Darkest Before Dawn

by Maya Banks

  Without a word, Conrad hoisted himself over the backseat, to where Hancock still lay with Honor nestled in his arms. At any other time, he’d cut off his arm before ever allowing his men to see him displaying tenderness. Anything but the robotic, inhuman persona that had become second nature to him. But now? He didn’t give a shit. All his men had a soft spot for Honor. They wouldn’t think anything of him offering her comfort. Especially since it was the least he could do when he planned to turn her over to a monster.

  Conrad dug into the med kit and prepared a sedative. Then he glanced over at Hancock.

  “How long you want her to be out?”

  “Until we take her to Bristow. I’d rather she awaken in a bed and not immediately know her . . . fate.”

  It was delaying the inevitable, but he wanted to give her these last moments. As long as he could grant her. It was cruel, he supposed, to give her that much more hope. But if she could have just a few hours more devoid of fear and the horrific sense of betrayal she would feel the moment she learned the truth, then he’d give those hours to her.

  Conrad scowled again but drew more of the medication into the syringe.

  “She’ll be out for a while,” he said as he gently inserted the needle into her hip.

  When he was done, he put away the supplies and then hauled himself over into the backseat without another word.

  The atmosphere was tense in the vehicle. No one spoke, but then that wasn’t unusual. They weren’t a chatty group by any stretch of the imagination. Most of their communication wasn’t verbal anyway. They’d worked together too many years. They could anticipate each other’s moves without needing to be told. And they had their own set of hand signals.

  But this silence was different. It wasn’t the silence embraced by the men who lived and breathed the team. It was a pissed-off, surly, helpless silence, and none of them were happy about it at all. They were pissed that they cared. And they were pissed that they’d considered, even for a moment, aborting their mission to save one courageous woman.

  • • •

  HONOR had slept, as Hancock intended, for the remainder of their hazardous trek over the desert to the airfield where the plane waited that would take them to Bristow. He never moved from her side, and in her sleep, she’d sought out his body heat, snuggling into his hard frame, her softness melding seamlessly. Like they fit. It was an absurd, stupid thought, but he couldn’t prevent it from flickering through his mind. Just as he couldn’t deny the comfort her closeness gave him. Comfort he didn’t deserve.

  Instinctively he knew she needed this. Human touch. Comfort. Contact. She’d been through a horrific ordeal and he was delivering her to worse. There was nothing he could do about her fate, but he could at least offer her a little peace, respite from the inevitable storm. And it wasn’t nearly as distasteful as he would have thought. The idea that he could offer anyone, especially a woman, any measure of comfort was something he would have thought not only impossible but not in the least bit . . . enjoyable. That he would like it.

  There was something about this small, fierce woman that got to him. And that pissed him off. Nothing got to him. Not when it came to the mission. To the greater good. He couldn’t afford to be human, to feel emotion. Emotion could get him killed. It could get his men killed. And he owed them more than that. They were fiercely loyal to him and to one another. They’d put their lives on the line for him, just as he had for them, many times. Allowing a distraction such as the woman lying nestled in his arms would be a . . . disaster.

  As he lay there, definitely not resting as she did against him, he realized he was even more pissed that she trusted him. Maybe she hadn’t even acknowledged it to herself, but her actions defied whatever thoughts she had concerning his trustworthiness. She relaxed with him when she was vulnerable. Hurting, afraid, alone. She instinctively sought out his comfort and strength, clinging to it when she had nothing else in the world to hold on to. He’d become her anchor. In her mind, he was her savior, when he was the very worst sort of bastard.

  He was worse than the animals hunting her. Worse than Bristow and Maksimov. Because none of those men would even attempt to lie to her. To gain her trust. To make her believe they were something they weren’t. Only he did—was doing—that. And it burned like acid in his veins.

  He owed her truth, that he wasn’t her savior. That he was the instrument of her unspeakable torment and eventual death. Then she could hate him. Could never harbor illusions about who and what he was. And he’d never have to look into eyes filled with betrayal when she realized how wrong she’d been about him. But she’d proved that she was a fighter, and he couldn’t afford any resistance. Any chance she would escape—and she would try. Over and over. It would slow them down and risk not getting her out at all. Even if her return was inevitable.

  And so he lied. Not by words. But by actions. By omission. He didn’t correct her assumption that he was here to bring her home. He let her draw her own conclusions, rationalizing to himself that it wasn’t his fault if she came to the wrong ones. It was the worst sort of deception. Worse than outright lying.

  Yes, he owed her the truth, but it was the one thing he couldn’t give her.

  When the vehicle came to an abrupt halt, Hancock automatically anchored her more firmly so he absorbed the jolt instead of her. Only when the doors opened did his hold loosen on her, and he lifted his head to see Conrad’s grim face staring at him in resignation.

  “Jet’s already running. We need to load and go. We aren’t completely out of the no-fly zone and these assholes have heat-seeking missiles that could take us out.”

  Hancock nodded his acknowledgment and then began gently extricating himself from around Honor, moving slowly so he didn’t wake her from her drug-induced slumber.

  “Prep another syringe,” Hancock directed his second. “Just in case she rouses midflight. I want her out until she’s in a bedroom and doesn’t waken thinking she’s in immediate danger.”

  It had already been said. It was unnecessary for Hancock to explain himself again. It wasn’t something he ever did. Or had. Until now. It felt too much like he was justifying his actions, his decisions. Defending them. And that really pissed him off.

  Conrad’s eyes flickered, the only outward sign of the man’s dislike for the mission, but he didn’t argue. He merely nodded and dragged the med kit from the back as Hancock crawled over Honor to get out.

  He waved off Copeland’s offer to help get Honor from the vehicle. Honor was Hancock’s responsibility. His alone. His men were already unsettled, their usually unquestionable resolve faltering. He wouldn’t place them in the position of feeling they contributed more to Honor’s fate. That sin was for him and him alone to bear for all time.

  There would be no atonement. No grace for one such as he. He’d been unsalvageable long before this—Honor—but even if he’d had any shot at redemption, this would have sealed his eternal damnation. Hell was too good for someone who’d lived his life shedding the blood of others and sacrificing innocents for the fucking greater good.

  How could he even face his family after this? How could he look the man he considered a father in the eyes? Face his brothers. And Eden. An angel with more compassion and goodness in her soul than any other person he’d ever known. Except . . . Honor. Somehow his betrayal of Honor seemed to be as unforgivable as if he’d sacrificed Eden. He’d dropped the guise of justice and his pursuit of Maksimov, not once but twice, to save other innocents. So why not Honor?

  If he were truly honest, he would admit to himself, to his men, that this being their last chance was bullshit. There was always another opportunity given time and patience. But patience was what he was fast running out of. His resolve to end it now had less to do with it being his only shot and a lot more to do with the fact that Hancock was weary and he wanted out.

  His selfishness would cost Honor . . . everything. Because he was consumed with guilt, an emotion he’d thought he’d become immune to long ago, and h
e could no longer continue this empty, soulless existence. It was a choice, not between bringing Maksimov to swift justice or not, but between himself and Honor. Her life so Hancock could complete his final mission and walk away to live a half-life with no meaning, color or purpose.

  He would exist. Nothing more. Nothing less.

  He could end it all and simply kill himself, but that was too easy and he didn’t deserve final peace. He deserved to wake each morning and look in the mirror at the man who’d fucked over a beautiful, selfless woman just so he could stand down and not allow the ever-encroaching blackness that spread like an evil stain over his soul to erase the last vestiges of humanity he possessed.

  Reverently, as though he carried a precious treasure, he cradled Honor in his arms and boarded the small jet. He continued past the three rows of seats at the front of the plane to the back, where there was a sitting lounge that held a small sofa and two leather armchairs.

  Using his shoulder, he brushed open the door at the rear of the plane and entered the tiny bedroom that housed a double bed with barely enough room on either side of it to squeeze between it and the walls.

  Hefting her slight weight so that he could free one of his hands, he pulled the covers back and positioned one of the pillows so he could lay Honor down in comfort.

  He eased her onto the mattress and gently lowered her head until it met the pillow. He tensed when she stirred briefly and then let out his breath when she merely emitted a sigh and snuggled deeper into the pillow.

  He started to pull the covers up over her body but hesitated, knowing he needed to check her wound while she was still sedated and make sure the stitches had held and she wasn’t bleeding. He would do all of that once they were in the air. For now, he eased his large body onto the edge. He cursed when he bumped his head into the wall as he took his boots off. It took careful maneuvering to accomplish the task in the very narrow parameters of the bedroom.

  Hancock’s head immediately came up, his eyes sharp. There had been no knock on the door, but he knew immediately when it opened, even as soundlessly as it had been done.

  Conrad didn’t say anything. He never even looked Honor’s way. In fact, it appeared he made a very concerted effort not to let her into his line of sight, his face cold and unreadable, his eyes black, those of the killer they all were as he simply held out the syringe Hancock had requested.

  Hancock took it from his man’s hand and Conrad simply turned and walked out, his gaze never once moving in Honor’s direction.

  Hancock curled his fingers around the syringe, hating himself a little more with every breath. He’d never liked himself, but he would have never thought he hated himself until . . . now. He knew his job was brutal. That to others he was a heartless monster. Machine, not human. He had never hated himself because he knew that what he did was necessary. And righteous.

  But now?

  Self-loathing permeated every heartbeat. Because there was nothing righteous about sending an innocent woman to hell, no matter how many lives it saved in the process.

  CHAPTER 15

  HANCOCK only lightly dozed, not allowing himself to fall fully into sleep. Somehow, Honor had once more sought out his body and was curled into him like a kitten. His shirt was tightly fisted in her hands even in sleep, as if she were holding on to the only solid thing in her life.

  Even her legs were entwined with his, and she rested on her uninjured side and her head was nestled not on the pillow he’d settled her on, but on his shoulder. He could feel the light puffs of her breath blow warmly over his neck, and he marveled at how something so innocent and benign could feel so . . . good.

  Just holding her felt good. Right. As if she belonged there. Under his protection.

  He slammed the door on that thought so swiftly that he nearly flinched. He wasn’t her protector. But the fleeting thought had given him savage, albeit brief, satisfaction. He couldn’t remember feeling something so good. He didn’t have a lot of experience with good. Bad he could handle. Could process and compartmentalize it. Good? Not so much. That brief flash had been nearly intoxicating as for a moment he’d contemplated being the good guy. The knight in shining armor Honor seemed to consider him. And that was dangerous. No, not dangerous. Deadly. Because he could easily become addicted to an emotion denied to him until those few seconds ago.

  He didn’t have many more hours to endure and remain focused until . . .

  He closed his eyes, shocked by the pain that splintered through his heart at what was to come. Something that felt suspiciously like . . . sorrow . . . filtered sluggishly through his veins, creeping into his heart, filling it with an unfamiliar pain.

  He was blessedly distracted from the direction of his thoughts, and the danger they posed, when Honor stirred restlessly against him. He could feel her every movement, knew that she was gradually climbing through the fog of the sedative, feeling her way to awareness.

  Not yet. Not now, damn it. He reached blindly behind him to where the prepared syringe lay behind his back. He’d put it within easy reach so he could hold her as he was holding her now but inject her if she woke before he wanted her to.

  But mostly because he was a coward and he wanted to delay the moment when she no longer looked at him like he was some kind of goddamn hero and instead looked at him with all the despair of betrayal. He didn’t have to see the accusing look in her eyes. His imagination conjured the image well enough on its own and it was enough to make him . . . hurt.

  “Hancock?” she whispered against his neck.

  He froze in the process of uncapping the syringe one-handed, but then carefully, so as not to startle or frighten her, he slid his arm back over his body and placed his palm on her hip, the syringe extended between his fingertips so she only felt the warmth of his palm. Even with her senses dulled by medication and having lived every hour of the last many days in constant fear of discovery, she’d known immediately whom she was with. No panic. No fear that she’d been captured by the people hunting her. She was completely relaxed and confident she was safe.

  “Am I dreaming?” she said in a sleepy, confused tone.

  It was a compulsion, nothing more. He couldn’t have controlled it if his life depended on it. He brushed his lips over her forehead, right at her hairline.

  “Yes, honey. It’s just a dream. Stay asleep and keep dreaming of the good.”

  Her brow wrinkled as if she were sorting out his statement and pondering the truth of it. But then she shocked the ever-loving hell out of him, and he wasn’t a man who was shocked by anything.

  “Then if this is a dream, will you kiss me?” she asked softly. “If it’s a dream, it’s not real, so it won’t hurt anything. And you’ll never know you kissed me because this is my dream, not yours.”

  The thought rushed through his mind before he was even aware that it was there. No. Not just your dream. Mine as well. Fuck it all but this one mission with FUBAR written all over it.

  He held his breath, unable to do anything more than lie there rigidly, her body molded to his like a glove. A perfect fit. What the hell was he supposed to do?

  Another completely alien emotion gripped him by the throat.

  Panic.

  If he kissed her, it made his betrayal even worse. If he didn’t kiss her, he’d deny her the comfort she so obviously wanted—needed. And he’d vowed to give her nothing but good until the time came for him to hand her over to the enemy.

  Goddamn it.

  Fuck! He was already damned to hell. An eternity of torment and endless pain and torture. What was one more sin on top of the mountain he’d already committed? Somehow kissing a beautiful woman paled in comparison to all the blood he’d shed.

  “And is me kissing you what you want to happen in your dream?” he asked in a hushed murmur, not wanting to pull her even closer to full consciousness.

  He had the syringe so close to her flesh, and he didn’t want her to wake more fully. Hell, he didn’t even want her to remember this. It would only ma
ke it worse when . . .

  He shook the thought off again just as she whispered and nuzzled against his neck.

  “Yeah. You aren’t the badass you want everyone to think. I see you, Hancock. Maybe others don’t, but I do.”

  His breath escaped in a hiss of shock and surprise, and guilt gutted him, consumed him until he was literally shaking with it. Before he could venture further into territory best left alone, he quickly inserted the needle and pushed the medication into her body.

  She gave a flinch, her mouth parting against his throat, but he flung the syringe off the bed and quickly lifted his free hand to her chin, tilting it upward so his mouth could capture hers, swallowing any protest or question she might have voiced.

  His entire body jolted as though he’d been struck by lightning. Every corny description ever penned about chemistry, compatibility, a first kiss was suddenly only too real. Even in an airplane, he felt as though the entire earth shifted beneath him. An earthquake in mid air.

  He deepened the kiss because he was powerless to do anything else. Her mouth was like the strongest magnet. He couldn’t have pulled away. An entire army couldn’t have separated their lips.

  It was like drinking liquid sunshine. As soon as his lips had met hers, she opened her mouth in a breathy sigh and he inhaled her. Consumed her. She tasted sweeter than anything he’d ever known.

  He’d intended it to be a soft peck, nothing more. Just enough to satisfy her desire for a brief moment of intimacy. Human contact. Tenderness instead of the pain and violence she’d experienced for so many days. But as soon as he tasted her, felt the electric shock all the way to his toes, all thoughts of a chaste kiss and holding her until she fell back under fled.

  She made a throaty hum that vibrated over his tongue. He licked at the inside of her mouth. Tasted every inch of the luscious haven. Satin and silk, velvety soft. The heat between them rivaled the scorching desert they’d traveled. Her fingers curled more tightly into his chest, her nails, the few that hadn’t been broken to the quick, digging into his skin.

  He’d wear the marks from those nails, and for a brief time he’d have a reminder of her brand on him. Her mark. He wished to hell he could have them permanently tattooed on his skin. It would mark one of the best memories—and serve as a reminder of what he’d callously destroyed.

  His grip on her chin tightened and then loosened as he fanned his fingers out to grasp her jaw, holding her in place as he devoured the sweet innocence she offered him. He was already going to hell and this . . . this would be a memory that could sustain him through the upcoming darkness. One single moment captured in time that he could pause and replay over and over so it was this he remembered and saw instead of other horrific images of Honor.

  “I’ve never had a better dream,” she slurred, her eyes already half lidded as the draw of the medication pulled her deeper into its web. “So many nightmares. They never stop. First time I’ve dreamed . . . good. Thank you . . .”

  Her voice drifted off even as he kissed her again, and he kept kissing her even when she went utterly limp and her lips went slack. And when he swept his lips higher, feathering them over her cheek, his gut clenched when he tasted her tears.

  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