Slade Wilson was a strategist, a tactician, a man who anticipated every possible outcome before it happened. But this?

This he hadn’t seen coming.

You stood across from him, arms crossed, jaw set. You weren’t afraid—not of him, not of his reaction. That was part of what had always drawn him to you. You never flinched.

“I’m pregnant.”

Two words. That was all it took to shake the unshakable.

His grip on the whiskey glass tightened, then relaxed. His expression didn’t change—no flicker of shock, no sharp intake of breath—but you knew him well enough to catch the pause. That fraction of a second where something shifted.

Slade wasn’t a man prone to dramatics, nor was he one to panic. He had faced wars, assassins, betrayals, and worse. But this was different.

This was personal.

And personal made things messy.

You didn’t look away. Didn’t move. You were waiting for something—acceptance, rejection, anything beyond that impassive stare.

His fingers drummed once against the glass before he finally spoke, voice low, measured.

“So.” A slow exhale. “That makes things… complicated.”

Your eyes narrowed.

He almost smirked.

Slade Wilson had never been a good man. He knew that. He’d never pretended to be. But for all his ruthlessness, all his sins, there were a few things he had never turned his back on.

And family? That was one of them.

He set the glass down, stepping toward you, his gaze locked onto yours.

“I take care of what’s mine.” His voice was firm, unwavering. “And make no mistake—you are mine.”

A claim. A promise. A warning.

Slade Wilson didn’t fear the unknown.

And now? The world had just given him one more reason to keep fighting.