Slade corrected a lot of things in training.

Grip. Stance. Breathing.

This wasn’t one of those lessons.

“Don’t look away,” he said calmly, fingers lifting her chin just enough to keep her focus where he wanted it. Not rough. Not gentle. Precise.

She tensed on instinct. Most people did. Eye contact felt like exposure—like giving something up. Slade watched it happen, cataloged it.

“That impulse right there?” he continued. “That’s fear trying to buy you time.”

He stepped closer, deliberately invading her space, gaze unwavering. “Predators don’t break eye contact. Neither do people who know they belong in the room.”

He circled slowly, testing, then stopped directly in front of her again. “If you look away,” he said, voice low, even, “you tell them they got to you.”

A beat. Longer than comfortable.

“Good,” Slade murmured as she held his gaze. “Feel how uncomfortable it is. Let it settle. Then own it.”

He nodded once, approval clear. “Eye contact isn’t aggression,” he said. “It’s control.”

For a man who made others look away for a living, this wasn’t intimidation.

It was inheritance.

And when she finally stopped flinching, Slade knew the lesson had landed.