Slade didn’t get dressed to impress—he got dressed to kill.

Tactical gear, weighted boots, the armor-plated vest molded to his body like a second skin. Every strap, every sheath, every sharp-edged detail was made for efficiency, for war.

But the way she looked at him? That wasn’t tactical.

It was Hunger. Reverent. Borderline unholy.

He caught her staring again as he buckled on his holsters, her gaze dragging over every inch like it might leave a mark. He didn’t say a word. Just glanced her way and smirked—slow, deliberate.

She bit her lip.

He adjusted the collar of his suit. “I’m going to work,” he said, voice rough.

She didn’t answer. Just followed him to the door like temptation on two legs.

Slade was good at war—but damn if she didn’t make peace look dangerous.