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.
She needed tenderness. Gentleness. Things he had never thought he possessed until he met her.
“No,” she finally said in barely above a whisper. “But he wanted to. He tried. I fought him and it made him angry. He hit me. He touched me. I grabbed his knife and told him I’d kill myself and his deal with Maksimov would go straight to hell and he’d be a dead man for promising Maksimov something he could no longer deliver.”
Amid his terrible rage, pride rose at her ferocity. And her quick thinking.
“He didn’t believe me so I cut my wrist. And then I realized that if I waited too long, I wouldn’t have the strength to cut the other one. And then I went for my carotid artery because I knew I’d bleed out in seconds. Only then did he back off.”
For a moment Hancock couldn’t breathe. It was the height of hypocrisy that he was gutted over the fact that Honor had been terrified enough to kill herself when it would be the kinder of her two possible fates.
But he was a coward. He would witness Honor’s death here. He wouldn’t see what happened to her after she left his protection. And he’d promised that as long as she was under his protection, he wouldn’t allow her to come to any harm. Twice he’d broken his promise. Twice Bristow had gotten to her when she was at her most vulnerable.
Conrad strode in without a word—he was tight-lipped—and fury emanated from him in tangible waves.
He began to cleanse the wounds at her wrists with brisk efficiency, and Honor looked anxiously up at Conrad, her nervousness and unease broadcasting through the entire room.
“I’m sorry,” she murmured, including both men in her apology. “I could have ruined your mission. I could have messed everything up. I wasn’t thinking rationally. He . . . hurt me.”