The music was too loud. The lights too dim.

Slade didn’t belong here.

He stood near the edge of the stage, drink untouched in his hand, eye scanning exits, security placements, cameras tucked into ceiling corners. The dancers were background noise. The crowd was a variable.

She wasn’t.

She moved through the room like she owned it—confident, untouchable, gathering whispers and loose tongues with nothing more than a smile and a well-timed laugh. Information came easy when men thought they were impressive.

Slade watched as she leaned in close to some mid-level broker who thought he was important. Watched her hand rest on his shoulder just long enough to keep him talking.

His jaw tightened.

“Keep running your mouth,” he muttered under his breath, not to her—but to the man. “She’s ten steps ahead of you.”

A shift in the room. A signal only he would catch. The intel was secured.

She passed him on her way toward the back hallway, brushing close enough that he felt the deliberate tap of her hand against him—casual.

Possessive.

Slade didn’t react outwardly.

But his hand came down to her hip for half a second as she walked by—brief, controlled, a quiet reminder.

“Good work,” he said evenly, though there was something warmer beneath it.

The mission came first. It always did.

But as he followed her toward the exit, coat settling over her shoulders before she could ask—

He allowed himself a rare truth.

Strip club. Gun runners. Petty criminals with loud wallets.

Didn’t matter.

He wasn’t there for the show.

He was there because she was.

And Slade didn’t waste time in places he didn’t care about.

He cared about her.