“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.”

Tears glittered in Hancock’s eyes, shocking her with uncharacteristic emotion. He looked gutted. He had the look of a man tortured with demons that would haunt him for eternity. She wished with everything she had that she could take them for him. So that he could be free. Most of all she hated that her dying would haunt him for the rest of his life.

“I have two things to ask of you, Hancock. Just two. And they’re simple. I’ll never ask for another thing and I won’t fight you. I won’t try to escape. I do have some dignity and I’ve resigned myself to what must be. But I want you to promise me two things.”

“Anything,” he said hoarsely.

“Promise me that my death won’t be in vain. Swear to me that you’ll take Maksimov out.”

“He’s going down,” Hancock said, menace in his voice. “I swear it, Honor. I will not let your sacrifice be for nothing. Never.”

She briefly closed her eyes, steeling herself for the second request.

“Please spare my parents the details. You can tell them that my death brought an end to a maniac and his entire empire. But swear to me that you’ll tell them my death was quick and merciful. Promise me you won’t tell them how I died. They’d never survive it. I don’t want them to know that I prayed for death or that I died screaming and begging for death. I don’t want them to know all that was done to me. Please, Hancock. Please, I’m begging. Do this for me. For them.”

Hancock gathered her hand in his, squeezing so hard it took all her control not to wince because she knew he wasn’t trying to hurt her. It was the strength of his emotions, emotions he was trying not to allow to show but she did. She saw him. The heart of him. Past the outward facade he’d perfected over a lifetime.

“All your family will know is what a fierce, brave and loving woman you were. They will know of all the lives you saved and the courage you showed the entire time. When I said that you mattered, that you would never be forgotten, I never meant for you to think that what would be remembered is the way you . . . died.”

The last came out strangled, as if just saying the word wounded him deeply. He looked away from her, no longer able to keep their gazes locked and so she wouldn’t see what he so desperately tried to hide.

“Thank you,” she whispered, her own voice thick with tears.

“How can you thank me for being the instrument of your death?” he raged, anger and sorrow reflected in every word. “How can you offer forgiveness and understanding to your executioner? You should hate me, Honor. You should despise me. You should be plotting to kill me, to escape, to do whatever necessary to take me down, and all you ask is that I make sure Maksimov dies and that your family is shielded from the details of your torture and agony?”

Her face went soft, and she lifted her hand to gently stroke his cheek.

“You aren’t my executioner.”

“The fuck I’m not,” he said, fire in his voice. “I’m not a goddamn hero. I’m a merciless killer who is willing to sacrifice everything that is good in this world so I can complete my mission. That makes me no better than Maksimov, no matter what you say or think.”

He abruptly stood and she felt the loss of their closeness, suddenly chilled and shivering.

“You need to rest,” he clipped out. “You’re in pain. And don’t deny it. Conrad is going to give you another injection, and I want you to sleep.”

But she knew his order was only partly born of his belief that she needed rest and relief from the relentless pain that nagged her. He could no longer bear to look at her. Could no longer bear the guilt and horrible anger and helpless rage without losing all control.