Slade had knelt for warlords, for generals, for coin.

But never like this.

Not with reverence.

Not with want in every breath.

The room was quiet, low-lit, heavy with the scent of her skin and something unspoken between them. She stood above him—barefoot, calm, watching him with the kind of patience that undid men like him. And he, the infamous Deathstroke, was on his knees. Not out of defeat. But out of choice.

Because there were battles worth losing.

And there was her.

And Slade had always known exactly who he’d surrender to.