People feared Deathstroke for good reason.

He was one of the deadliest mercenaries on the planet.

A strategist.

A soldier.

A man capable of turning impossible situations into victories through sheer experience and stubbornness.

Entire organizations treated him like a worst-case scenario.

Assassins avoided him.

Heroes dreaded him.

Criminals respected him.

And yet—

None of those people had ever met his pregnant wife.

Slade had.

Unfortunately.

The first warning sign had been the pickles.

Not craving them.

Weaponizing them.

One moment they were sitting in the kitchen.

The next, a jar had been launched across the room because the brand was apparently wrong.

Slade had survived gunfire with less concern.

Then came the nesting phase.

Entire rooms were reorganized overnight.

Furniture disappeared.

Furniture reappeared.

A bookshelf had somehow migrated three floors without assistance.

Slade still didn’t know how.

And frankly, he wasn’t asking.

Experience had taught him that some questions were dangerous.

The pregnancy only became more chaotic from there.

Contractors refused to return his calls.

Delivery drivers visibly panicked when approaching the house.

One unfortunate mercenary had interrupted her afternoon nap and spent the next week apologizing for existing.

Slade himself had learned several valuable lessons.

Do not touch the blanket pile.

Do not question the blanket pile.

And under absolutely no circumstances suggest that perhaps seventeen pillows might be excessive.

That last mistake had nearly ended him.

Now he sat in the living room reviewing mission reports while his wife occupied nearly the entire couch.

Around her sat enough blankets, pillows, snacks, and random household items to establish an independent nation.

Slade looked up from his paperwork.

Then at the fortress she had built around herself.

Then back at the paperwork.

Slowly, carefully, making sure every survival instinct remained engaged, he spoke.

“Do you require anything?”

The question had become routine.

Necessary, even.

Because while the rest of the world worried about Deathstroke—

Deathstroke worried about whatever mood his pregnant wife woke up with that morning.

And honestly?

One of those things was significantly more terrifying.