Aequitas - Hope Anika (i like reading books txt) 📗
- Author: Hope Anika
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A chill rippled across her skin. The warning wasn’t personal; it wasn’t a threat. No it was more of a be careful what you wish for kind of thing.
And far more effective for it.
“She’ll want to come with me,” Honor insisted. “I’m her family.”
“Perhaps.”
“They stole her.”
“Yes.”
Anger and fear mixed in her chest, a caustic brew that made her throat swell. “You don’t know anything.”
He didn’t respond, just poured the whisked egg into the pan, and then stood next to it, silently watching it cook. She stared at him, angry, and Cian’s words poured through her. I found out that the men who took him—those he fought for—had killed his parents, his sisters, his entire village. They’d spared only the young men and boys, and they’d taken them into a camp and trained them to kill. They’d used the threat of further annihilation to ensure obedience—for Akachi, it was his younger brother—and they made them into an army.
Akachi did know, better than anyone. And even if he was wrong—because he was wrong—he was only trying to help.
“I’m sorry,” she said after a moment.
“You cannot make decisions for her,” he replied quietly. “No matter how responsible for her you feel.”
The swell spread to her chest, making her breath tight. “She’s my sister.”
“Yes. But she is other things, as well. Do not make her choose between them.”
Pain arrowed through her. She’d had hope goddamn it. Fucking hope. For the first time in…forever. And he was crushing it to dust right before her eyes.
“I do not say these things to harm you,” he continued. “But you must be prepared for the possibility that she is exactly where she wishes to be.”
No. No, she isn’t. Fuck you!
But snarling at him didn’t make what he said any less true. And while Honor could accept that what he said had merit, she didn’t agree that Hanna would chose captivity over freedom. Her oppressor over her family.
No. That wouldn’t happen. Even if it had happened to him.
“I understand,” she replied finally, reluctantly, and his black gaze found hers, and he nodded. Then he added the vegetables to the egg and began to shred cheese over the mixture. The scent filled the air, and her mouth watered, and in spite of the heavy mass in her chest, her belly rumbled in excitement. “Thank you.”
“You are welcome,” he said.
We never began
Cian adjusted the glinting platinum cufflink that adorned the sleeve of his tuxedo, Honor’s words echoing in his head. He hadn’t had time to refute them; no, he’d had to put out a fire, instead. Which was not atypical in his business, and such was life, that those interruptions were rarely well-timed. But he’d been forced to leave Honor not only before addressing that mistaken belief—that they weren’t—but also after disclosing their shared history, one of which she’d been completely aware.
Vladimir Dragunov.
The irony was not lost on Cian—that the bastard who’d shot his mother full of cheap heroin and left her to die in a filthy, rat-infested alley in St. Petersburg, the same man who’d engineered the slaughter of Honor’s family and the theft of her younger sister—had brought them together, united them long before they’d met, before they’d even known of each other’s existence.
Cian hadn’t lied; he had wanted to kill her. When she’d stolen from him the sole purpose for his existence, and his dreams of blood and torture and death were thrust forever out of reach. Justice—that’s what he’d sought. Justice for his mother and for the boy who’d lost everything with her death. And with one well-aimed strike, Honor had taken that from him.
For a long time, he’d hated her. The rage and violence he felt toward Dragunov had shifted to her, and he’d hunted her relentlessly. But when he’d discovered who she was, her reasons became clear, and for the first time, he’d been able to step back and understand that what she’d done was exactly what he’d been planning to do—she’d simply beaten him to it.
I began to respect you. Admire you. And when I finally managed to discover who you were, and why you’d gone after Vladimir Dragunov, I forgave you.
He’d frightened her, and Cian wasn’t sure he’d had sufficient time—or words—to reassure her before he’d left her. And now they had to prepare for what they would find waiting at the estate of Andrei Petrov, something Cian knew Honor wasn’t prepared for, no matter what she believed. Because he’d not disclosed everything he’d learned about Hannah. In spite of his promise not to lie to Honor, Cian had omitted the most important part of what he’d learned, and for that, he knew, there would be a price. But Honor was already perched on the edge; telling her would have only pushed her over, something which served no one. No, this was something she had to learn for herself, and no matter how angry with him she would be—and Cian knew she would be furious—he believed it to be the only choice.
No matter the fall out. Because he also knew better than anyone that not everyone wanted to be saved.
“You’re trying to kill me, aren’t you?”
He looked up to see Honor at the top of the stairs, glowering down at him, and every muscle lining his spine turn to steel. She wore a long, sleek, velvet wrap-dress in the deepest green; he’d had it delivered that morning. The material clung to her, caressing the opulent curves he’d felt but not seen, and in the deep vee of the dress’s neckline, the lush arcs of her breasts and pale skin kissed by freckles beckoned. His fingers twitched as she began to descend the stairs, and he grew hard.
Christ.
Her hair was a wild cloud around her head; her eyes glittered, outlined in kohl. Her mouth was painted cherry red, and Cian wanted to lick every inch of her.
“Death by stiletto,” she muttered, moving slowly, carefully down toward him. The dress had a slit in it, and her thigh peeked through, a flash of slender muscle wrapped in silken hose that made his hands tighten into fists and his heart beat hard in his throat.
He wanted to carry her back up those stairs.
“You’re beautiful,” he said, his voice rough.
Color flushed her cheeks, but she snorted. “It’s the dress.”
“It’s you.”
Her gaze met his, so green it was like falling into spring. “It’s too much.”
“Nay,” he denied softly. “You’re perfect.”
Her eyes skimmed over him and lingered. Her pulse was a wild flutter in her throat, and her flush deepened as she took him in, and satisfaction coursed through him. She wanted him, too. The air between them pulsed with current and possibility, and Cian wished they had a different mission on this night. Time. To spend learning each other, to strengthen the nascent bond blooming between them.
To prepare for what he feared lay ahead.
“So what’s the plan?” she asked as she halted before him.
“Reconnaissance,” he replied and pulled a small comm link from his pocket. Before she could move—or protest—he leaned over and gently inserted it into her right ear, his fingers stroking gently down her neck. “Tonight we assess the situation.”
He didn’t miss the tremor that moved through her, or the sharp intake of her breath, but she only tilted her head toward him, her eyes narrowing. “I’m going to bring her back.”
Cian said nothing, unwilling to argue. Just keeping Honor in hand when she realized what had become of Hannah—and what he’d kept from her—was going to be hard enough; stopping her if she decided to act might prove impossible. Better that she didn’t realize they weren’t going to storm the castle. Because removing Hannah from Andrei Petrov’s clutches was not simply a matter of righting a wrong.
Not by a long shot.
“I mean it,” Honor insisted. “I’m not going to leave without her.”
Cian only slid his hand into his pocket and removed the other accessory he’d bought for her. He captured her left hand, and her eyes flew to his when he slid the slender platinum band with its large, square-cut emerald onto her ring finger. For a brief, intense moment, Cian wished it wasn’t a pretense, even though he knew it was too much, too soon. Honor stared at him, her cheeks blooming, and the awareness between them vibrated almost painfully.
“What’s this?” she whispered.
“Your engagement ring.”
“No.” She shook her head. “There’s no need—”
“If you wear my ring, no one will question you.” Cian’s hand tightened on hers; skin like silk, such delicate, easily-broken bones. No matter her fierceness. So he would protect her, whether she liked it or not. “And we cannot afford any questions, a rứnsearc.”
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