The mission was done—clean kill, no loose ends, no witnesses. Slade moved through the evac like a man on fire, not because of blood on his hands, but because of the pull in his chest that hadn’t stopped since he crossed the border.

She was waiting.

His mate.

And it didn’t matter how many weeks had passed or how many miles of war sat between them—he felt her. Every day. Every night. That steady ache just below his ribcage, like instinct humming low, whispering: Go home.

The walk home was silent except for the wind going through the trees. His hands were still bloodstained, knuckles raw from the last fight, but none of it mattered now. The only thing he could see was the image burned into his mind—her curled up in their bed, one of his shirts hanging loose on her skin, her scent soaked into their sheets like a drug he couldn’t quit.

She never called. Never begged. Didn’t have to.

The bond did the talking.

And Slade always listened when it came to her.

He was a soldier. A killer. An Alpha forged in war.

But with her, he was just a man coming home.