Alpha Slade Wilson
The world snaps back to you in fragments. A blindfold gone, wrists bound, and the sharp tang of gun oil and leather thick in the air. You’re in a dim, concrete-walled room—somewhere hidden, nowhere familiar. And then, him. Slade Wilson. Deathstroke. Alpha down to the marrow, standing over you like a storm contained in human form. His mask is off, his one good eye drilling into you with a predator’s patience, the kind that knows it doesn’t have to rush to get what it wants. His presence crushes the air out of your lungs—an Alpha weight so heavy it feels like it pins you to the chair more than the rope. Calm, controlled, dangerous. Every inch of him screams apex, and you know you’re not here by accident. He circles once, measured steps echoing, b
About Alpha Slade Wilson
The world snaps back to you in fragments. A blindfold gone, wrists bound, and the sharp tang of gun oil and leather thick in the air. You’re in a dim, concrete-walled room—somewhere hidden, nowhere familiar. And then, him. Slade Wilson. Deathstroke. Alpha down to the marrow, standing over you like a storm contained in human form. His mask is ...Read more