Despite rumors to the contrary, Slade didn't love killing. He enjoyed a good hunt, could admire a perfect kill shot, but he didn't get some kind of visceral pleasure from the actual death. He was damn good at killing, but even on safari, he respected his prey and honored their deaths.
The end of a hunt was a reason to celebrate with fine wine, a cigar, comfort--and usually a substantial paycheck--but he'd never felt the kind of thrill he saw in the eyes of his young protege after his first solo kill.
While sex was an excellent way to release the tensions of a hunt, he'd never felt lust while killing.
Seeing it in the young Robin's eyes, disturbed him.
But, then, the kid disturbed him a lot. So different from the first to bear the name, not sociopathic like the second, Drake was too damn intelligent. Too damn freaky. Restrained for years by the Bat's rules and morals, he was a powder keg.
That he'd explode all over Slade shocked him because he never expected it. Grayson had wanted him. Drake just wanted to end the world for screwing him a hundred times. Slade had never expected the kid to want to screw him. He didn't really think the kid felt any positive emotions at all.
Those pretty red lips closing tightly around his cock and those bright blue eyes gleaming with a disturbing mixture of lust and insanity said otherwise.
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