Slade didn’t waste breath on sweet talk.

His voice was meant for orders, threats, and the occasional guttural promise before the kill. But when it was just the two of them—no contracts, no bloodshed, no armor between them—he spoke differently.

Low. Rough. Intentional.

Each word rolled off his tongue like it had weight, designed to settle deep in her spine. He didn’t need to shout to get inside her head. Just a whisper, a rasp, something sinful murmured against her neck while his hands reminded her exactly who he was.

Not Deathstroke. Not a killer.

Just hers.

And with every word, she unraveled.