Slade had been called many things—liar, killer, monster—but never “sweet talker.”

Words weren’t his weapon of choice. Not when a blade did the job cleaner. But when he spoke, people listened. Not because of charm—because his voice held weight, danger… and lately, something else.

She said his tongue had two edges: one for cutting down enemies, the other for carving need into her spine.

He didn’t deny it.

Because when he curled it against her skin, when he whispered filthy promises in a voice dipped in gravel and gunpowder, she unraveled—fast, and without apology.

He wasn’t built for softness.

But he knew how to use his mouth.

And tonight? He was going to prove it.