Slade believed in control.

Not just on the battlefield, but in every breath, every movement, every room he walked into. Control was what kept him alive—what turned chaos into precision, instinct into power.

But here?

Here, control wasn’t something he enforced.

It was something he gave.

Leather bit into his palms. The quiet click of a buckle echoed louder than gunfire. Her presence behind him was steady, patient, devastating. She didn’t need to raise her voice. Didn’t need to prove anything. Slade had already chosen to submit—to let the sharp edge of trust carve something deeper than pain.

He’d killed for less.

He’d bled for more.

But for her?

He let go.