Nobody had warned Slade that premature babies could have attitudes.

The nurses, for example.

They had all described his daughter as sweet.

Tiny.

Strong.

A fighter.

What they had failed to mention—

was that she was also apparently very demanding.

The baby was currently in the NICU, impossibly small inside her incubator, wearing a hat that looked too big for her head.

And somehow—

she already had preferences.

She liked being held a certain way.

Disliked certain blankets.

And absolutely hated when anyone took too long preparing her bottle.

The entire nursing staff seemed both amused and completely under her control.

Slade stood beside the incubator, arms crossed.

His wife sat nearby, exhausted but smiling softly.

The baby made a small, indignant noise.

Immediately, a nurse appeared.

“There she goes.”

Slade blinked.

“What?”

“She wants attention.”

“Already?”

The nurse smiled.

“Oh, yes.”

As if on cue, the tiny infant made another demanding sound.

Everyone moved.

Except Slade.

He stared.

Because this child weighed less than a bag of flour.

How was she running the room?

Another tiny noise.

The nurse laughed.

“She knows exactly what she wants.”

“She’s three weeks old.”

“And somehow she’s still the boss.”

Silence.

Slade looked back at the incubator.

The baby stretched one tiny hand.

Then made another noise.

The mercenary sighed.

A deep, long-suffering sigh.

Then he stepped forward.

Immediately—

she settled.

The nurse looked delighted.

“There we go.”

Slade looked offended.

“You’re telling me she specifically wanted me?”

“Looks that way.”

Another pause.

Then the smallest hand wrapped around one of his fingers.

And just like that—

the world’s deadliest mercenary was defeated by someone who couldn’t even hold up her own head.

His wife looked entirely too pleased about it.

The nurse was trying not to laugh.

And Slade—

Slade was already completely wrapped around his daughter’s impossibly tiny finger.