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I start to say no. He’s not ready for the truth and he doesn’t have time to get there.

But something in his dark eyes stops me.

He’s not angry. He’s not hurt. He’s not even a little bit sad.

He’s trying to hide behind his stoic façade, but he can’t.

He’s ecstatic.

What the fuck?

I study his expression. The vulnerability in his dark eyes. The softness in his jaw. The slight openness of his lips.

If I didn’t know better, I’d believe he’s ready to hear the truth.

The full truth.

I’m here to kill you. Not just to fuck you.

If he wants to die knowing why we didn’t work, well⁠—

Who am I to deny him?

My lips curl into a smile. Of course, Matteo wants to go out with the truth.

That’s just so… Matteo.

And, yes, this isn’t an official last request. But we both know it would be. Maybe along with a kiss or a touch or a fuck.

But he’d never ask for a drink or a square of chocolate or the sound of his favorite song. (I can never remember which cheesy old timey love song is his favorite. He adores so many of them).

No, he’d want to look me in the eyes and hear every thought in my head.

He’d want a knife through the heart, not the painless drift of drugs.

He wants it to hurt.

And that’s⁠—

Hot.

There are too many thoughts in my head. I want him. I worry for him. I don’t want to hurt him.

I have to kill him.

If I don’t, the people who show up here will do far worse.

I close my eyes and push everything else aside. One hour of old times. Then another, for him.

Then, I deal with the rest.

There. I find the focus I need. I blink my eyes open. I stare into his dark eyes.

And I follow my instincts.

“If you want, I can take a knife and stab you right here.” I place my hand on his heart. “It might be less painful.”

His heart beats against my palm.