Slade didn’t believe in art. Not in the way critics did. Not in galleries or brushstrokes frozen on a canvas. His world was made of action—decisions, blood, consequence.

But tonight, he was quiet. Focused.

The room was dim, lit only by low golden light and the flicker of a single candle. She sat on the edge of the bed, bare and still, her breath calm despite the tension in the air. He stood before her with the paint in his hands—thick, dark, cool to the touch.

This wasn’t about war. It wasn’t about sex.

It was ritual.

With every stroke of his finger, every sweep of color across her skin, Slade traced a story no one else would ever read. A vow written in smudges and silence. His war-painted goddess. His claim, and his surrender.

He wasn’t used to gentleness. But he could give it to her like this.

Wordless. Worshipful.

And when he finally met her eyes again, hands stained in devotion, he whispered only one thing:

“Mine.”