They didn't go to a hospital.
Sloane had seen what happened to victims of such tactics in boardrooms and bedrooms. The aphrodisiac would burn out of Avery's system in a few hours. But the humiliation? The trauma? That could last forever. Hospitals asked too many questions. Created too many reports.
He brought Avery home.
The suite was dim and quiet when they arrived. Sugar meowed anxiously, trailing behind Sloane's boots. He laid Avery on the bed with reverence, not touching him beyond what was necessary.
Avery reached out, grabbing Sloane's wrist.
"Don't go. Please."
Sloane sat beside him, tension locked in his spine. "I'm not leaving."
Avery stared at the ceiling. "Everything was a game to them."
Sloane said nothing. He soaked a cloth and gently dabbed Avery's flushed forehead. The silence was full of things unsaid—the weight of near-tragedy, the betrayal of blood, and the growing horror of how far this war had gone.
