Slade woke up the second the mattress shifted.

He didn’t open his eye.

Didn’t change his breathing.

But the instant cold steel kissed the line of his throat—

He smiled.

“…You’re getting quieter,” he said, voice rough with sleep but steady as ever.

She straddled him, knees braced at his hips, blade angled perfectly. Not pressing enough to break skin.

Just enough to make a point.

His hands stayed where they were.

Deliberate.

Testing her.

The knife didn’t waver.

“Grip’s better,” he continued calmly. “You adjusted your wrist.”

A subtle shift of weight. Controlled. Balanced.

He could disarm her in less than a second.

He didn’t.

Instead, his hand slowly slid up her thigh—not to stop her. Just to anchor.

“If you’re going to threaten me before coffee,” he murmured, finally opening his eye to meet hers, “at least commit to it.”

The blade pressed a fraction closer.

He exhaled, almost pleased.

“Good,” he said quietly. “No hesitation.”

For most men, waking up to a knife at their throat would be a nightmare.

For Slade?

It was proof she was learning.

And as his hand tightened at her waist, calm and certain beneath the steel—

He looked entirely unbothered.

“Now,” he added softly, “let’s see if you can keep it there.”