Slade knew better than to be surprised by violence.

He had built his entire life around it. Worked in it. Survived it. Profited from it.

Violence, he understood.

What he didn’t understand—what he should have understood—was her.

Leaving had been the logical decision. Cleaner. Simpler. No complications, no emotional leverage, no one close enough to become a liability.

So he left.

Found someone else. Something easier. Someone who didn’t look at him like she knew exactly what he was and liked him anyway.

That had been his first mistake.

His second was thinking the past stayed in the past.

Slade stood in the middle of the safe house now, jacket still on, gloves still stained with someone else’s blood, his eye fixed on the woman sitting across the room like this was just another night.

Like nothing had happened.

Like she hadn’t hunted down the woman he’d been seeing and erased her from the equation with the same efficiency he used on contracts.

A long silence stretched between them before Slade finally exhaled slowly through his nose.

“…You always did have a jealousy problem,” he said evenly.

No anger.

No shock.

Just a tired sort of acceptance.

His gaze moved over her, measuring, calculating, the way he did with every threat.

Every risk.

Every decision.

Then he reached up and set his weapons down on the table by the door—slow, deliberate, a choice being made in real time.

“Next time,” he continued, voice calm and rough around the edges, “just tell me you want me back.”

A pause.

The corner of his mouth pulled slightly, but there was no humor in it.

“Would’ve saved us both a body.”