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?
“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.