“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.
“Honey, give me the knife,” he coaxed. “You’re bleeding and I need to get it stopped before it’s too late.”
There was so much sorrow in her eyes that his heart seized.
“I’m sorry I wasn’t stronger,” she whispered. “I know you need me to get to Maksimov. But I couldn’t . . . Oh God, Hancock, I couldn’t let him . . .”
“Shhh, baby. It’s okay.”
He wanted to weep that once again she was apologizing for not being strong when she was the strongest person he’d ever known.
Her hands shaking, she extended the knife, and he took it, folding it back so it no longer posed a threat.
“I’m going to pick you up and take you to the bed so I can treat your wounds,” he said gently.
At that, she went crazy, backing even farther into the corner, drawing her knees up and wrapping her arms protectively around her legs, hugging herself, rocking back and forth, her eyes wild.
She shuddered violently, shaking her head adamantly. “No. Never. Not in that bed. No. I won’t stay there.”
“Then I’ll take you to my room,” he said soothingly. “But baby, you’re losing a lot of blood. I have to stop the bleeding now.”
“You promise?” she asked hoarsely.
He knew what she asked. That he promised he wouldn’t put her back in the bed where Bristow had attacked her. Where he might have raped her and had damn sure tried if he hadn’t succeeded.
He curled his arms underneath her slight body and lifted, cradling her tenderly against his chest.
“I promise. You’ll stay with me. I’m not leaving you even for a minute. I swear it.”
She nodded and then turned her face into his neck and burst into tears.
He bristled with rage, every muscle in his body going rigid as the need for Bristow’s blood filled his soul. He held her tightly, hurrying down the corridor to the wing where he and his men were housed.
Conrad was waiting, his expression grim.
“What did that son of a bitch do to her?” Conrad snarled.
“Not now,” Hancock snapped. “Get me a med kit and a suture kit. We’ve got to get her wrists stitched and the bleeding stopped. She’s lost too much blood as it is. The cut on her throat isn’t as bad and won’t require sutures. And get her pain medication and a sedative. She’s never going to sleep after this.”
Conrad swore but hurried away to get the necessary supplies.
Hancock carefully laid her on the bed, and she immediately curled into a protective ball.
“I’m just going to get you one of my shirts,” he said so as not to alarm her.
She glanced down, horror reflected in her gaze as if only just remembering that she was completely exposed. Mortification swept over her delicate features and she began silently weeping all over again.
He took a T-shirt, one that would allow Conrad easy access to the areas that needed attention, and dressed her like a child unable to do the task herself. He brought damp washcloths and several large bandages so he could apply pressure to her wrists until Conrad could control the bleeding and stitch the cuts.
“Can you tell me what happened?” he asked quietly. “What did that son of a bitch do to you?”
“He touched me,” she said, shuddering in revulsion.
“Did he rape you?” he asked bluntly.
She flinched and looked away. His heart was in his throat because she had the look of a woman who’d been brutalized, who had been driven to the very edge of hell. He was perilously close to losing his shit and that was the last thing she needed right now.