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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 he 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.
