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.