The door opened and her pulse immediately leapt, anticipating the only man who’d come into her room in the past days. Yesterday, she’d been feeling restless and cagey and decided to test the extent of the damage done to her; she’d forced herself out of bed, determined to walk out of this room and figure out where the hell she was. At this point she was just desperate for a change in scenery. The lavender walls and cheery floral artwork were just taunting her, since the very last thing she was feeling was happy and carefree.
It had exhausted her, but elation had lent her a surge of strength when she’d finally shuffled to the door, only for that illusion of strength to evaporate when the knob wouldn’t turn. She was locked in, and it only locked from the outside.
She wasn’t a prisoner. Was she?
Not knowing what else to do, with her knees perilously close to giving out on her, she shuffled back to the bed and crawled onto it, her body protesting her every movement. And then a sound had her freezing and just as quickly turning to settle into place on the bed, angry at the guilt she felt, as though she were an errant teenager trying to sneak out.
She wasn’t a prisoner!
Her pulse, already elevated, spiked, and it was like pressing the accelerator to the floor on a sports car. A man she’d never seen slid like an oily snake through the barely opened door. He didn’t fit in this world. This place. But then where was here?
It was she who didn’t belong here.
An uneasy sensation circled and swelled as fear boiled in her stomach and acid traced its way up her throat. Worse, the moment the intruder picked up on her fear, she saw him go hard with arousal. There was an unmistakable bulge in his expensive slacks that clearly outlined his erection, and low laughter escaped him. It—he—was vile and repulsive.
“Who are you?” she demanded with far more bravado than she felt.
She gathered the sheets in a tight bundle, shielding her body from his view even though she was fully dressed beneath the covers.
Just like that his eyes went flat and cold and a shiver went up her spine. Malice glittered brightly in the black orbs as he advanced on the bed. She opened her mouth to scream and he was on her in an instant, stifling any cry she would have made with a sharp slap to her mouth.
The blow stunned her into silence and only a small whimper of pain escaped.
“I’m the man who owns you. Temporarily,” he added, the sound of his voice coming as a hiss, cold on her skin as though he weren’t a living thing at all. A monster. Like so many of the monsters that haunted her dreams.
Where was Hancock?
Inside she was screaming for him. His name. Over and over. A litany, begging him to save her. Again. Who was this man? How did he get into her room? Hancock had told her she was safe.
Hadn’t he?
She frantically searched her memory for the words. For what exactly he’d said to her. They hadn’t had very many actual conversations. She would be certain of what he’d promised her. She was sure. She’d held the few assurances he’d given her close to her heart. A talisman.
Her scrambled mind could only come up with one promise.
He’d get her past, through, away from the terrorist cell hunting her, stalking her every movement. But surely . . .
No, she wouldn’t think it. Wouldn’t allow herself the loss of the only thing she had to keep her strong. That kept hope and faith alive in her heart. This asshole wouldn’t take that from her.
“That’s better,” he said in a silky purr. “You’re naturally submissive. I can sense it. You will be easily taught discipline and obedience, though, regretfully, my time with you will be short.”
Her eyes shot darts, her lips drawn in a mutinous line. Submissive? Obedient? She wanted to tear his eyes out and then go for his balls.
If he thought her some helpless nitwit, boy did he have a surprise in store.
She batted her eyelashes with clueless innocence, giving this asshole her best “Honor eyes,” as her family had dubbed them. The look that assured her that no one could ever remain angry at her long. The one that instantly got her out of trouble when she’d been stirring up mischief.
“I think you must have me mistaken for someone else,” she said in a calm voice. “I don’t know who you are or where I am for that matter, but I don’t have a submissive bone in my body, and if you so much as try to force my obedience, I’ll cut your heart out.”
Yes, she’d spoken calmly, but there was blistering violence and absolute conviction in her tone, her expression. She hadn’t survived as long as she had by being weak or being controlled by fear.
He threw back his head and laughed. “You seem awfully sure of yourself, Honor Cambridge.”
“And if I fail, Hancock will finish the job,” she said coldly.
At that, glee entered his eyes. Glee. A supremely satisfied expression gripped him even as he wound his hand tightly in her hair and yanked her protesting body close to his. He kissed her brutally, forcing her mouth open by using his teeth, slicing at her lips until her gasp of pain allowed his tongue to shove inside.
She struggled wildly, but he was far stronger, and she was weakened by her injuries. Tears burned her eyelids and she refused to cry, refused to allow this man the satisfaction of seeing her tears of pain, rage and worse, fear.
Where was Hancock?
“Hancock is renowned for his conquests,” the man said, his breath stroking over her damaged, trembling lips. “It is said he can make anyone do his bidding. He can make anyone believe whatever it is they want him to believe. Tell me, Honor, did he promise to see you safely home to your family? Think carefully. I also know Hancock not to be a liar. Interesting code, don’t you think? A cold-blooded killer. A mercenary. With a code. He doesn’t lie. And yet he can make you believe something he never promised. How easily you must have fallen under his spell.”