Aequitas - Hope Anika (i like reading books txt) 📗

Not that she trusted him…entirely. But the sting of his duplicity had faded. She understood why he hadn’t told her, but she didn’t appreciate it. And if it ever happened again, they were done.

For good.

You’ll regret this, and I want you to regret nothing. Not with me.

She should regret it—unplanned, ill-considered, a complication of epic proportions—but she didn’t. Not for a minute. In point of fact, she’d spent most of the day wrestling with herself and considering a repeat performance.

“Insanity,” she muttered, but it was a token protest.

After Cian’s deliberate manipulation and Hannah’s brutal rejection, Honor had wanted only to run back to her sanctuary and lick her wounds. She’d been ready to pack her bags when Cian walked in. Asshole. With his stupid, heartfelt apology and fine Irish whiskey. He was right—it had helped. Not that she was proud of her storm of tears—long past due—or the fact that she’d stuck her tongue down his throat in effort to feel something other than the wrenching pain that lived like a second self within her. But she wasn’t sorry.

And that was a problem. Because that made it far more likely, she would conduct a repeat performance. Which was just stupid, considering. And that she wasn’t certain he wouldn’t make the mistake of lying to her again—no matter what he said—especially if he thought it was best.

Like Sam.

A trait she’d never cared for. What was she even thinking, getting involved with a man like Cian?

Not that she’d been thinking. Not once he’d kissed her.

Really kissed her.

She’d awoken this morning naked and alone, tucked deep under the covers, Cian’s scent lingering in the air. She’d slept deeply, dreamlessly in his arms, safe in a way she’d never known. Another problem, because that was something she could get very, very used to.

So stupid. Someone should give her a prize.

And Cian was wrong: the saga of the search for Hannah was over. Her sister didn’t want anything to do with her; she’d made that crystal clear. He might believe Hannah would change her mind, but Honor wasn’t willing to wager her heart on wishful thinking. Family, he’d called Hannah, but Honor knew better. It was a stranger she’d faced last night, not the sister she remembered. And she couldn’t afford any more stupid fantasies. They hurt too much.

No. It was time to face the music. To accept that Hannah was gone. To figure out how she was now going to move forward—because there was that not inconsequential matter of being hunted, and as Cian had pointed out, the fact that he’d found her meant others were right behind him. She was going to have to make some changes.

Big ones.

‘Till death do us part.

Crazy claptrap. Damn him. Even now, seated before her laptop, trying to dig up something useable on Andrei Petrov, she was staring into space like a lovesick loon, remembering those silly words. Butterflies in her belly, nerves in her throat, her heart battering her ribs like an angry ram.

And some insane part of her thought: Why the hell not?

Because there were a million reasons. Because she didn’t know him, not truly. Because he’d lied to her and would probably do it again. Because they were strangers, no matter Cian’s fanciful belief. Kindred spirits. Jesus. What was the man smoking?

She took risks all the time; one could not hunt the men she did without putting her life on the line. But those were easy, done from within the walls of her tower; they were intangible and moot. But this…

This could destroy her. This was a chance unlike any she’d ever contemplated, and that scared the shit out of her. It was something she really, really didn’t want to think about.

“Andrei Petrov,” she reminded herself and glared at the screen of her laptop.

Because Hannah might be beyond reach, but the man who claimed to be her father was not. And no matter what Hannah chose to believe—or what she now called herself—he was not her father. The distinction was impossible to dismiss, and it incensed Honor that she was simply expected to accept such an atrocity. That Hannah could believe her family would abandon her, that she would allow another to take the place of the man who’d taken care of her for the first twelve years of her life…Honor wanted to dig up every skeleton Petrov had and hang them out to dry. She wanted Hannah to know exactly who the man who’d “saved” her was.

Unfortunately, she hadn’t found squat. In point of fact, the only thing she could find was further evidence that Andrei Petrov operated on the right side of the law. He sold his weapons only to legitimate buyers; his company had signed several agreements with NATO, the UN and countless world governments agreeing not to arm despots and terrorists. He was generous with his money, he provided military-grade body armor to civilian armies free of charge, and he went out of his way to make certain the arms deals he took part in were wholly above-board.

“Wanker,” she muttered.

Even the dark web was silent. So either Petrov had a reach she’d never before seen, or he truly was exactly what he seemed.

Which was impossible. Because no one was what they seemed.

It only made her more determined to find something.

“What war are you waging today, a rứnsearc?”

She started and looked up to see Cian standing in the doorway, sleek and elegant in a tailor-made suit the color of charcoal.  He lounged in the doorway, his hands thrust into his pockets, a small, warm smile tugging at his mouth as he watched her. And because it was the first time Honor had seen him all day, she blushed. Hot, fiery red from head to toe. The rush of pleasure from the night before washed over her, and her breath caught tightly in her lungs.

“Petrov,” she replied huskily. “He’s going down.”

Cian frowned and walked into the room. “Because?”

“Because he stole my sister.”

“According to Hannah, he saved her.”

Honor waved that away. “Stockholm syndrome.”

“Lass,” he said sternly.

“It’s not right.” She shook her head. “Not any of it. I’m going to fix it.”

Cian halted next to the narrow wooden desk where she sat. She’d gone out onto the balcony earlier, but there were too many distractions. Not that she was having any more success at focusing while sitting at the desk—especially now that he’d appeared—but she was trying.

“You can’t hurt him,” Cian said and sat on the edge of the desk. His bright hazel gaze flitted over her, and heat instantly followed the path of his eyes until the blood in her veins simmered, and she looked away, back at the cursor blinking on her screen.

Focus.

“She’ll never forgive you,” Cian continued, his tone patient. “You’ll destroy any chance left that exists.”

“No chance exists at all,” Honor told him, ignoring the ache that gripped her. “If I can’t have her, neither will he.”

“Lass,” Cian said again.

“No,” Honor said. “Him claiming to be her father. Buying her like cattle and brainwashing her. I won’t just let it be. It’s not right.”

“You’re making a lot of assumptions,” Cian told her. “She said nothing about him purchasing her. She said only that he’d saved her. And the woman I saw last night was no victim. Her photographs alone spoke of strength and compassion and a profound awareness of the world around her. I know you’re hurting, a rứnsearc. But this is not the answer.”

Honor looked up at him. “You disapprove?”

Her tone was sharp, but Cian only nodded and said mildly, “Aye. I do.”

Stung, Honor slapped her laptop shut. “Then I’ll do it alone.”

“Honor.”

She picked up her laptop and strode past him, jerking from reach when he tried to stop her. Her pack sat on the floor and she tossed it onto the bed, unaccountably angry with him. “Thanks for everything, Cian. I appreciate your help with this. Really. But I think it’s time for me to go.”

“Honor,” he said again, and something in his tone made the ache in her chest swell to unbearable proportions.

“I can’t let you do something you would regret,” he said quietly. “And if you do this, you will regret it.”

He had the right to his opinion, and part of her knew he was trying to be the voice of reason, but she wasn’t feeling at all reasonable. First he lied to her, then he told her she was wrong.

“I thought you would be on my side,” she said, the words unwilling.

“Always,” he said.

She turned to glare at him. “Then why are you arguing with me?”

“Because you’re wrong.”

She flinched. “You would do it.”

“Nay, I wouldn’t. You weren’t alone in that room with her last night, lass. I was there. I heard what she said—and what she didn’t. This is not about Andrei Petrov. This is about Anna.”

Pain lanced through Honor, as hot and bright as a brand. “That’s not her goddamn name.”

“Aye,