Slade didn’t usually involve himself in small talk. He had better things to do than humor shallow men with loud voices and cheap opinions.

But today? Today was different.

They were at a dinner—high-profile, cover-deep—and his wife had said three sentences before one of the other guests cut her off with a condescending laugh. Then came the comment. The kind that carried weight only because men like him thought they could say anything without consequences. Slade’s glass hit the table. Not hard. Just enough.

The room shifted. Forks paused mid-air. His wife didn’t flinch—she’d seen this quiet storm before. But the man? The man didn’t know he’d just stepped into the kill zone.

Slade leaned in, voice cold as the steel at his hip.

“You want to finish that sentence?”

Because he might’ve been a killer, but even killers had lines.

And disrespecting her? That was his.