Текст книги "Darkest Before Dawn"

Автор книги: Maya Banks

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Текущая страница: 12 (всего у книги 29 страниц)

CHAPTER 15

HANCOCK only lightly dozed, not allowing himself to fall fully into sleep. Somehow, Honor had once more sought out his body and was curled into him like a kitten. His shirt was tightly fisted in her hands even in sleep, as if she were holding on to the only solid thing in her life.

Even her legs were entwined with his, and she rested on her uninjured side and her head was nestled not on the pillow he’d settled her on, but on his shoulder. He could feel the light puffs of her breath blow warmly over his neck, and he marveled at how something so innocent and benign could feel so . . . good.

Just holding her felt good. Right. As if she belonged there. Under his protection.

He slammed the door on that thought so swiftly that he nearly flinched. He wasn’t her protector. But the fleeting thought had given him savage, albeit brief, satisfaction. He couldn’t remember feeling something so good. He didn’t have a lot of experience with good. Bad he could handle. Could process and compartmentalize it. Good? Not so much. That brief flash had been nearly intoxicating as for a moment he’d contemplated being the good guy. The knight in shining armor Honor seemed to consider him. And that was dangerous. No, not dangerous. Deadly. Because he could easily become addicted to an emotion denied to him until those few seconds ago.

He didn’t have many more hours to endure and remain focused until . . .

He closed his eyes, shocked by the pain that splintered through his heart at what was to come. Something that felt suspiciously like . . . sorrow . . . filtered sluggishly through his veins, creeping into his heart, filling it with an unfamiliar pain.

He was blessedly distracted from the direction of his thoughts, and the danger they posed, when Honor stirred restlessly against him. He could feel her every movement, knew that she was gradually climbing through the fog of the sedative, feeling her way to awareness.

Not yet. Not now, damn it. He reached blindly behind him to where the prepared syringe lay behind his back. He’d put it within easy reach so he could hold her as he was holding her now but inject her if she woke before he wanted her to.

But mostly because he was a coward and he wanted to delay the moment when she no longer looked at him like he was some kind of goddamn hero and instead looked at him with all the despair of betrayal. He didn’t have to see the accusing look in her eyes. His imagination conjured the image well enough on its own and it was enough to make him . . . hurt.

“Hancock?” she whispered against his neck.

He froze in the process of uncapping the syringe one-handed, but then carefully, so as not to startle or frighten her, he slid his arm back over his body and placed his palm on her hip, the syringe extended between his fingertips so she only felt the warmth of his palm. Even with her senses dulled by medication and having lived every hour of the last many days in constant fear of discovery, she’d known immediately whom she was with. No panic. No fear that she’d been captured by the people hunting her. She was completely relaxed and confident she was safe.

“Am I dreaming?” she said in a sleepy, confused tone.

It was a compulsion, nothing more. He couldn’t have controlled it if his life depended on it. He brushed his lips over her forehead, right at her hairline.

“Yes, honey. It’s just a dream. Stay asleep and keep dreaming of the good.”

Her brow wrinkled as if she were sorting out his statement and pondering the truth of it. But then she shocked the ever-loving hell out of him, and he wasn’t a man who was shocked by anything.

“Then if this is a dream, will you kiss me?” she asked softly. “If it’s a dream, it’s not real, so it won’t hurt anything. And you’ll never know you kissed me because this is my dream, not yours.”

The thought rushed through his mind before he was even aware that it was there. No. Not just your dream. Mine as well. Fuck it all but this one mission with FUBAR written all over it.

He held his breath, unable to do anything more than lie there rigidly, her body molded to his like a glove. A perfect fit. What the hell was he supposed to do?

Another completely alien emotion gripped him by the throat.

Panic.

If he kissed her, it made his betrayal even worse. If he didn’t kiss her, he’d deny her the comfort she so obviously wanted—needed. And he’d vowed to give her nothing but good until the time came for him to hand her over to the enemy.

Goddamn it.

Fuck! He was already damned to hell. An eternity of torment and endless pain and torture. What was one more sin on top of the mountain he’d already committed? Somehow kissing a beautiful woman paled in comparison to all the blood he’d shed.

“And is me kissing you what you want to happen in your dream?” he asked in a hushed murmur, not wanting to pull her even closer to full consciousness.

He had the syringe so close to her flesh, and he didn’t want her to wake more fully. Hell, he didn’t even want her to remember this. It would only make it worse when . . .

He shook the thought off again just as she whispered and nuzzled against his neck.

“Yeah. You aren’t the badass you want everyone to think. I see you, Hancock. Maybe others don’t, but I do.”

His breath escaped in a hiss of shock and surprise, and guilt gutted him, consumed him until he was literally shaking with it. Before he could venture further into territory best left alone, he quickly inserted the needle and pushed the medication into her body.

She gave a flinch, her mouth parting against his throat, but he flung the syringe off the bed and quickly lifted his free hand to her chin, tilting it upward so his mouth could capture hers, swallowing any protest or question she might have voiced.

His entire body jolted as though he’d been struck by lightning. Every corny description ever penned about chemistry, compatibility, a first kiss was suddenly only too real. Even in an airplane, he felt as though the entire earth shifted beneath him. An earthquake in mid air.

He deepened the kiss because he was powerless to do anything else. Her mouth was like the strongest magnet. He couldn’t have pulled away. An entire army couldn’t have separated their lips.

It was like drinking liquid sunshine. As soon as his lips had met hers, she opened her mouth in a breathy sigh and he inhaled her. Consumed her. She tasted sweeter than anything he’d ever known.

He’d intended it to be a soft peck, nothing more. Just enough to satisfy her desire for a brief moment of intimacy. Human contact. Tenderness instead of the pain and violence she’d experienced for so many days. But as soon as he tasted her, felt the electric shock all the way to his toes, all thoughts of a chaste kiss and holding her until she fell back under fled.

She made a throaty hum that vibrated over his tongue. He licked at the inside of her mouth. Tasted every inch of the luscious haven. Satin and silk, velvety soft. The heat between them rivaled the scorching desert they’d traveled. Her fingers curled more tightly into his chest, her nails, the few that hadn’t been broken to the quick, digging into his skin.

He’d wear the marks from those nails, and for a brief time he’d have a reminder of her brand on him. Her mark. He wished to hell he could have them permanently tattooed on his skin. It would mark one of the best memories—and serve as a reminder of what he’d callously destroyed.

His grip on her chin tightened and then loosened as he fanned his fingers out to grasp her jaw, holding her in place as he devoured the sweet innocence she offered him. He was already going to hell and this . . . this would be a memory that could sustain him through the upcoming darkness. One single moment captured in time that he could pause and replay over and over so it was this he remembered and saw instead of other horrific images of Honor.

“I’ve never had a better dream,” she slurred, her eyes already half lidded as the draw of the medication pulled her deeper into its web. “So many nightmares. They never stop. First time I’ve dreamed . . . good. Thank you . . .”

Her voice drifted off even as he kissed her again, and he kept kissing her even when she went utterly limp and her lips went slack. And when he swept his lips higher, feathering them over her cheek, his gut clenched when he tasted her tears.

He closed his eyes and wrapped his arm around her, dragging her more firmly against his body while being mindful of her injured side.

She’d thanked him. God help them all. And she’d wept because for once her sleep wasn’t filled with terror and death. He wanted to ram his fist into the walls until his hands bled. He wanted to kill someone. Bristow, Maksimov, ANE. The whole sorry lot of them. Every single person who would put hands to Honor, hurt her, terrorize her, he wanted their blood. But most of all he wanted his own. He was the biggest monster of all. Because if not for him, the bastards would never get their hands on her.

CHAPTER 16

HONOR fought through heavy veils of dense fog surrounding her. Her reflexes were dull and her tongue felt thick in her mouth. She was semiawake and yet couldn’t summon the strength to open her eyelids.

A dull throb in her head made its presence known. Her mouth felt like cotton and even with her eyes closed, they felt dry and scratchy, like sandpaper covered them instead of her eyelids.

As she continued her slow swim to lucidity, she became aware that she was . . . comfortable. Softness surrounded her, conforming to her body so that every part of her was cushioned. Even the ache in her head abated somewhat as she registered the plushness cushioning her head.

She let out a soft sigh. This had to be another really good dream. Not as good as the one where Hancock had kissed her, but still good.

Her lips turned down into a frown as she processed that last information her sluggish brain fed her. Nothing that realistic could possibly be a dream. If she ignored the dryness of her mouth, she could still taste him. The lingering effects of that scorching hot, sexy-as-sin kiss. And it was delicious. She nearly moaned as the memory became clearer and she recalled just how thoroughly he’d kissed her.

What was it he’d asked her? And is me kissing you what you want to happen in your dream?

That was no dream. He’d been speaking to her as though she were dreaming, ensuring that she really wanted him to kiss her. Doubt nagged at her. Why had he done it then? Had he wanted to kiss her or was he merely giving her what she asked for?

Hancock didn’t strike her as a man who’d ever do anything he didn’t want. And certainly no one was going to force him to do anything.

And as more of that decadent dream—reality—floated back to her, she realized that his kiss had not been the kiss of an unwilling man. Nor had it been a simple kiss, one designed to satisfy her need. He’d devoured her mouth and then things had gone fuzzy again.

She frowned again and reached sluggishly down to rub her hand over her hip. He’d injected her with something. A sedative. Just before kissing her. So obviously he didn’t want her conscious very long after he kissed her.

And maybe he hadn’t wanted her to remember . . .

That was the more likely scenario. And it was just as well that was what he wanted because now she could pretend ignorance of the entire episode so she wouldn’t be mortified every time he looked at her or she looked at him. She’d simply act as though she had no memory of the event.

But that didn’t mean she wouldn’t hold that memory dear to her, savor it, lock it away to be pulled out at will so she could relive that moment over and over.

For now, putting away the pleasure of that one stolen moment, she forced herself to the task at hand. She had to open her damn eyes and figure out where she was. And if she was safe.

It took far more effort than she would have liked to pry her eyes open. Her entire face was set into a grimace as she worked to lift what felt like lead eyelids. A sliver of low light registered and she took heart in the fact that she was making progress. After several more steadying breaths, and ensuring that she wasn’t going to be sick, she forced them open all the way.

It was disorienting at first. Too much to take in all at once. Nothing about her surroundings was familiar. The first thing she registered was that she was in a very comfortable bed. Not a cot, a bedroll or a makeshift place to sleep. It was an honest-to-goodness real bed with a mattress and linens to die for. Five-star-hotel quality, not that she had much experience with five-star accommodations. But this was heaven.

As she shrugged the last vestiges of fuzz from her mind, she swiftly examined her surroundings, looking for any hint that she was in danger.

The walls were painted in soft lavender, several floral paintings strategically placed to give the room an open and airy feel. The furnishings were expensive, custom-looking and hand carved. The wood was a deep brown, the contrast between the darker pieces and the more feminine-looking walls pleasing to her eye.

She felt . . . safe. No fear pricked her nape or caused the hairs on her arms to rise. But where was she?

She shifted in the plush bed, her intention to sit up, to get out of the bed and . . . do what?

The question was settled for her when her body shrieked its protest to her movement. She could feel the blood drain from her cheeks and pain lanced through her side, leaving her breathless. Her lungs were frozen, unable to suck air in or expel it back out. Panicked, she didn’t know whether to lower herself back to the bed or continue her ascent. Either one was going to hurt like hell.

A noise at the door startled her. Her body jerked involuntarily, which caused another blast of pain scorching her side.

Hancock filled the doorway. He took one look at her and issued a vicious curse under his breath even as he strode quickly to the bed. He gathered her in his arms, his hold tight but not painful. He carefully eased her back down into the mattress, but even with the obvious care he took in moving her, pain washed through her, robbing her of breath just when she’d thought she’d gotten it back.

Tears swam in her vision, causing Hancock’s grim, worried face to swim above her.

“Damn it, Honor. You shouldn’t have tried to get up.”

She said nothing for a moment, her nostrils distending as she tried desperately to suck in oxygen and breathe through the remnants of the crippling pain.

“Where am I?” she asked weakly. “Are we safe?”

His expression became even more grim, a distant flicker in his eyes just before he looked away, neatly avoiding her gaze.

“Yes,” he said after a moment. “We’re safe here.”

She closed her eyes. “Thank God. But where is here? Are we back home? Can I call my family?” A tear trickled hotly down her cheek. “They probably think I’m dead.”

Hancock cursed again, the words blistering even though he uttered them in barely above a whisper. He knelt beside the bed and put his hand on her forehead in what could only be construed as tenderness. Her eyes flew to his in confusion, because he’d never made any outward show of softness to her except the times when he didn’t think she would be aware.

“Right now, you have to focus on getting well,” he said in that grim voice. And yet she heard something else in his tone. Something she couldn’t quite put her finger on, and it bothered her. He seemed . . . uneasy. And Hancock was confident and unreadable if nothing else.

“How long?” she asked, and then regretted exerting herself by speaking so much. Who knew the task of talking would be so exhausting?

Pain had taken steady hold of her. It was raw and pulsing, rising up once more after the initial relief of being sucked back into the heavenly cloud of the bed she rested in.

“As long as it takes,” he said vaguely.

His gaze searched hers, making her uncomfortable with his scrutiny. It was as if he could see every single thing inside her. As if he felt the pain radiating from her body. His eyes grew cold and his lips thinned. He seemed angry.

“You’re hurt, or do you not remember getting yourself shot when you protected one of my men?”

Yeah, he was pissed and he was letting her know it. He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t have to. In fact, if he had shouted at her, she wouldn’t be as nervous. The low whip of authority in his voice was like a tangible lash of reprimand that she felt.

She licked her lips before parting them to defend herself and promptly found herself hushed when he placed two fingers over her mouth and his gaze dared her to defy his silent dictate for her not to speak.

“We can’t move you until you’re out of the woods,” he said. “You lost a lot of blood and I’m giving you IV fluids and antibiotics. I was just coming in to see if you were awake and in pain, and you are both. So I’m giving you pain medicine so you can rest and heal.”

She stirred, the protest strong on her lips. She didn’t care how hurt she was. She was so close to freedom and home that she could taste it, and she didn’t want to waste another single day. Every hour that she was away from her family was an hour they believed the absolute worst.

“There will be no argument, Honor,” Hancock said in that cold voice of his. The one that made her shiver and become a weak coward. It disgusted her, and it made no sense that she could stand up to an entire terrorist organization and remain defiant in their attempts to hunt her down like an animal, and yet a single man had the capacity to freeze her and automatically make her back down with nothing more than words.

She was no fool, though. This man didn’t need to back up his words. Anyone with sense could see into this man’s eyes. He was a ruthless, cold-blooded killer. It would take someone awfully stupid to defy him, and she was not a stupid woman.

He pulled out a capped syringe and swabbed the end of her IV port. Though he had said he had her on IV fluids and medication, she hadn’t even noticed the restraint of the IV line leading to her right wrist. Fat lot of good it would have done her to accomplish the feat of getting up when she would have had to lug an IV pole behind her.

“This will only take a second. Relax and let it take hold,” he said, a soothing quality replacing his earlier bite.

She frowned when the burn of the medication first hit her veins, and she flinched. Hancock automatically rubbed his palm over her lower arm where the burn was the worst, but she wasn’t even sure he was doing it consciously. This was a man who seemed incapable of tenderness, and yet she knew it for the lie it was. He’d held her when nightmares had plagued her fractured sleep. He’d kissed her and comforted her when she’d awakened, afraid and confused.

She couldn’t figure this man out, but on some deep, instinctual level, she knew he wasn’t a bad man. He wasn’t who he even thought he was. And he’d deny to his death that he had one ounce of gentleness in him.

She wasn’t sure the exact moment she’d decided to trust him. Maybe on some level it had been there from the start, even though she’d been wary of his intentions. His motive. But he’d kept his promise to get her far from A New Era’s reach, and, judging by the furnishings of this bedroom, they didn’t appear to be anywhere near the war-torn regions he’d extricated her from.

Already the medicine was making her fuzzy and she was only half conscious. Hancock started to rise, but with the last of her flagging strength, she lifted the arm with the IV attached and grasped his hand firmly so he couldn’t slip from her hold.

He looked down at her in surprise but made no effort to extricate his hand from hers. He said nothing. He merely waited for what she wanted to say.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

He scowled, and she realized he had no liking for her thanking him. His reaction had been the same the first time she’d thanked him.

“For keeping your promise to me,” she managed to get out around the thickness of her tongue.

The last thing she registered as she finally succumbed to the medication was the dark, savage look of fury in his eyes. And something even more surprising.

Guilt.