Slade didn’t play games unless he knew he could win. But tonight, he made an exception.

She stood at the edge of the pool table, cue in hand, posture uncertain but eyes burning with that familiar stubborn spark. Slade watched her chalk the tip with a concentration usually reserved for live weapons.

“Relax your grip,” he said, stepping in close behind her. His voice low, steady. Commanding.

She tensed.

He smirked.

Slade wrapped his arms around her, large hands guiding hers. “It’s all about control,” he murmured, breath warm against her ear. “Not too tight. Let it glide.”

The cue cracked against the cue ball—sloppy angle, off-center. She cursed under her breath.

Slade chuckled. “Guess I’ll have to keep showing you.”

And if his hands lingered too long or his lessons dipped into something far more intimate… Well, no one ever accused Deathstroke of playing fair.