Darkest Before Dawn (Page 59)

“You won’t make me believe he’s what you say he is,” she said in a frigid tone.

His hand wound even tighter in her hair and he yanked back, exposing her vulnerable neck much as a vampire would with its prey. God, she really was to the point of hysteria if she was calmly contemplating how like the fictitious monster this abomination was.

“I won’t have to,” he said with smug satisfaction. “He works for me. I paid him to bring you to me. You are a bargaining tool who serves a higher purpose. You’ll get me what I want and then you’ll get Maksimov what he wants. And then A New Era will get what they want.”

He studied her a brief moment, purposely drawing out her terror.

“You,” he finished triumphantly. “The very thing you thought you escaped will be your ultimate destiny. All you’ve done has been for nothing. But your escaping them greatly benefits me. Greatly,” he murmured, dropping his voice as he raked his gaze over her shaking body.

“Come in, Hancock,” the man called, evidently having heard something Honor hadn’t. “I should have known you’d be back to look in on your little pet.”

Bile rose in her throat. No. This wasn’t happening. He was messing with her head. She closed her eyes, refusing to be drawn into his sick game.

Her head was yanked brutally back until she feared her neck would snap.

“Open your eyes,” the man said, his voice snapping over her with the force of a whip.

Not because she wanted to, but because she had to, did she obey. She had to know what was truth and what were lies. When her vision cleared, she saw Hancock standing silently at the foot of the bed, his eyes intent and watchful, but it was the air of disinterest and the blankness in his gaze that terrified her.

“No,” she whispered. “No!”

This time she screamed it, and then she kept screaming even when she reeled from the fist connecting with her jaw to silence her.

“You know Maksimov will not be pleased,” Hancock said in a cool, unruffled voice. “You’re a fool, Bristow. She was healing nicely. Now you’ve bruised the one part of her that wasn’t already damaged. Her face. You know Maksimov likes a pretty face. He won’t be happy that the merchandise incurred further damage at your hands.”

Merchandise? She stared at Hancock in horror, knowing she couldn’t control the shock of his betrayal from her eyes, and he didn’t so much as flinch. There was no guilt, just steady resolve radiating from him in waves.

Oh God. No.

Honor rolled, the man suddenly allowing her to do so as if he saw exactly what was about to happen.

She barely was able to get her head over the side of the bed in time to vomit all over the floor. She registered the distant sound of a scuffle, angry words being exchanged, but her head was splintering apart with pain as she continued to heave when there was nothing more to expel from her stomach. And the pain from the stress on her injured side, the stitches no doubt torn, robbed her of breath. Her hair hung down in disarray as her head went limp. She simply no longer had the strength to hold it up.

Blood mixed with her tears dripped onto the floor, a macabre sight along with the contents of her stomach. Mostly bile. She felt sick to her very soul.

And then surprisingly gentle hands slid over her shoulders, one palming the back of her head, the other lifting the part of her that hung lifelessly over the edge of the bed. She shuddered, going into a frenzied attack. She knew those hands. Knew that touch. What was once her greatest source of comfort was now vile. Evil. She’d never felt so devastated in her life.

“Damn it, Honor, stop fighting me. You’ll only hurt yourself more.”

She reared her head back, hating that her vision swam with tears. She barely registered that the man Hancock had called Bristow was now gone, and in his place were all of Hancock’s men. The whole traitorous lot of them.

“There is no way for me to hurt more,” she said dully.

Someone, more than one man, swore, in more than one language, but her gaze never left Hancock’s. He regarded her somberly, no hint of guilt. No regret for so callously betraying her trust. She’d been foolish to give it. That was on her. But then she’d had no real choice. No real chance. She’d fooled herself into thinking that she had one. She’d been doomed from the moment the clinic had fallen down around her and on her, the screams of her coworkers still echoing in her ears, the stench of blood ever present in her nostrils.

Shock and a keen sense of betrayal paralyzed her. She’d trusted him. Not at first, but she’d grown to trust him over the past days as he’d fought to get her out of the country and out of the hands of A New Era.

Someone, she never lifted her gaze to acknowledge whoever it was, gently pressed a cup containing cold water into her hand and then provided her a basin, holding it a few inches below her mouth.

“Rinse your mouth and spit in the bowl,” came the gruff order, the roar in her head, her ears, her heart too overwhelmed to register whose voice it was.

She did as instructed mechanically, like a thing programmed. A machine with no feelings, no thought processes or choice. And when she finished spitting the foul taste from her mouth, she gulped down several sips of the chilled liquid to soothe her raw throat, made so when she’d screamed her denial of Hancock’s betrayal.

Her gaze settled back on Hancock accusingly, certain that her pain and confusion shone brightly in her eyes. He regarded her quietly, dispassionately. But then, of course, he wouldn’t have the grace to look ashamed. He wasn’t her white knight, her savior. He was the instrument of her demise.