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“There is a difference between becoming like someone in order infiltrate his ranks in order to kill him and save thousands of lives and becoming that monster when you aren’t on the hunt for one,” she said in a soft voice. “You can tell yourself all manner of lies, Hancock. You can try to convince yourself that you’re no better than Maksimov, but you and I both know the truth. Even though you’ll never admit it to yourself. You do what you have to do in order to save countless innocents, but you hate it and you hate yourself. But that’s not who you are. It’s not who you will ever be. The world is a better place for having you in it,” she said, even quieter than before. “Don’t let evil win and let it convince you that you are evil. That you’re some unfeeling bastard who craves killing, torturing and shedding blood. Because when you truly start believing that of yourself, then you will become the very thing you hate the most.”
“Fuck me. Swear to God I don’t know what I’m going to do with you, Honor,” he said, his agitation obvious.
Her face immediately fell, and she turned, trying to hide it from him. Because they both knew exactly what he was going to do with her, and she didn’t want to make him feel even worse.
How fucked up was that? That she wanted to shield him from her pain. That she didn’t want to cause him pain. To add yet one more burden—sin—to stain his already tarnished soul. He had betrayed her. He’d deceived her at every turn. She should hate him. She shouldn’t care how much pain she caused him or he caused himself. But she couldn’t do it. She didn’t understand this . . . connection . . . whatever the hell it was between them, only that it was there. A living, breathing entity that she was powerless against. She simply couldn’t turn it off and make herself cold and unfeeling as Hancock could when he wished it. It wasn’t her nature. It wasn’t who she was, any more than Hancock was what he purported to be.
“That was a sorry thing to say,” Hancock said in a low growl. “Goddamn it, Honor, I’m sorry. That was shitty and unforgivable.”
“I thought I had already established that only I get to decide what is shitty or unforgivable,” she said lightly.
And then she gave him a somber look and beckoned him with her hand.
Grudgingly, he came, settling onto the bed next to her. This time it was she who took his hand, when before she’d tried to avoid any personal contact with him. She curled her fingers around his and at first he was rigid, stiff and unyielding, but she simply waited, refusing to allow him to slip from her grasp.
Then with a sigh he relaxed and stroked his thumb over her knuckles.
“Look at me, Hancock,” she asked softly.
At first he refused, but then finally he lifted his gaze to hers, and he looked . . . tormented. Something deep inside her twisted painfully and robbed her of breath. There was grief in his eyes and it hurt her. And it made her want to take it from him. To somehow ease the horrible pain inside him.
“I know you don’t believe me. You don’t have to. But you are going to listen to what I have to say and you aren’t going to block me out because you don’t want to hear what I have to say. Do you understand?”
He went utterly still and his eyes became even more haunted, as if he dreaded her next words. But he nodded slowly, his gaze holding hers. Those beautiful green eyes full of so much agony that it hurt to hold on to that connection. But she didn’t look away. She didn’t want him to perceive it as a rejection of who and what he thought himself to be.
“I don’t hate you,” she said, gauging his reaction. “I did, at first,” she admitted. “I felt betrayed. I trusted you. I felt safe with you when I hadn’t felt safe in a long time.”
Every word was as though she’d thrust a dagger into him and twisted, the evidence there in the fathomless depths of those green pools.
“I’m not saying this to hurt you,” she said, allowing the ache she felt into her voice. “I’m saying this to get to my point.”
“I deserve far worse,” he bit out.
She ignored him.
“But I understand, Hancock. You don’t think I do because you don’t want to think I do. But I understand why this must happen. I’ve already given you my forgiveness. What you do with that is up to you, but it’s given nonetheless. You can’t make me take it back. I won’t take it back. It’s mine to give. You don’t get to decide what I give or don’t give. You either accept it or don’t, but it’s given and when I give something, I don’t take it back. Ever.
“Do I want to die? Of course not. I have so much to live for. So many dreams . . .” She drifted off, knowing this was pointless and would only make him feel worse. She shook her head to rid herself of the direction her words had drifted.
“But I know that my death is a necessary thing. And if my death means that Maksimov can no longer cause so much hurt to so many others, then I can die in peace. I’ll know that my life did mean something. That my surviving the attack did in fact have a purpose. A much higher purpose. And that’s enough for me. I can face death and not be afraid because I’ll picture all those women, those young girls and know they are safe because you took Maksimov down.”
He made an inarticulate sound of rage but didn’t interrupt her.
“You showed me kindness and gentleness,” she said quietly. “You didn’t hurt me, and we both know someone else would have. They wouldn’t have cared what condition I was delivered to Maksimov in. But you protected me and we both know that. And for that I thank you. But what I thank you the most for is giving me the truth. So that I don’t go to my death terrified, alone. That I’ll know as I take my last breath that my death wasn’t senseless and without purpose.”
