by Maya Banks
Bristow.
Oh God. Where was Hancock? Had Bristow drugged him to make sure he wasn’t a threat? Or was he truly planning the exchange as Bristow had said?
When he tore her shirt, rending it in two and exposing both her breasts, she began struggling, the effects of the medication quickly disappearing as adrenaline kicked in and she fought with every ounce of strength she had.
He didn’t slap her as he had before. He balled his fist and punched her in the mouth, leaving her breathless and panting at the pain. Then he punished her with his mouth, kissing her brutally, licking at the blood that seeped from her torn lip.
He stuffed a foul-tasting rag into her mouth, and to her horror she realized it was dipped in some kind of drug. Then he taped her mouth shut, trapping the material in her mouth.
But she wasn’t going down like this. Yes, she’d resigned herself to her fate but not to being raped by this asshole. She’d die before allowing that to happen.
His hands mauled her, roving possessively over her body, delving below the band of her pants, pulling impatiently and swearing when she still resisted. Maybe he thought the drug would have rendered her senseless by now, but she’d had enough medication and drugs to have built a slight resistance and could hold out longer now.
She fought soundlessly, panicked by the fact that she could make no sound. No scream for help. For Hancock.
His fingers jabbed brutally between her legs and she went wild, bucking, kicking, fighting with every bit of strength and willpower she could muster. She could feel the effects of the drug, knew she was sluggish, but she drew on reserves she didn’t even realize she possessed.
He cursed and hit her, again and again, but she didn’t stop. Couldn’t stop.
He bit at her breasts savagely, leaving marks and bruises. Tears of rage and helplessness burned her eyelids. She’d had enough of being helpless and powerless.
She managed to free one of her hands, and she ripped at the heavy tape, gasping as skin came away. She shoved the rag with her tongue, recoiling at the taste, but she managed to spit it out and then let out a scream.
He hit her on the side of the head and she nearly lost consciousness. And then he was on her again, tearing at his pants to free his huge erection. She was naked, her clothing in shreds. Something dug into her hip and she realized he had a knife attached to his belt. He wasn’t even bothering to remove his pants. He planned to shove them down just enough to free his cock and shove it into her resisting body.
Knowing this was her only chance, she grabbed the handle, thumbing the snap that held it secure, and yanked as hard as she could. She rolled away, opening the knife, and stumbled from the bed, falling to her knees as she crawled toward the corner of the room.
“You think you can kill me with that?” he sneered.
“N-no,” she said shakily. “But I can kill myself and fuck up your arrangement with Maksimov, and from what I hear he’s not a man to fuck with. He’ll be very pissed that you didn’t deliver the goods.”
His eyes narrowed. “You’re a horrible bluffer.”
She brought the blade to her wrist and cut a thin line, just enough that he could see the blood trickle down her arm and drip onto the floor.
Panic entered his eyes and he backed off.
Her adrenaline was fast wearing off and she knew he’d simply wait, outlast her. Sorrow filled her because killing herself meant that thousands of others would also die. All because she wasn’t strong enough to allow this man to rape her. Something that would no doubt happen over and over when she was handed off to Maksimov and then to ANE. Like a used piece of garbage. Worthless. Trash.
A sob escaped and the burn of the blade deepened as she realized that she’d cut deeper, not even realizing it. She was deep inside the shell of her shattered mind. She’d withdrawn from the horror of it all.
Useless. A sacrificial lamb. Something to be used, raped, beaten, tortured. Worthless. Nothing. Nameless and faceless. Just another statistic.
There was sound. It dimly registered. Oddly, it sounded like a lion’s roar, but she blocked it out as she did everything but the knife, slowly draining her life’s blood. But wait. One wrist wouldn’t be enough, and if she didn’t cut the other now, she’d lack the strength and the use of it that she needed in order to cut her other wrist.
Clumsily, she transferred the blade to her other hand, frowning at how slippery it was. And how weak she felt.
Slowly, blocking the pain, she made the cut as if she were outside her body watching with disinterest as she drew blood a second time. She watched in odd fascination as blood welled and slid over her skin, staining the floor and smearing her leg.
Another sound roused her and her grip tightened on the knife. This was taking too long. So she lifted it, again surprised by how weak she felt, and she put the blade to her neck. An arterial bleed would have her dead much faster.
CHAPTER 25
HANCOCK kept his meeting with his team brief, giving them the rundown on the intel Bristow had provided and what their plan of action would be. It was a grim, mostly silent exchange with Hancock doing all the talking except for the occasional “Bad mojo” from Mojo.
He didn’t like being away from Honor, even for the half hour he took after he’d ensured she was asleep after being given a lighter dose of pain medication. She didn’t like the fog, as she described it. It made her feel vulnerable and impaired. So he compromised, because he couldn’t bear the thought of her hurting when so much pain awaited her.
He dismissed his men and immediately started across the house to the wing where Honor’s room was. He was halfway there when his blood froze in his veins.
A scream shattered the eerie silence of the house. Honor’s scream.
He ran, fear lodged in his throat, nearly paralyzing him. Only the desperate need to get to her, to protect her, shoved away the paralysis as adrenaline kicked in and the formidable killer swiftly rose to the surface, overriding all else.
He expected the worst, but when he burst into her room, his heart nearly stopped, because it was far worse than he could have ever imagined.
Bristow was standing across the room from where Honor was huddled in the far corner, clutching a lethal knife to her throat. A thin trickle of blood slithered down her neck, but then he saw that both wrists were slashed and blood ran freely from the wounds.
There was blood on her face, her mouth and jaw swollen and already bruised.
Murderous rage consumed him. He wanted to take the bastard apart with his bare hands, but he didn’t have time. Honor didn’t have time.
Her eyes were vacant and haunted. She’d retreated deep inside herself and he doubted she was even aware that he’d come. Too late. He’d failed to protect her. Again.
“I’ve got Bristow,” Conrad said coldly, rage equaling Hancock’s own savage in his voice. “You see to her. You’re going to have to talk her down. She’s not there anymore.”
“Not in front of her,” Hancock snapped. “She’s already traumatized enough.”
“Wait just a goddamn minute,” Bristow demanded. “You forget you work for me. She’s mine until I give her to Maksimov, and I’ll do what I damn well please with her.”
Conrad merely executed a crippling maneuver that had Bristow on his knees, wheezing for breath. Then he twisted the man’s arm behind his back, pushing upward until the snap of a breaking bone could be heard. And just as quickly, Conrad herded him out of the room. Bristow was a dead man.
As much as Hancock wanted to be the one to kill the bastard and not quickly or mercifully, his focus had to be on Honor or she would die by her own hand. Fear seized him because Honor was completely naked and covered with bruises, bite marks, scratches. Had the son of a bitch raped her? Had he driven her to this? Was she was so traumatized that her only escape was to take her own life?
“Honor?”
His voice was pitched low, seeking to know just how far gone she was and whether she had any awareness of her surroundings at all.
She didn’t so much as blink, and he panicked when the blade pressed a centimeter farther over her carotid artery.
He didn’t dare approach her. She could very well perceive it as another attack. He cursed himself for not taking Bristow out the first time, and he cursed himself for leaving her unprotected for thirty goddamn minutes because Bristow was going out. He’d seen the man leave, and that was the only reason he’d held the brief meeting with his men.
The son of a bitch had obviously staged the entire thing, wanting to use Honor before he passed the leftovers to Maksimov. He hoped to hell that Conrad took his damn time killing the asshole. Judging by the rage in his man’s voice, he felt confident that Conrad would derive great pleasure in making Bristow’s death drawn out and very painful.
“Honor, sweetheart, it’s me, Hancock. Bristow is gone. He’s a dead man. He will never hurt you again.”
His words were fierce, despite his attempt to keep his pitch even and soothing.
She did blink then, and she cautiously lifted her gaze to Hancock. Something deep inside him settled, and he allowed himself to breathe for the first time since he’d taken in her appearance. Recognition flickered but then vanished as anguish swamped her beautiful eyes.
What worried him now was the fact that her grip on the knife hadn’t loosened at all. Her wrists were bleeding freely, more so than the shallow cut at her neck. He had to act fast and stop the blood loss before he lost her.
“Is he really dead?” she whispered.
“He’s dead,” Hancock said savagely.
She crumbled before his very eyes, the knife shaking, inflicting more damage, and it was imperative that he get it away from her now.
He took a chance and slowly moved toward her, his steps measured and nonthreatening.
He knelt in front of her, swearing violently under his breath as he took in the extent of the attack on her. She’d been brutalized. Mauled like an animal.
“Honey, give me the knife,” he coaxed. “You’re bleeding and I need to get it stopped before it’s too late.”
There was so much sorrow in her eyes that his heart seized.
“I’m sorry I wasn’t stronger,” she whispered. “I know you need me to get to Maksimov. But I couldn’t . . . Oh God, Hancock, I couldn’t let him . . .”
“Shhh, baby. It’s okay.”
He wanted to weep that once again she was apologizing for not being strong when she was the strongest person he’d ever known.
Her hands shaking, she extended the knife, and he took it, folding it back so it no longer posed a threat.
“I’m going to pick you up and take you to the bed so I can treat your wounds,” he said gently.
At that, she went crazy, backing even farther into the corner, drawing her knees up and wrapping her arms protectively around her legs, hugging herself, rocking back and forth, her eyes wild.
She shuddered violently, shaking her head adamantly. “No. Never. Not in that bed. No. I won’t stay there.”
“Then I’ll take you to my room,” he said soothingly. “But baby, you’re losing a lot of blood. I have to stop the bleeding now.”
“You promise?” she asked hoarsely.
He knew what she asked. That he promised he wouldn’t put her back in the bed where Bristow had attacked her. Where he might have raped her and had damn sure tried if he hadn’t succeeded.
He curled his arms underneath her slight body and lifted, cradling her tenderly against his chest.
“I promise. You’ll stay with me. I’m not leaving you even for a minute. I swear it.”
She nodded and then turned her face into his neck and burst into tears.
He bristled with rage, every muscle in his body going rigid as the need for Bristow’s blood filled his soul. He held her tightly, hurrying down the corridor to the wing where he and his men were housed.
Conrad was waiting, his expression grim.
“What did that son of a bitch do to her?” Conrad snarled.
“Not now,” Hancock snapped. “Get me a med kit and a suture kit. We’ve got to get her wrists stitched and the bleeding stopped. She’s lost too much blood as it is. The cut on her throat isn’t as bad and won’t require sutures. And get her pain medication and a sedative. She’s never going to sleep after this.”
Conrad swore but hurried away to get the necessary supplies.
Hancock carefully laid her on the bed, and she immediately curled into a protective ball.
“I’m just going to get you one of my shirts,” he said so as not to alarm her.
She glanced down, horror reflected in her gaze as if only just remembering that she was completely exposed. Mortification swept over her delicate features and she began silently weeping all over again.
He took a T-shirt, one that would allow Conrad easy access to the areas that needed attention, and dressed her like a child unable to do the task herself. He brought damp washcloths and several large bandages so he could apply pressure to her wrists until Conrad could control the bleeding and stitch the cuts.
“Can you tell me what happened?” he asked quietly. “What did that son of a bitch do to you?”
“He touched me,” she said, shuddering in revulsion.
“Did he rape you?” he asked bluntly.
She flinched and looked away. His heart was in his throat because she had the look of a woman who’d been brutalized, who had been driven to the very edge of hell. He was perilously close to losing his shit and that was the last thing she needed right now.
She needed tenderness. Gentleness. Things he had never thought he possessed until he met her.
“No,” she finally said in barely above a whisper. “But he wanted to. He tried. I fought him and it made him angry. He hit me. He touched me. I grabbed his knife and told him I’d kill myself and his deal with Maksimov would go straight to hell and he’d be a dead man for promising Maksimov something he could no longer deliver.”
Amid his terrible rage, pride rose at her ferocity. And her quick thinking.
“He didn’t believe me so I cut my wrist. And then I realized that if I waited too long, I wouldn’t have the strength to cut the other one. And then I went for my carotid artery because I knew I’d bleed out in seconds. Only then did he back off.”
For a moment Hancock couldn’t breathe. It was the height of hypocrisy that he was gutted over the fact that Honor had been terrified enough to kill herself when it would be the kinder of her two possible fates.
But he was a coward. He would witness Honor’s death here. He wouldn’t see what happened to her after she left his protection. And he’d promised that as long as she was under his protection, he wouldn’t allow her to come to any harm. Twice he’d broken his promise. Twice Bristow had gotten to her when she was at her most vulnerable.
Conrad strode in without a word—he was tight-lipped—and fury emanated from him in tangible waves.
He began to cleanse the wounds at her wrists with brisk efficiency, and Honor looked anxiously up at Conrad, her nervousness and unease broadcasting through the entire room.
“I’m sorry,” she murmured, including both men in her apology. “I could have ruined your mission. I could have messed everything up. I wasn’t thinking rationally. He . . . hurt me.”
She broke off as though she were embarrassed to admit that he’d hurt her and that she’d been terrified, and now she sought what, their forgiveness?
Conrad paused and visibly sucked in a steadying breath. Then he looked her directly in the eye, pinning her with his steely gaze.
“You do not apologize to me, to anyone. Ever. It is we who owe you an apology for leaving you in a vulnerable position even for the small amount of time we did. You’re an incredible woman, Honor Cambridge, and I can honestly say I am privileged to have known you. You will never be forgotten by me.”
Tears sparkled like diamonds on her lashes as she stared at the terse man in bewilderment.
“I was a coward,” she said in disgust.
> “Now you’re just pissing me off,” Conrad said in a surly voice. “Shut up and let me do my job.”
She went silent, and Hancock smiled to himself. Conrad had no idea what to make of Honor. She baffled him. She was a puzzle he had yet to solve, and it ate at him. In the world Titan lived in, there weren’t people like Honor. Selfless. Courageous. Brave. Putting others before herself.
“He’s giving you pain medication and a sedative,” Hancock said in a tone that brooked no argument. “You need to rest.”
It was a testament to just how exhausted and beaten down she was that she didn’t so much as utter a single protest.
She was silent while he stitched the cuts to her wrists. Though they’d bled quite a bit, they weren’t nearly as deep as Hancock had feared, and the cut at her neck was so shallow that all it required was a butterfly bandage.
When it was done, Conrad gathered his stuff and he and Hancock walked toward the door.
“Hancock?”
There was fear in her voice that stopped him in his tracks. He turned and Conrad continued out as Hancock made his way back to where Honor lay in his bed.
“I don’t want to be alone,” she whispered. “Will you stay with me, please? I won’t be a bother. I’ll try not to be a nuisance,” she hastily amended. “I promise.”
He leaned down and brushed his lips feather light over hers. Then he laced his fingers through hers and gave them a reassuring squeeze.
His tone was infinitely gentle as if he feared breaking her. She was as fragile as he’d ever seen her, when before all he’d ever witnessed was her unwavering strength and stubbornness.
“I wasn’t leaving you, Honor. I’m not going anywhere. I was just giving Conrad team leadership for the time being so I can stay with you. He’s going to be my eyes and ears temporarily while I’m here. With you,” he added for emphasis.
The relief in her eyes was nearly his undoing. She sagged against the pillows, looking small and defeated. Tears shone brightly, catching on her long lashes.
