Darkest Before Dawn (KGI series) (26 page)

God, she needed him to be the asshole she’d thought him to be from the start. The opinion once formed that should have never wavered. She always relied on her gut when it came to people, so what did it say about her that she’d been so terribly wrong about him?

She met his eyes coldly, feeling layers upon layers of ice forming on her heart, her mind, her soul, encapsulating her in a freezing, bone-deep chill.

“So that I have enough time to carve a hole in my brain so I can crawl into it and die.”

He instantly recoiled with a flinch. She heard a blistering curse from across the room and then someone stomped away, slamming the door so hard it finished the job of knocking the painting from the wall that Hancock had already set teetering the time he’d left after she’d asked him to kiss her.

What a stupid, hopeless, naïve fool she’d been.

“What an honorable soldier you are,” she said in a mocking voice.

But her pain betrayed her. Like so much else had of late. She tried to sound bitter, angry, furious even. But she could barely choke the words out because she was still screaming on the inside, her pain so great that she could feel herself shattering into a million pieces.

“Whoring yourself out to get the job done. What exactly is the going rate for stud services these days?”

Anger glittered hotly in Hancock’s eyes, but she was too far gone to care. Already she was retreating within herself.

His silence damned him. She knew he’d done just those things for previous missions. No, his jobs.
Missions
somehow invoked something with meaning. Value. Honor. Loyalty. Good. She was a job, just as other women had likely been jobs as well.

“Get out,” she said, holding desperately to the last of her crumbling composure. “All of you. Get out!”

And as she lay there, broken, weeping silently for all she’d lost, she realized that the very thing she’d vowed Bristow wouldn’t take from her—Hancock, her talisman and protector—had never been hers to begin with.

She had nothing further for anyone to take from her.

She had nothing,
was
nothing at all. Just a tool. A bargaining chip. A plaything for ruthless, evil men. And for just a little while, she’d slept with the enemy, figuratively speaking.

She’d made the mistake of trusting when she knew better. But at least she wouldn’t have to live long with such heartbreaking regret. Her time was very short indeed. She closed her eyes, anguished by what was to come: the suffering and agony that would be inflicted upon her before she finally escaped into death’s protection. She regretted that her death couldn’t come sooner.

CHAPTER 20

RAGE ate at Hancock, though he was careful to keep his emotions in check—an art he’d perfected until it came as second nature to him as breathing. But he’d never felt this close to losing his tightly leashed control.

He held out his hand in the direction of his team, and one of them scrambled to hand over a med kit.

“Get Conrad back in here,” Hancock snapped. “I need him to take a look at her stitches.”

Cope, Viper and Henderson immediately exchanged grim, silent glances. At Hancock’s barked order, Honor went utterly still and then rolled away so she faced the wall and curled in on herself, forming a protective barrier.

With grim resignation, he slid onto the bed next to Honor, one knee bent, so he was sitting facing the headboard and so he could take in the mass of honey-colored hair—she’d managed to get the original color back with repeated washings—and move the strands covering her face. And the evidence of her tears.

He pushed the strands away, ignoring her recoil and the fact that she was pulling herself further and further away from him, not only physically but mentally. His temper, raw and savage, spiked as he took in her torn lips, the thin trickle of blood that still seeped not only from her mouth but from
her nose as well. A wicked-looking bruise was already forming where that bastard had touched her. Hurt her. Put his fucking hands on what didn’t belong to him.

Hancock had known he was living on borrowed time. It was only a matter of when—not if—she discovered his intentions and that they were not those of the man she thought she saw when she’d looked at him before.

But now, the knowledge and understanding were there, staring back at him with dark accusation but worst of all, hurt and devastation that was beyond repair. He’d done that to her. And she’d been right when she’d said that what he had done—was doing—
was
far worse than what A New Era had planned.

The men hunting her hadn’t lulled her into a sense of false security. They hadn’t given her hope. Or tenderness or caring, all the while intending to sacrifice her. Trade her life for thousands of others.

Hancock had done all those things, and he’d known she would hate him. What he hadn’t known was how much he would hate himself, nor had he known that her deep anguish would twist his gut into knots he had no hope of ever unraveling.

He rolled her over, mindful of not hurting her more than necessary, but he had to be commanding and firm. The very asshole she was now convinced he was. And he didn’t deny he was just that.

“You’re bleeding,” he said grimly.

She shuddered beneath his seeking fingers, and he saw what the movement cost her.

“Where the hell is Conrad?” he bellowed.

He didn’t want her in any more pain than necessary. Her mental anguish he could do nothing about, but he could at least alleviate her physical discomfort. He’d never regain her trust again. Not that he deserved it. But this, too, was unexpected. The pain he felt over the loss of something so precious.

Conrad entered, his fury a living, breathing thing. He wouldn’t even meet Honor’s eyes, not that they were available for him to meet, but he didn’t know that because he
didn’t spare so much as a glance in Honor’s direction. He only looked at Hancock, simmering with barely controlled impatience, awaiting his team leader’s instruction.

“Give her something for pain. And to calm her,” Hancock added quietly. “She’s torn some of the sutures. I’m sure of it. Make sure and give her another injection of antibiotics.”

“No.”

It was said so softly that everyone froze, uncertain of whether it actually had come from her.

She turned her head over her trembling shoulder, her eyes downcast so they wouldn’t see the grief and sorrow swamping them, making them giant pools that swallowed Hancock whole. But he saw. Only he was close enough to see what she tried so valiantly to keep from his team.

“No to everything,” she said in a firmer tone, one that held an edge of the fury swirling in her eyes. “And definitely nothing that sedates me. I’ve had enough of having someone else’s will being imposed on me. I get it. I’m going to die. But goddamn it, I’m not dying without a chance to fight. I won’t go down without a fight.”

Hancock sighed, unable to keep his respect for her and her indomitable spirit in check. And then he once more became the asshole he was and the asshole she thought him to be.

“I don’t care much what you want, Honor. And you aren’t going anywhere. Yet,” he amended, remembering his vow that he wouldn’t lie to her. Not that it would bring her any comfort or solace. But he would not lie to her. “I’ll hold you down if need be, but Conrad will tend to your injuries and you’ll endure it as pain free as we can possibly make it. And then you will sleep and heal.”

“In a hurry to get your captive all better and
good
enough for the next monster you pawn me off on?” she asked, tears thick in her voice.

Goddamn it. She was killing him. Inch by slow inch. Eating a hole in his gut, his heart. Whatever was left of his damned soul.

He didn’t answer her question. How could he when that was precisely what he intended to do? But his not wanting
to see her hurt had nothing to do with Maksimov. The Russian wouldn’t care what condition she was received in because he’d most certainly inflict his own brand of damage before tossing her like leftovers to ANE.

But he wanted Bristow to believe that Maksimov would be deadly pissed if Honor was damaged. It bought her more . . . time. Which was cruel. He admitted that. But goddamn it, he wasn’t ready to let her go to her doom so quickly. He needed that additional time. Even if she didn’t want it.

If Bristow believing Maksimov would kill him if Honor bore the visible signs of Bristow’s attack kept her safe, then so be it. And yet it hadn’t deterred the son of a bitch from jumping at the first opportunity to demonstrate his control over Honor and her fate. Or taking great satisfaction from scaring the living hell out of her. He fed off the fear of others. It was a heady aphrodisiac that fed Bristow’s sadistic fantasies. Only he made them reality.

The only reason Hancock hadn’t taken Bristow apart with his bare hands—what he’d vowed to his men he would do if he had harmed Honor—was that he’d seen one of Bristow’s men making a discreet call when he’d seen the flurry of activity around Honor’s room, and then he’d known.

He knew Maksimov would have a mole inside Bristow’s organization. Maksimov had eyes and ears everywhere. Hancock would have expected no less. But he hadn’t identified the mole. Until now. And his hearing, tuned to hear what most others weren’t able to hear, made him realize he couldn’t kill Bristow. Not yet.

Because Maksimov had only just realized that Honor was in Bristow’s possession. Bristow hadn’t contacted the Russian yet to arrange the transfer. Why, Hancock didn’t know, but he had a good idea.

Bristow wanted Honor first. Before he gave her up so readily. He might want money, power and elevated status with Maksimov, but he was a twisted son of a bitch, and every one of Hancock’s instincts told him that Bristow planned to live out every one of those sick fantasies with Honor before making the exchange.

And so Hancock had been forced to come in at Bristow’s
request. Make it appear he was exactly what he was. A cold-blooded hired killer, without any feelings, remorse or guilt, and convince Honor that he was exactly as Bristow had described him.

He’d felt every flinch, could hear the screams of denial deep inside her when he’d called her
merchandise
.

Because he couldn’t kill Bristow no matter that the urge had been overwhelming the moment he saw the damage he’d done to Honor. That not only had he destroyed her but he’d hurt her. Had purposely imposed his dominance in an attempt to break her, not realizing that she was already broken and that it had been Hancock who’d done it. Not Bristow.

Only after Bristow staged the exchange. Nailed down all the details and named a time and location. Only then could Hancock vent his terrible rage and take him apart. His death would not be slow or merciful. He fully intended to make Bristow pay for every word he’d hurled at Honor. Every blow he’d inflicted. Every tear, every rip, every drop of blood she’d shed.

Because it was the only way to vent the terrible rage swelling inside him, because he knew, just as Bristow would suffer, so too would Honor suffer horribly. And there wasn’t one goddamn thing he could do about it.

His men picked up on the terrible internal war Hancock was currently waging, and their own stances relaxed somewhat, sorrow and regret rolling into their eyes. They’d hated him. For the first time, they’d hated the order he’d given them. They’d even considered rebellion. He couldn’t blame them. He couldn’t blame their hatred because he hated himself far more than they ever could.

But now they understood that he didn’t like it any more than they did. He hated it even more because somewhere along the way, this mission—Honor—had become deeply personal. Much more so than it had been with Elizabeth, Grace and Maren. And yet he’d spared those women and he wouldn’t allow Honor the same salvation.

He was a bastard who didn’t deserve to die with honor or dignity. He deserved to be hunted down like the animal he was and to die a long, painful death with every sin he’d ever committed rolling through his soul like a never-ending litany.

He slid his hand up to Honor’s shoulder, hating the revolting shudder that rolled through her body the moment he made contact. Her skin was so cold and she trembled with . . . fear. She, who’d never been afraid of him. Hell, she feared nothing, though she’d dispute it and say she was a coward. He’d put that fear in her eyes, and he hated himself more with every passing second.

He turned her, his grip firm and unyielding. She resisted and he didn’t relent, but he swore in a silent vicious storm when he saw pain momentarily rob her of breath, but also of her strength. She sagged, falling onto her back with more force than he intended.

“Damn it, Honor,” he hissed. “Hate me. Despise me. Whatever makes you feel better. But do not cause yourself unnecessary pain by defying me. I will do whatever it takes to force your compliance. In all matters and especially when it comes to you refusing to lessen your pain.”

“Lessen my pain?” she asked hoarsely. “Are you even human?
You
hurt me, Hancock. You. Not the damn bombing. Not the bullet I took for a man I believed was risking his life to save mine,
not
to ensure that I was hastening toward my death.
You
hurt me and there isn’t a damn medication or treatment on earth that will ever help that kind of pain.”

She lay on her back, her chest rising and falling in quick succession, and around her flat lips were lines of strain. She was hurting like hell.

He motioned to Conrad, and Honor shoved herself upward in the bed, balancing on her elbows, tears he knew she didn’t realize were there streaming down her cheeks at the pain her sudden movement had caused.

“No sedative,” she yelled, choking off before her voice rose into hysteria.

She turned those accusing eyes on Hancock. “You owe me
something
and I want answers. That’s why you wanted him to knock me out. It’s why I’ve stayed locked up in this room all this time, because you didn’t want me to find out the truth. Why? Why does it matter? And when I did find out, you didn’t want to have to answer my questions. It’s why you’ve told your minion over there to sedate me. Because
you’re too much of a heartless bastard to give me the one thing I’m owed. I saved your man’s life. My repayment is the truth.”