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 wouldn’t be mortified every time he looked at her or she looked at him. She’d simply act as though she had no memory of the event.

But that didn’t mean she wouldn’t hold that memory dear to her, savor it, lock it away to be pulled out at will so she could relive that moment over and over.

For now, putting away the pleasure of that one stolen moment, she forced herself to the task at hand. She had to open her damn eyes and figure out where she was. And if she was safe.

It took far more effort than she would have liked to pry her eyes open. Her entire face was set into a grimace as she worked to lift what felt like lead eyelids. A sliver of low light registered and she took heart in the fact that she was making progress. After several more steadying breaths, and ensuring that she wasn’t going to be sick, she forced them open all the way.

It was disorienting at first. Too much to take in all at once. Nothing about her surroundings was familiar. The first thing she registered was that she was in a very comfortable bed. Not a cot, a bedroll or a makeshift place to sleep. It was an honest-to-goodness real bed with a mattress and linens to die for. Five-star-hotel quality, not that she had much experience with five-star accommodations. But this was heaven.

As she shrugged the last vestiges of fuzz from her mind, she swiftly examined her surroundings, looking for any hint that she was in danger.

The walls were painted in soft lavender, several floral paintings strategically placed to give the room an open and airy feel. The furnishings were expensive, custom-looking and hand carved. The wood was a deep brown, the contrast between the darker pieces and the more feminine-looking walls pleasing to her eye.

She felt . . . safe. No fear pricked her nape or caused the hairs on her arms to rise. But where was she?

She shifted in the plush bed, her intention to sit up, to get out of the bed and . . . do what?

The question was settled for her when her body shrieked its protest to her movement. She could feel the blood drain from her cheeks and pain lanced through her side, leaving her breathless. Her lungs were frozen, unable to suck air in or expel it back out. Panicked, she didn’t know whether to lower herself back to the bed or continue her ascent. Either one was going to hurt like hell.

A noise at the door startled her. Her body jerked involuntarily, which caused another blast of pain scorching her side.

Hancock filled the doorway. He took one look at her and issued a vicious curse under his breath even as he strode quickly to the bed. He gathered her in his arms, his hold tight but not painful. He carefully eased her back down into the mattress, but even with the obvious care he took in moving her, pain washed through her, robbing her of breath just when she’d thought she’d gotten it back.

Tears swam in her vision, causing Hancock’s grim, worried face to swim above her.

“Damn it, Honor. You shouldn’t have tried to get up.”

She said nothing for a moment, her nostrils distending as she tried desperately to suck in oxygen and breathe through the remnants of the crippling pain.

“Where am I?” she asked weakly. “Are we safe?”

His expression became even more grim, a distant flicker in his eyes just before he looked away, neatly avoiding her gaze.

“Yes,” he said after a moment. “We’re safe here.”

She closed her eyes. “Thank God. But where is here? Are we back home? Can I call my family?” A tear trickled hotly down her cheek. “They probably think I’m dead.”

Hancock cursed again, the words blistering even though he uttered them in barely above a whisper. He knelt beside the bed and put his hand on her forehead in what could only be construed as tenderness. Her eyes flew to his in confusion, because he’d never made any outward show of softness to her except the times when he didn’t think she would be aware.

“Right now, you have to focus on getting well,” he said in that grim voice. And yet she heard something else in his tone. Something she couldn’t quite put her finger on, and it bothered her. He seemed . . . uneasy. And Hancock was confident and unreadable if nothing else.

“How long?” she asked, and then regretted exerting herself by speaking so much. Who knew the task of talking would be so exhausting?

Pain had taken steady hold of her. It was raw and pulsing, rising up once more after the initial relief of being sucked back into the heavenly cloud of the bed she rested in.

“As long as it takes,” he said vaguely.

His gaze searched hers, making her uncomfortable with his scrutiny. It was as if he could see every single thing inside her. As if he felt the pain radiating from her body. His eyes grew cold and his lips thinned. He seemed angry.

“You’re hurt, or do you not remember getting yourself shot when you protected one of my men?”

Yeah, he was pissed and he was letting her know it. He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t have to. In fact, if he had shouted at her, she wouldn’t be as nervous. The low whip of authority in his voice was like a tangible lash of reprimand that she felt.

She licked her lips before parting them to defend herself and promptly found herself hushed when he placed two fingers over her mouth and his gaze dared her to defy his silent dictate for her not to speak.

“We can’t move you until you’re out of the woods,” he said. “You lost a lot of blood and I’m giving you IV fluids and antibiotics. I was just coming in to see if you were awake and in pain, and you are both. So I’m giving you pain medicine so you can rest and heal.”

She stirred, the protest strong on her lips. She didn’t care how hurt she was. She was so close to freedom and home that she could taste it, and she didn’t want to waste another single day. Every hour that she was away from her family was an hour they believed the absolute worst.