Darkest Before Dawn (Page 49)

Hancock’s head immediately came up, his eyes sharp. There had been no knock on the door, but he knew immediately when it opened, even as soundlessly as it had been done.

Conrad didn’t say anything. He never even looked Honor’s way. In fact, it appeared he made a very concerted effort not to let her into his line of sight, his face cold and unreadable, his eyes black, those of the killer they all were as he simply held out the syringe Hancock had requested.

Hancock took it from his man’s hand and Conrad simply turned and walked out, his gaze never once moving in Honor’s direction.

Hancock curled his fingers around the syringe, hating himself a little more with every breath. He’d never liked himself, but he would have never thought he hated himself until . . . now. He knew his job was brutal. That to others he was a heartless monster. Machine, not human. He had never hated himself because he knew that what he did was necessary. And righteous.

But now?

Self-loathing permeated every heartbeat. Because there was nothing righteous about sending an innocent woman to hell, no matter how many lives it saved in the process.

CHAPTER 15

HANCOCK only lightly dozed, not allowing himself to fall fully into sleep. Somehow, Honor had once more sought out his body and was curled into him like a kitten. His shirt was tightly fisted in her hands even in sleep, as if she were holding on to the only solid thing in her life.

Even her legs were entwined with his, and she rested on her uninjured side and her head was nestled not on the pillow he’d settled her on, but on his shoulder. He could feel the light puffs of her breath blow warmly over his neck, and he marveled at how something so innocent and benign could feel so . . . good.

Just holding her felt good. Right. As if she belonged there. Under his protection.

He slammed the door on that thought so swiftly that he nearly flinched. He wasn’t her protector. But the fleeting thought had given him savage, albeit brief, satisfaction. He couldn’t remember feeling something so good. He didn’t have a lot of experience with good. Bad he could handle. Could process and compartmentalize it. Good? Not so much. That brief flash had been nearly intoxicating as for a moment he’d contemplated being the good guy. The knight in shining armor Honor seemed to consider him. And that was dangerous. No, not dangerous. Deadly. Because he could easily become addicted to an emotion denied to him until those few seconds ago.

He didn’t have many more hours to endure and remain focused until . . .

He closed his eyes, shocked by the pain that splintered through his heart at what was to come. Something that felt suspiciously like . . . sorrow . . . filtered sluggishly through his veins, creeping into his heart, filling it with an unfamiliar pain.

He was blessedly distracted from the direction of his thoughts, and the danger they posed, when Honor stirred restlessly against him. He could feel her every movement, knew that she was gradually climbing through the fog of the sedative, feeling her way to awareness.

Not yet. Not now, damn it. He reached blindly behind him to where the prepared syringe lay behind his back. He’d put it within easy reach so he could hold her as he was holding her now but inject her if she woke before he wanted her to.

But mostly because he was a coward and he wanted to delay the moment when she no longer looked at him like he was some kind of goddamn hero and instead looked at him with all the despair of betrayal. He didn’t have to see the accusing look in her eyes. His imagination conjured the image well enough on its own and it was enough to make him . . . hurt.

“Hancock?” she whispered against his neck.

He froze in the process of uncapping the syringe one-handed, but then carefully, so as not to startle or frighten her, he slid his arm back over his body and placed his palm on her hip, the syringe extended between his fingertips so she only felt the warmth of his palm. Even with her senses dulled by medication and having lived every hour of the last many days in constant fear of discovery, she’d known immediately whom she was with. No panic. No fear that she’d been captured by the people hunting her. She was completely relaxed and confident she was safe.

“Am I dreaming?” she said in a sleepy, confused tone.

It was a compulsion, nothing more. He couldn’t have controlled it if his life depended on it. He brushed his lips over her forehead, right at her hairline.

“Yes, honey. It’s just a dream. Stay asleep and keep dreaming of the good.”

Her brow wrinkled as if she were sorting out his statement and pondering the truth of it. But then she shocked the ever-loving hell out of him, and he wasn’t a man who was shocked by anything.

“Then if this is a dream, will you kiss me?” she asked softly. “If it’s a dream, it’s not real, so it won’t hurt anything. And you’ll never know you kissed me because this is my dream, not yours.”

The thought rushed through his mind before he was even aware that it was there. No. Not just your dream. Mine as well. Fuck it all but this one mission with FUBAR written all over it.

He held his breath, unable to do anything more than lie there rigidly, her body molded to his like a glove. A perfect fit. What the hell was he supposed to do?

Another completely alien emotion gripped him by the throat.

Panic.

If he kissed her, it made his betrayal even worse. If he didn’t kiss her, he’d deny her the comfort she so obviously wanted—needed. And he’d vowed to give her nothing but good until the time came for him to hand her over to the enemy.

Goddamn it.

Fuck! He was already damned to hell. An eternity of torment and endless pain and torture. What was one more sin on top of the mountain he’d already committed? Somehow kissing a beautiful woman paled in comparison to all the blood he’d shed.