He hit her on the side of the head and she nearly lost consciousness. And then he was on her again, tearing at his pants to free his huge erection. She was naked, her clothing in shreds. Something dug into her hip and she realized he had a knife attached to his belt. He wasn’t even bothering to remove his pants. He planned to shove them down just enough to free his cock and shove it into her resisting body.
Knowing this was her only chance, she grabbed the handle, thumbing the snap that held it secure, and yanked as hard as she could. She rolled away, opening the knife, and stumbled from the bed, falling to her knees as she crawled toward the corner of the room.
“You think you can kill me with that?” he sneered.
“N-no,” she said shakily. “But I can kill myself and fuck up your arrangement with Maksimov, and from what I hear he’s not a man to fuck with. He’ll be very pissed that you didn’t deliver the goods.”
His eyes narrowed. “You’re a horrible bluffer.”
She brought the blade to her wrist and cut a thin line, just enough that he could see the blood trickle down her arm and drip onto the floor.
Panic entered his eyes and he backed off.
Her adrenaline was fast wearing off and she knew he’d simply wait, outlast her. Sorrow filled her because killing herself meant that thousands of others would also die. All because she wasn’t strong enough to allow this man to rape her. Something that would no doubt happen over and over when she was handed off to Maksimov and then to ANE. Like a used piece of garbage. Worthless. Trash.
A sob escaped and the burn of the blade deepened as she realized that she’d cut deeper, not even realizing it. She was deep inside the shell of her shattered mind. She’d withdrawn from the horror of it all.
Useless. A sacrificial lamb. Something to be used, raped, beaten, tortured. Worthless. Nothing. Nameless and faceless. Just another statistic.
There was sound. It dimly registered. Oddly, it sounded like a lion’s roar, but she blocked it out as she did everything but the knife, slowly draining her life’s blood. But wait. One wrist wouldn’t be enough, and if she didn’t cut the other now, she’d lack the strength and the use of it that she needed in order to cut her other wrist.
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?