Slade had seen wounds of every kind—broken bones, bullet holes, blood-soaked regrets. But nothing rattled him like the way she flinched when someone raised their voice.

She wasn’t fragile. No, far from it. She was steel bent too many times but never broken. He saw it in the way she carried herself: shoulders high, eyes watchful, always calculating escape routes even in places meant to be safe.

He didn’t ask her to trust him. He earned it. Slowly. Quietly. With space when she needed it, and walls when she needed to feel protected—not trapped.

Today, she stood beside him, dressed in defiance and softness, hand steady in his. And when the officiant asked if anyone objected, Slade didn’t so much as blink.

Because if anyone tried to hurt her again—they wouldn’t live long enough to regret it.

This wasn’t about saving her.

It was about standing beside someone who had already saved herself.