indulged her weakness.

Every time the armor came off, every time the shirt hit the floor, it was there. A silent invitation. A promise of what waited beyond the hardened soldier, where pleasure lived beneath the scars.

And he let her look—because in her eyes, he was worshiped.