Darkest Before Dawn

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.