Slade didn’t ask questions about her obsessions. He didn’t need to.

The pet shop smelled like damp earth and faint citrus, but he barely noticed. His eyes were on the glass tanks, the scales glinting under fluorescent light. One flick, one precise movement, and he found the one she would want—sleek, quick, a predator in miniature, coiled with quiet menace.

He picked it up carefully, hands steady despite the tiny weight, the faint hiss against his gloves a whisper he could already control. He imagined her fingers brushing its smooth scales, the way her eyes would light, the subtle tension in her shoulders easing as she focused entirely on the creature.

Slade carried it to the counter without looking back. The world outside—contracts, missions, betrayals—didn’t exist here. Just the satisfaction of giving her exactly what she wanted, exactly the way she wanted it.

Some men bought flowers. Slade bought snakes.

And in his quiet, relentless way, he knew this one would be perfect.