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 She’d withdrawn from the horror of it all.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.”