Her mind was ablaze with confusion. Had she merely traded one form of hell for another? Made a bargain for her life when both outcomes would result in her death?
The vehicle moved far too fast over the bumpy terrain, and Honor felt every single one of those bumps. The hand still wrapped around her nape remained firm though the American’s thumb continued its idle, soothing, up-and-down motion. So she focused on that one simple comfort when she’d been denied comfort for so long and blocked out the battering her already bruised and sore body was taking.
She sensed the decreased speed the moment the vehicle slowed and she went rigid, holding her breath, knowing they hadn’t gone far. Were they being stopped? He’d very arrogantly stated that he planned to drive right by the roadblocks, and something in his voice had given her faith that he’d be able to do just that.
Very real fear took hold, paralyzing her. She didn’t realize that she had begun shaking and still hadn’t drawn a breath until the grip around her neck loosened and his fingers stroked through her hair beneath the layers of material covering her.
“Hold it together, Honor,” he said.
For the first time she heard gentleness in his voice, felt it in his touch. It made her want to break down and sob. So maybe she needed him to be a ruthless asshole. As long as she stayed pissed, she remained focused and didn’t risk falling apart at the seams.
“I need you to calm yourself.” This time his voice was more authoritative, all hints of gentleness gone. “You’re shaking like a leaf and the blankets are jumping around like they cover a litter of squirming puppies.”
Her chest burned and she latched on to his command, willing herself to obey.
“Breathe,” he said harshly. “Goddamn it, breathe or pass out. But pull yourself together. You aren’t out of the woods yet, and now is not the time to let yourself go.”
Honor heard other muttered curses, and she could swear she heard someone say, “Bad mojo.” Maybe she was finally losing her weakening grip on her sanity.
The American tightened his grip around her nape as he’d done before and shook her, though not hard enough to hurt. Just enough to get her attention. And it did the job.
“I’m okay,” she whispered.
Sweet, healing air flowed into oxygen-starved lungs. Her body relaxed and the burn subsided as she went limp on the floorboard of the now-stopped vehicle.
“Thank fuck,” the American muttered, loosening his grip and then withdrawing his hand from beneath the blankets entirely.
As absurd as the sensation was, she felt bereft and cold the minute the warmth of his flesh left hers. She clamped her jaw shut and kept it so tight that pain rushed her, but she did so to prevent her teeth from chattering.
It humiliated her that she’d fallen apart and acted like a complete nitwit in front of these men. It didn’t matter if they were ally or enemy. Just as she refused to ever be in a position of begging the assassins who hunted her to kill her and end her endless misery, pride also stiffened her spine when it came to these men. She was acting like a helpless heroine in a dramatic novel where the female’s sole objective was to highlight the manly alpha male’s heroic ability to save her useless ass time and time again.
She’d come this far—for so many days—on her own, relying on no one but herself and her determination to survive. She mentally chastised herself and firmed up her resolve to not show such weakness in front of these men, regardless of who they were, ever again.