Darkest Before Dawn

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.

But now they understood that he didn’t like it any more than they did. He hated it even more because somewhere along the way, this mission—Honor—had become deeply personal. Much more so than it had been with Elizabeth, Grace and Maren. And yet he’d spared those women and he wouldn’t allow Honor the same salvation.

He was a bastard who didn’t deserve to die with honor or dignity. He deserved to be hunted down like the animal he was and to die a long, painful death with every sin he’d ever committed rolling through his soul like a never-ending litany.

He slid his hand up to Honor’s shoulder, hating the revolting shudder that rolled through her body the moment he made contact. Her skin was so cold and she trembled with . . . fear. She, who’d never been afraid of him. Hell, she feared nothing, though she’d dispute it and say she was a coward. He’d put that fear in her eyes, and he hated himself more with every passing second.

He turned her, his grip firm and unyielding. She resisted and he didn’t relent, but he swore in a silent vicious storm when he saw pain momentarily rob her of breath, but also of her strength. She sagged, falling onto her back with more force than he intended.

“Damn it, Honor,” he hissed. “Hate me. Despise me. Whatever makes you feel better. But do not cause yourself unnecessary pain by defying me. I will do whatever it takes to force your compliance. In all matters and especially when it comes to you refusing to lessen your pain.”

“Lessen my pain?” she asked hoarsely. “Are you even human? You hurt me, Hancock. You. Not the damn bombing. Not the bullet I took for a man I believed was risking his life to save mine, not to ensure that I was hastening toward my death. You hurt me and there isn’t a damn medication or treatment on earth that will ever help that kind of pain.”

She lay on her back, her chest rising and falling in quick succession, and around her flat lips were lines of strain. She was hurting like hell.

He motioned to Conrad, and Honor shoved herself upward in the bed, balancing on her elbows, tears he knew she didn’t realize were there streaming down her cheeks at the pain her sudden movement had caused.

“No sedative,” she yelled, choking off before her voice rose into hysteria.

She turned those accusing eyes on Hancock. “You owe me something and I want answers. That’s why you wanted him to knock me out. It’s why I’ve stayed locked up in this room all this time, because you didn’t want me to find out the truth. Why? Why does it matter? And when I did find out, you didn’t want to have to answer my questions. It’s why you’ve told your minion over there to sedate me. Because you’re too much of a heartless bastard to give me the one thing I’m owed. I saved your man’s life. My repayment is the truth.”

Hancock’s jaw twitched, because despite Honor’s rage, her outward show of strength, he saw something else just as realization hit him as to why she was so determined to be aware when Conrad repaired her torn sutures.