Slade believed in control.

It kept him alive. Sharp, lethal, efficient. Control was the edge of his blade, the stillness in his breath before a kill. But behind closed doors, with her? Control meant something else entirely.

The cuffs were her idea—steel, cold, deliberate. So was the blindfold. But the trust? That was all his.

He knelt on the floor of the dim room, muscle coiled and still, listening for her footsteps. Waiting. Not as a soldier. Not as Deathstroke.

As hers.

Because surrender, in the right hands, was its own kind of power.

And tonight, she owned every inch of it.