He closed his eyes and wrapped his arm around her, dragging her more firmly against his body while being mindful of her injured side.
She’d thanked him. God help them all. And she’d wept because for once her sleep wasn’t filled with terror and death. He wanted to ram his fist into the walls until his hands bled. He wanted to kill someone. Bristow, Maksimov, ANE. The whole sorry lot of them. Every single person who would put hands to Honor, hurt her, terrorize her, he wanted their blood. But most of all he wanted his own. He was the biggest monster of all. Because if not for him, the bastards would never get their hands on her.
CHAPTER 16
HONOR fought through heavy veils of dense fog surrounding her. Her reflexes were dull and her tongue felt thick in her mouth. She was semiawake and yet couldn’t summon the strength to open her eyelids.
A dull throb in her head made its presence known. Her mouth felt like cotton and even with her eyes closed, they felt dry and scratchy, like sandpaper covered them instead of her eyelids.
As she continued her slow swim to lucidity, she became aware that she was . . . comfortable. Softness surrounded her, conforming to her body so that every part of her was cushioned. Even the ache in her head abated somewhat as she registered the plushness cushioning her head.
She let out a soft sigh. This had to be another really good dream. Not as good as the one where Hancock had kissed her, but still good.
Her lips turned down into a frown as she processed that last information her sluggish brain fed her. Nothing that realistic could possibly be a dream. If she ignored the dryness of her mouth, she could still taste him. The lingering effects of that scorching hot, sexy-as-sin kiss. And it was delicious. She nearly moaned as the memory became clearer and she recalled just how thoroughly he’d kissed her.
What was it he’d asked her? And is me kissing you what you want to happen in your dream?
That was no dream. He’d been speaking to her as though she were dreaming, ensuring that she really wanted him to kiss her. Doubt nagged at her. Why had he done it then? Had he wanted to kiss her or was he merely giving her what she asked for?
Hancock didn’t strike her as a man who’d ever do anything he didn’t want. And certainly no one was going to force him to do anything.
And as more of that decadent dream—reality—floated back to her, she realized that his kiss had not been the kiss of an unwilling man. Nor had it been a simple kiss, one designed to satisfy her need. He’d devoured her mouth and then things had gone fuzzy again.
She frowned again and reached sluggishly down to rub her hand over her hip. He’d injected her with something. A sedative. Just before kissing her. So obviously he didn’t want her conscious very long after he kissed her.
And maybe he hadn’t wanted her to remember . . .
That was the more likely scenario. And it was just as well that was what he wanted because now she could pretend ignorance of the entire episode so she wouldn’t be mortified every time he looked at her or she looked at him. She’d simply act as though she had no memory of the event.
But that didn’t mean she wouldn’t hold that memory dear to her, savor it, lock it away to be pulled out at will so she could relive that moment over and over.
For now, putting away the pleasure of that one stolen moment, she forced herself to the task at hand. She had to open her damn eyes and figure out where she was. And if she was safe.