Darkest Before Dawn
Page 20
He squeezed once more and then, in direct contradiction to the brute strength of his grasp and seeming disregard for whether he hurt or scared her, he rubbed his thumb up and down the line just below her ear in a soothing manner, even as his grip remained tight.
“Do not move,” the man ordered.
Material similar to the aid blankets they stocked at the relief center fell over her, blocking the light and encasing her in darkness. But it was too heavy to be one of the simple blankets handed out in relief packets. This was more of a utility blanket, or canvas perhaps. It was hard to make out the feel and texture when she was already swathed in a pool of her own garment.
The heat was suffocating. Sweat moistened the roots of her hair and bathed her forehead. It felt as though she were slowly baking in an oven. Even the air she inhaled was scorching, made stuffy by the heavy blankets covering her, giving her little space to breathe.
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.
A thousand questions burned her lips. She wanted to demand answers. It took all her discipline not to interrogate her “savior” and ask him what the hell his plan was and what he planned to do with her. Because she wasn’t entirely certain that he was one of the good guys, despite knowing the bastards gunning for her weren’t the good guys.
Quiet descended over the interior of the vehicle, and she heard the sound of a window sliding downward. She closed her eyes and remained limp, pushing her thoughts into a blank void of nothingness. Calm was the only thing that would save her, and so she simply did as she must and drew it around her like one of the soft quilts her mother created for her loved ones.
She allowed herself to drift into those happier memories, pulled images of her parents, her brothers and her sister into her mind and surrounded herself with their love. It allowed her to float free of her current circumstances, the danger cloaking her like a dense fog, and remain still and serene, blocking everything but the smiling faces of her loved ones.
So ensconced was she in her alternate reality that she didn’t register the vehicle lurching into motion again. It wasn’t until the American’s hand delved beneath the blanket, lifting it, and then his fingers slid over her chin, turning it so she was angled to partially face him, that she realized they had resumed traveling.
“Honor?”
The one-word question conveyed it all. He was asking if she was all right. If she was still with them in the mental realm or if she’d lost the battle for her sanity and retreated deep into herself.
“Who are you?” she asked hoarsely.
CHAPTER 7
HANCOCK’S gaze flickered dispassionately at the stubborn, courageous woman with grudging admiration he didn’t allow to show. He didn’t want to feel anything with regard to a woman who was nothing more than a pawn. A means to an end. A tool he would use like any other intel or weapon in order to take down a man who’d caused more casualties than most wars, and he’d suffer no remorse whatsoever.
It wasn’t in his nature to underestimate anyone or any situation, and yet he could admit that he’d underestimated Honor Cambridge and her resourcefulness. At first but not any longer.
When he’d left Bristow, the cowardly bastard was pissed because Hancock had left none of his men behind for his protection, leaving him to rely solely on the other lackeys he called his security. But Hancock had fully expected to apprehend his quarry and be back in a short amount of time. Instead, he’d spent days combing through villages, questioning the locals and keeping his ear to the ground as rumors had started to whisper on the winds of a lone woman who’d eluded a vicious terrorist organization for over a week.
Over time, the gossip had become less secretive and a legend had arisen, a beacon of hope and a symbol of courage. She had become iconic to the vulnerable and oppressed people who lived without hope, in fear of A New Era and their unpredictable savagery. There was no rhyme or reason to their vengeance. No one foolishly thought themselves safe or beyond the reach of the militant group that had ballooned into a monstrous, gluttonous leech, drinking more blood and craving more power. It was a hell of a way to live, knowing that each day could be the day they appeared in the crosshairs of the group and were dispassionately murdered with no regard whatsoever.
“Do not move,” the man ordered.
Material similar to the aid blankets they stocked at the relief center fell over her, blocking the light and encasing her in darkness. But it was too heavy to be one of the simple blankets handed out in relief packets. This was more of a utility blanket, or canvas perhaps. It was hard to make out the feel and texture when she was already swathed in a pool of her own garment.
The heat was suffocating. Sweat moistened the roots of her hair and bathed her forehead. It felt as though she were slowly baking in an oven. Even the air she inhaled was scorching, made stuffy by the heavy blankets covering her, giving her little space to breathe.
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.
A thousand questions burned her lips. She wanted to demand answers. It took all her discipline not to interrogate her “savior” and ask him what the hell his plan was and what he planned to do with her. Because she wasn’t entirely certain that he was one of the good guys, despite knowing the bastards gunning for her weren’t the good guys.
Quiet descended over the interior of the vehicle, and she heard the sound of a window sliding downward. She closed her eyes and remained limp, pushing her thoughts into a blank void of nothingness. Calm was the only thing that would save her, and so she simply did as she must and drew it around her like one of the soft quilts her mother created for her loved ones.
She allowed herself to drift into those happier memories, pulled images of her parents, her brothers and her sister into her mind and surrounded herself with their love. It allowed her to float free of her current circumstances, the danger cloaking her like a dense fog, and remain still and serene, blocking everything but the smiling faces of her loved ones.
So ensconced was she in her alternate reality that she didn’t register the vehicle lurching into motion again. It wasn’t until the American’s hand delved beneath the blanket, lifting it, and then his fingers slid over her chin, turning it so she was angled to partially face him, that she realized they had resumed traveling.
“Honor?”
The one-word question conveyed it all. He was asking if she was all right. If she was still with them in the mental realm or if she’d lost the battle for her sanity and retreated deep into herself.
“Who are you?” she asked hoarsely.
CHAPTER 7
HANCOCK’S gaze flickered dispassionately at the stubborn, courageous woman with grudging admiration he didn’t allow to show. He didn’t want to feel anything with regard to a woman who was nothing more than a pawn. A means to an end. A tool he would use like any other intel or weapon in order to take down a man who’d caused more casualties than most wars, and he’d suffer no remorse whatsoever.
It wasn’t in his nature to underestimate anyone or any situation, and yet he could admit that he’d underestimated Honor Cambridge and her resourcefulness. At first but not any longer.
When he’d left Bristow, the cowardly bastard was pissed because Hancock had left none of his men behind for his protection, leaving him to rely solely on the other lackeys he called his security. But Hancock had fully expected to apprehend his quarry and be back in a short amount of time. Instead, he’d spent days combing through villages, questioning the locals and keeping his ear to the ground as rumors had started to whisper on the winds of a lone woman who’d eluded a vicious terrorist organization for over a week.
Over time, the gossip had become less secretive and a legend had arisen, a beacon of hope and a symbol of courage. She had become iconic to the vulnerable and oppressed people who lived without hope, in fear of A New Era and their unpredictable savagery. There was no rhyme or reason to their vengeance. No one foolishly thought themselves safe or beyond the reach of the militant group that had ballooned into a monstrous, gluttonous leech, drinking more blood and craving more power. It was a hell of a way to live, knowing that each day could be the day they appeared in the crosshairs of the group and were dispassionately murdered with no regard whatsoever.
