Cold fury danced in the pit of Sloan’s stomach. He was going to torture that bastard Toscani until he begged for death.
“Can we go home now?” Conall whispered, earning Sloan’s attention again.
“Of course, pet.” Sloan curled his arm around Conall’s back gently, supporting his weight so he didn’t have to put pressure on his broken ankle. They were on their way toward the front entrance when it happened, so quickly that Sloan didn’t have time to act. The doorway had been clear, safety and home a few steps away, and then there was another man there, a handgun in his hands and anger twisting his face. He raised the gun toward them, and Sloan went for his own, but it would have been too late by the time he reached it.
“Watch out!” George jumped in front of them, his body taking the bullet aimed at Conall’s head. He fell to the ground with a groan, and by the time the Italian in the doorway could take another shot, Sloan’s men had shot him down, multiple bullets firing into him until he was nothing more than a very dead body strewn awkwardly on the wooden floor, blood gushing from his riddled corpse.
Conall’s breath had quickened, and he muttered, “Fuck. Is he okay?”
Byrnes leaned over George and pressed a pressure bandage to the wound. George groaned, cursed, and mumbled something about stupid Italians, which made Sloan smile.
“He’s fine, pet.”
“You owe me for that, boss.” George sat up and glanced down at his shoulder where the bullet hit. The blood was invisible against his black turtleneck. “That hurts like a bitch.”
Sloan bowed his head slightly. “Thank you, George. Bring him with us. We’ll have the doctor meet us at the house.”
Byrnes nodded. “Yes, sir.”
Sloan led Conall to the car and helped him get into the back. He took the other side, and once he was securely beside his pet, he gently pulled him closer and wrapped his arms around him, looking for any sign of heightened pain or discomfort. It was torture to see his pet hurting, but the doctor would take that away soon enough. “I’m so sorry, pet. I promised you this wouldn’t happen.”
Conall buried his face into Sloan’s chest, then punched him in the stomach, but it wasn’t hard enough to hurt. “You’re a fucker.”
“I know, pet.”
“I was taken and tortured.”
Sloan’s heart ached. “I know.”
“You’re lucky you have an amazing cock, otherwise I’d go back to the brothel.”
Sloan frowned down at him, and he earned a bloody smile in return.
“I can handle some torture. I kind of expected it to happen eventually, and it’s not your fault that there’s fucking idiots in this world who think it’s wise to take you on.” He rested his cheek on Sloan’s shoulder. “You better hurt them until they scream for their mother.”
Sloan smirked. “You have my word, pet.”
“Good. I would kiss you, but I have blood in my mouth.”
Sloan leaned down to kiss him anyway. The bitter tang of Conall’s blood filled his own mouth, but Sloan didn’t care. All he cared about was the man he held securely in his arms.
When they got home, the doctor was already waiting. He muttered about Italians and knives and other things, but Sloan didn’t listen. Their doctor worked on Conall first, and Sloan didn’t leave his side as his wounds were cleaned and the deeper ones stitched. The doctor wanted Conall to go to the hospital to have his leg set, but his pet refused, so the doc had no choice but to take him to his own home, where he’d created a makeshift hospital with equipment Sloan bought him for situations like this. His nurse wife helped, as well as another doctor Sloan paid on the side. This doctor’s excuse was that med school wasn’t cheap and Sloan couldn’t argue with that.
Once they were done and his pet was stable, they returned home and Sloan helped Conall shower to wash off the rest of the blood, before he got him into comfortable clothing.
He led his pet to the bed, taking extra care to make sure Conall never put pressure on his broken ankle.
“Are you going to stay with me?” Conall whispered.
Sloan kissed him on the mouth gently. “I’m not going anywhere until you fall asleep, pet.”
“Good. Come here.” Conall held out his hand, and like a man deeply in love, Sloan complied. He slipped onto the mattress beside him and snugged against the slender body of his pet. “If you blame this on yourself, I’ll cut off your balls.”
Sloan laughed. “You need my balls, pet.”
“Maybe, but I’ll still cut one of them off.”
He ran a palm over his pet’s stomach, pausing to trail his finger over one of the many bandages the doctor had stuck on his chest. “You’ll have scars, like me.”
