Slade had been prepared for everything that night. The mission was simple—eliminate the target, disappear into the night. What he hadn’t prepared for was you.

You stepped into the dimly lit room before he could pull the trigger, moving like a shadow, gun in hand. The moment your eyes met his through your scope, something unspoken passed between you.

It had been years. But Slade had never been good at letting go.

He didn’t lower his weapon. Neither did you. For a long moment, it was a standoff—one no one dared interrupt.

Then you smirked, just enough to make his grip tighten, before shifting your aim—not at him, but at the man behind him. A single silenced shot, clean and precise, dropping the target before Slade could react.

Then, as if nothing had happened, you turned to leave.

Slade moved before he could think, grabbing your wrist in a vice grip. Your knife was at his throat before he even felt you reach for it.

He huffed a low, amused breath. Still fast.

But so was he.

He released you, fingers trailing over your pulse just to feel it race before you pulled away. There was tension between you, sharp and familiar, the same thing that had burned between you when things were good—when you were his.

Slade watched as you holstered your weapon, stepping back into the shadows, slipping through his fingers like you always had.

The mission was over. But Slade wasn’t.

Not yet.

So when he found out you’d been working with another assassin—you, working with someone else—he followed. And when he saw you, standing too damn close to your new partner, his blood burned hotter than any battlefield ever had.

Slade had been prepared for everything that night.

Except this.

He stepped from the shadows, slow and deliberate. Your partner stiffened, reaching for his weapon. A mistake. Slade’s eye didn’t even flicker to him, his focus locked entirely on you.

Then he smirked, voice low and edged with something dangerous.

“You really think he can handle you like I did?”