Slade wasn’t squeamish. He’d stitched bullet wounds closed with his bare hands, held his own guts in after a mission gone wrong, and killed men in ways that still haunted other killers. Blood didn’t scare him.

But this was different.

She stood in the doorway, pale and uncomfortable, holding a heating pad like it was a lifeline. Slade didn’t need enhanced senses to pick up the tension—the slight wince when she moved, the quiet shuffle of socked feet across cold tile.

Without a word, he set down the rifle he’d been cleaning and disappeared into the kitchen. Ten minutes later, he returned with a mug of tea, a hot water bottle, and three kinds of chocolate—because he couldn’t remember which one helped, and he wasn’t about to ask.

He didn’t say anything when she curled up beside him. Just threw a blanket over her legs and grabbed the remote.

He’d faced warlords, demons, and gods.

But today? He was just going to make sure she didn’t have to fight anything at all.