EVEN under the effects of the sedative, Honor was restless and agitated in sleep. Hancock never left her side. He lay on his side next to her, cradling her small body with his much larger frame. When she trembled and made small guttural sounds in her throat that reminded him of those made by a trapped animal, he seethed in silence and rubbed his hand up and down her back, stroking and massaging.
His touch seemed to quiet her. When she became upset, she would relax and rest easy once more when he stroked her skin.
To his surprise, she fully awakened just a few hours after Conrad had given her pain medication and a sedative, but then he and Conrad had discovered the drug-laden cloth that Bristow had forced into Honor’s mouth to force her compliance, and so Conrad had only administered a light dose, more to calm than to render her unconscious. Neither man wanted to be accused of doing the same to her as Bristow had done.
“Hancock?” she whispered, stirring against him.
His hold automatically tightened as he gathered her more fully into his arms.
“Yes, Honor, it’s me.”
She relaxed, seeming to wilt with relief. For a long moment, her hand rested over his heart, her bandaged wrist reminding him of just how close to death she’d come. How desperately she must have fallen in those dark moments when Hancock hadn’t been there as he’d promised to be.
Just one more sin to add to his endless list.
She seemed to be pondering something. He sensed her hesitancy and . . . fear. As though she wanted to ask him something but wouldn’t. Or simply couldn’t.
He slid his hand between them to cup his palm over the top of her hand.
“What is it, Honor? Is there something you need? Are you hurting?”
She inhaled sharply. “I know I said I wouldn’t ask for anything more . . .”
“But,” Hancock prompted gently. He knew damn well he’d give her the moon if she asked. The only thing he couldn’t give her was what they both wanted most. Her freedom. Pain slashed in relentless waves through his heart for what he knew must be done. She was more accepting of her fate than he was, and that pissed him off all the more. She should hate him. She should be railing against him, calling him every vile name she could muster. He deserved them all.
She turned imploring eyes on him and he was lost. It was dangerous because if she asked it of him right now, he would let her walk away and fuck the mission and he’d never get another opportunity to take Maksimov down.
She lifted her free hand to her temple and massaged, but he didn’t sense she was in pain. Just grappling with something difficult for her to talk about. So he simply waited, giving her the time she needed, and he didn’t rush her.
His gaze brushed over her wrapped wrist, and helpless rage filled him all over again. For a woman like Honor, so valiant and courageous, never the coward she called herself, to have been so desperate as to attempt to kill herself, he knew it had been bad. God, what had that bastard done to her?
“He would have raped me,” she whispered. “He wanted to. He t-touched me. And it hurt.”
Hancock’s chest tightened and his teeth ground together as he fought to keep his composure. He stroked his hand through her silky hair, gently massaging her scalp with soothing touches.
She glanced away, obviously embarrassed. Why? Because Bristow had attacked her? Because he would have raped her? Was she ashamed?
“I’m a virgin,” she blurted. “I’ve never had sex with anyone.”
Hancock went still, unsure of what to say. What to do. He was frozen to the bone, glad that she wasn’t looking at him at the moment. Because God help him, he was turning over a virgin to Maksimov, who would delight in the discovery and make her initiation that much worse. He’d thrive on just how much pain he could cause an innocent.