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.
She was bracing herself for pain. Preparing herself for what was to come. Because simple stitches, while painful, were mere annoyances compared to torture designed to cause as much agony possible without killing the victim. To make them endure so long until the pain took over like a madness and they begged for death. Ultimate freedom. Peace and freedom from the misery of their existence.
So to imagine what would happen to her, knowing she was painting equally painful images in her head at the same time, made the fingers barely clinging to his own sanity threaten to finally slip.
And all he had left at the moment was his sanity. The intelligent, calculating part of his brain that carried him through every mission, no matter how much of his soul it sucked away. God knew the rest of him had already given in to the overshadowing guilt and despair.
“No sedative,” Hancock said after studying her a moment longer. And his gaze never once left her face as he gave the next order. “But she gets antibiotics and she gets pain medication. Before anything else. Before you numb her for the stitches. And you wait until it starts taking effect before you so much as touch her.”
CHAPTER 21
“THE pain medication does the same thing as a sedative,” Honor accused, shrinking from Conrad’s sudden presence at her bed. “It makes me loopy, and I won’t be put off. I want the damn answers to my questions answered.”
If a prisoner, mere merchandise, gave imperious orders to men who thought nothing of callously discarding her and sending her through the very gates of hell to greet Satan himself and then expected obedience, it was obvious the captive had indeed lost her mind.
What’s the worst they could do? Kill her? Torture her? It wasn’t like that wasn’t her eventual fate. Delaying made it all the worse because it gave her too much time to imagine how she could survive even one day in the hands of a brutal inhumane animal whose only goal was to make her suffer.
“You’ll be aware enough to ask your questions,” came Hancock’s dry, emotionless response. “However, you will not be aware of your pain if I have anything to say about it.”
Since she well knew that implacable expression, she knew she wouldn’t have a choice regardless of what he decided to do to her.
Bitter defeat brought acid tears, stinging her eyelids like angry bees. Beside her, Hancock stiffened, and for a moment his hand hovered over her arm before settling there, his fingertips resting on her skin. She jerked back as if he’d burned her and huddled further inside herself, making herself as small as possible in a room filled with impossibly large men.
Hancock reached down to lift the hem of her pajama top even as he easily slid the band of her bottoms down just enough to bare her hip. Furious at how helpless she was—she felt—she lay there stoic, refusing to show them anything else. No more weaknesses to exploit.
She felt the first needle slide in, controlling her pained reaction as the medicine burned. She barely managed to prevent wincing in accordance with the involuntary flinch when Conrad’s hand pushed over the injection site and gently massaged the area to spread the medicine more quickly so the discomfort would abate sooner.