Darkest Before Dawn

She opened her mouth to let loose her rage and denial, but Hancock simply squeezed her hand, their fingers threaded together, and she didn’t remember them getting that way. But when she tried to tug her hand free, his grip only tightened even as his thumb smoothed over the sensitive skin on her wrist.

“Bristow is setting up a meeting with Maksimov and plans to give you to the Russian, who will then dangle you in front of ANE’s nose like the proverbial carrot in front of the donkey’s nose. ANE has lost a lot of face and they will do anything to have you back in their possession so that one slip of a woman does not forever taint their honor and pride by permanently escaping them. Once Maksimov has you, he will then make an exchange with ANE, one that will cost them way more than what they owe Maksimov. But their pride is greater than their common sense, and Maksimov knows this. He will take advantage of it. He’ll get what he wants, and ANE will get what they want.”

“Me,” she whispered.

And then she crumbled, yanking her hand from Hancock’s grip as both her hands flew to her face in an effort to stifle the sob that somehow made its way out anyway.

“Oh God, why didn’t I die that day? Why was I the only one to survive? I believed at first that I had a purpose. That my living stood for something. That I would make it home if for no other reason than so the world would know what these animals had done. That my escaping would be the ultimate act of defiance and refusal to allow them absolute rule and control over such a vast region. But it was all for nothing. All that running, the pain, the fear, all those nights of not being able to sleep for the nightmares and fear of discovery at every turn. I never had a chance, did I?” she asked, her voice small and achingly vulnerable.

Hancock’s voice was rough. It sounded mean and pissed off. And all he said was one word and yet it conveyed a wealth of emotion.

“No.”

She dug her palms into her eyes and rocked back and forth, her distress so great that she wasn’t even aware of what she did or how very fragile she appeared.

“The medication has had time to take effect,” Hancock said in the same even tone, betraying no hint of anything, as if he hadn’t just sounded enraged seconds before.

It took a moment for her to realize who he was even addressing until she saw Conrad step from the shadows on the other side of her bed. She’d forgotten his presence. Had assumed he’d left when Hancock had commanded the others to do the same. But he was going to reset the torn stitches. And she’d bared herself painfully, not to only Hancock, but now also to Conrad. A man whose life she’d saved.

She went silent, not saying a single word, not issuing a single sound as Conrad quickly pulled the pieces of broken sutures from her skin and then reset them, making inarticulate sounds deep in his throat. Almost like the growl of an angry predator.

She retreated inside herself, already preparing her barriers, seeing how strong they could be and how adept she was at becoming someone, something, altogether different.

It took a long moment, the room cloaked in silence, for her to realize Conrad had retreated and only Hancock remained.

“You can go now,” she said, no life in her voice.

“Honor, listen to me,” Hancock said, an urgency she’d never before detected in his voice brushing over her like an electric shock.

She stared mutinously ahead, her gaze fixed on a distant object as she continued to retreat more and more into the silent void she’d built around her.

“Damn it, Honor. For once just listen to me. I know you hate me. Despise me. You have every right. But I need you to listen to me. Your sacrifice will not be in vain,” he said fiercely. “Your bravery will not go untold. Your courage will not be forgotten. You will not ever be forgotten. I swear that to you on my life.”

“What does it matter?” she asked dully. “I will die a coward, begging for death, wishing with all my heart and soul to die. How is that bravery or courage? I never want my parents to know the truth of my death. It’s kinder to tell them I died in the bombing. Can you promise me that at least, Hancock? Can you do them this one small kindness since I know you won’t do it for me?”

“No,” he said in a pissed-off voice. “No, I will never let them believe you simply died. I will tell them the truth. That your life and death meant something. That your death saved hundreds of thousands of other people. So they never think your death was senseless and random. They deserve that truth.”

“So it doesn’t matter what I want, but then that should be obvious to me by now,” she said, self-loathing filling her for even considering for a moment that it would.

She turned up her face to him and saw him recoil from whatever terrible look was in her eyes. Or perhaps it was the lack of what he saw in her eyes. Life. Meaning. That she no longer cared and had given up. Finally defeated.

“Why did you kiss me?” she whispered fiercely, hating herself all the more for this display of utter weakness. “Why bother making me care? Making me think you cared at least on the level of one human caring about another? Do you despise me so much then? I can’t conceive of the kind of hatred that drives you.”

She shivered and ran her hands up and down both arms, folding inward, becoming smaller and more inconsequential with every passing minute. Preparing herself, her defenses, strengthening them for the terrible future that awaited her.

“I care,” he denied harshly. “I care too goddamn much, and that’s why I’m so fucking pissed off, Honor. Because I’m not supposed to care. I’m not supposed to be human. I’m a killer. A mercenary. Call me what you will, but it’s all true. Every possible terrible thing you can conjure. It’s true. But you can never say I don’t care, goddamn it. Because I care too much.”