Darkest Before Dawn (Page 62)

“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.