Darkest Before Dawn

“Don’t you ever compare yourself to him,” she said fiercely. “You don’t fool me, Hancock. Don’t even try lying or attempt to make me see what you want me to see. I see you. And you are not Maksimov.”

He looked . . . bewildered, as if he had no idea how to respond to her impassioned statement. For a long moment silence reigned.

“Back to Maksimov?” she prompted.

“Killing is second nature to him. To him killing is as normal as breathing. As eating or drinking. If it gets him what he wants, he does it. He thrives on pain, torment.” He winced again. “Torture. Rape. You can’t imagine the twisted, sadistic things he does to the women he rapes. He’s into every imaginable crime. He has no loyalty except to himself. He deals drugs, guns, bombs. Human trafficking. He’s a fucking pedophile and he indulges himself even as he sells children to people who are as perverted and twisted as he is.”

Hancock vibrated with rage. He simmered, like a volcano about to erupt. His eyes were icier than she’d ever seen them, and she’d been witness to that flat, emotionless coldness before, but never this degree of utter frigidity. These were the eyes of a killer. Eyes that evoked terror in whoever was his target.

“Money, making money, is a game to him. And no matter how much he has, he craves more. Because to him, money is power, and power, ultimate power, is what he wants most. He sees himself as a god. He’ll never stop, and so someone has to take him down.”

“You,” she whispered.

He gave a clipped nod. “I’m the best chance anyone has of taking him out because unlike others, I don’t have a heart, a conscience. I’m more machine than man. A programmed killing machine, willing to do whatever it takes to take him down. Even become the very thing he is. I am what he is. I’m no better than what he is.”

“You are not a heartless killing machine,” she snapped, angry all over again. “Tell me something, Hancock. Do you go out and find some innocent woman to rape and torture, prolonging her agony until she can finally take no more and then dispose her like trash? Do you prey on children? Are you a depraved pedophile who enjoys inflicting pain and terror on innocent children?”

His eyes were shocked, and he shuddered, revulsion swamping his eyes. “No! Never! God, no.”

She smiled her satisfaction, and he didn’t look pleased that she’d pushed his button and had gotten the reaction she obviously wanted from him.

“There is a difference between becoming like someone in order infiltrate his ranks in order to kill him and save thousands of lives and becoming that monster when you aren’t on the hunt for one,” she said in a soft voice. “You can tell yourself all manner of lies, Hancock. You can try to convince yourself that you’re no better than Maksimov, but you and I both know the truth. Even though you’ll never admit it to yourself. You do what you have to do in order to save countless innocents, but you hate it and you hate yourself. But that’s not who you are. It’s not who you will ever be. The world is a better place for having you in it,” she said, even quieter than before. “Don’t let evil win and let it convince you that you are evil. That you’re some unfeeling bastard who craves killing, torturing and shedding blood. Because when you truly start believing that of yourself, then you will become the very thing you hate the most.”

“Fuck me. Swear to God I don’t know what I’m going to do with you, Honor,” he said, his agitation obvious.

Her face immediately fell, and she turned, trying to hide it from him. Because they both knew exactly what he was going to do with her, and she didn’t want to make him feel even worse.

How fucked up was that? That she wanted to shield him from her pain. That she didn’t want to cause him pain. To add yet one more burden—sin—to stain his already tarnished soul. He had betrayed her. He’d deceived her at every turn. She should hate him. She shouldn’t care how much pain she caused him or he caused himself. But she couldn’t do it. She didn’t understand this . . . connection . . . whatever the hell it was between them, only that it was there. A living, breathing entity that she was powerless against. She simply couldn’t turn it off and make herself cold and unfeeling as Hancock could when he wished it. It wasn’t her nature. It wasn’t who she was, any more than Hancock was what he purported to be.

“That was a sorry thing to say,” Hancock said in a low growl. “Goddamn it, Honor, I’m sorry. That was shitty and unforgivable.”

“I thought I had already established that only I get to decide what is shitty or unforgivable,” she said lightly.

And then she gave him a somber look and beckoned him with her hand.

Grudgingly, he came, settling onto the bed next to her. This time it was she who took his hand, when before she’d tried to avoid any personal contact with him. She curled her fingers around his and at first he was rigid, stiff and unyielding, but she simply waited, refusing to allow him to slip from her grasp.

Then with a sigh he relaxed and stroked his thumb over her knuckles.

“Look at me, Hancock,” she asked softly.

At first he refused, but then finally he lifted his gaze to hers, and he looked . . . tormented. Something deep inside her twisted painfully and robbed her of breath. There was grief in his eyes and it hurt her. And it made her want to take it from him. To somehow ease the horrible pain inside him.

“I know you don’t believe me. You don’t have to. But you are going to listen to what I have to say and you aren’t going to block me out because you don’t want to hear what I have to say. Do you understand?”