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.
“You promised,” she whispered brokenly, flinging the cup in his direction.
He shook his head in denial. “I never promised you anything, Honor,” he said in a quiet tone that reflected no more remorse than was displayed in his expression.
“No, but you allowed me to think that I was safe . . . And that’s worse,” she said in a savage tone. “You could have told me. You could have corrected my assumption at any time. At least then I would have had time to prepare. Instead of thinking all the while that I was one step closer to freedom. You’re a monster. Just like them. But at least they’re honest about their intentions. That makes you worse than those murdering savages.”
Hancock lifted one eyebrow, ignoring the pointed barbs she threw at him. “And have you escape me at the first opportunity? Yes, that’s what I do with all my prisoners. I tell them precisely what their fate is so they can run.”
Her face contorted into a helpless snarl. Much like a wounded, trapped animal awaiting execution from a hunter. “Like I would have been able to escape you and your . . . people?”
She swept them all with her scathing glare, growing more pissed by the minute when not one of them looked remotely regretful. They were all heartless bastards. Traitors to their countrymen. She couldn’t look another moment at them. They sickened her to her soul.
“You escaped an organized terrorist group that far outnumbers me and my men and managed to elude them for over a week. So yes. I have no doubt you would have found a way to escape me as well.”
She went silent, fixing her stony gaze forward and refusing to acknowledge any of them again. Nor would she allow the overwhelming despair threatening to engulf her to show. She wouldn’t give them that satisfaction.
“Tell me,” she said in a ravaged voice. Her rage was a terrible thing. Her sense of betrayal was far greater. Worst of all, she couldn’t keep it from him. Couldn’t keep how much he had hurt her from him or anyone else in the room. She’d been stripped of her dignity, her pride, her very soul. She had nothing left.
“What is to be my fate, Hancock? You owe me that much at least.”
In the blink of an eye, the life had gone out of her. She was dangerously calm. Disembodied, no longer a living, breathing person with hopes and dreams.
She saw something savage in his gaze for one brief moment before he slid onto the bed next to her, ignoring her scooting as far away from him as she could. She couldn’t touch him, couldn’t allow him to touch her. She’d only throw up again.
“Why do you need to know?” he asked in a surprisingly gentle voice.
God, she needed him to be the asshole she’d thought him to be from the start. The opinion once formed that should have never wavered. She always relied on her gut when it came to people, so what did it say about her that she’d been so terribly wrong about him?
She met his eyes coldly, feeling layers upon layers of ice forming on her heart, her mind, her soul, encapsulating her in a freezing, bone-deep chill.
“So that I have enough time to carve a hole in my brain so I can crawl into it and die.”
He instantly recoiled with a flinch. She heard a blistering curse from across the room and then someone stomped away, slamming the door so hard it finished the job of knocking the painting from the wall that Hancock had already set teetering the time he’d left after she’d asked him to kiss her.
What a stupid, hopeless, naïve fool she’d been.
“What an honorable soldier you are,” she said in a mocking voice.
But her pain betrayed her. Like so much else had of late. She tried to sound bitter, angry, furious even. But she could barely choke the words out because she was still screaming on the inside, her pain so great that she could feel herself shattering into a million pieces.
“Whoring yourself out to get the job done. What exactly is the going rate for stud services these days?”
Anger glittered hotly in Hancock’s eyes, but she was too far gone to care. Already she was retreating within herself.
His silence damned him. She knew he’d done just those things for previous missions. No, his jobs. Missions somehow invoked something with meaning. Value. Honor. Loyalty. Good. She was a job, just as other women had likely been jobs as well.
“Get out,” she said, holding desperately to the last of her crumbling composure. “All of you. Get out!”
And as she lay there, broken, weeping silently for all she’d lost, she realized that the very thing she’d vowed Bristow wouldn’t take from her—Hancock, her talisman and protector—had never been hers to begin with.
She had nothing further for anyone to take from her.