“I trust you,” she says as his knife points at her throat.

His gaze, cold and empty, flicks up to her face. The wet pink of his tongue ghosts over his bottom lip, pulling it between his teeth as a low growl rumbles in his chest.

“You sure that’s a good idea, duchess?” He rasps, his voice betraying the inner turmoil churning away beneath his calm, detached facade.

She nods, the pale column of her neck awaiting the sharp bite of his blade.

“Just do it already, Declan,” Masters demands, stubbing out the end of his cigarette on the scarred tabletop. “End the bitch, and we’ll finally get paid for this fucking mess.”

The tip of Declan’s knife quivers. He closes his eyes, wrestling with the conscience he thought died a long time ago.

A slender fingertip brushes along his arm, sending tiny shockwaves across his skin.

He glances up, meeting the mournful green of Bella’s gaze. He hates the resignation he sees in them, the tranquil way she just accepts this like she has no choice. He'd rather she screamed, begged, cried, anything to make this feel like it normally does, but she doesn't.

She gives him a shaky smile. “It's okay, D. Do what you have to do. Just make it quick,” she whispers. “For me.”

A phantom beat starts up in his chest again, the thumping of it so loud in the hollow chamber that he’s certain Masters can hear it. His grip tightens around the handle, his focus narrowing to the gentle thrum of the pulse in her neck. A single bead of sweat rolls down the smooth column as he struggles with the conscience he thought disappeared a long time ago .

Could he do it? Could he really watch the life seep from her eyes like he had so many before her? Would she be just another job or had she become something more?

"Hurry the fuck up, man," Masters groans. "I want to get the fuck out of this hellhole and get--"

His words are cut short as Declan whirls, burying the blade between his ribs. Masters stares down in shock, a wheezing gurgle slipping past his lips as a tiny rivulet of blood rolls over Declan's hand.

"You talk too much," Declan snarls, twisting the blade as he yanks it free.

Masters falls to his knees, sparing a final glance toward the woman on the table before he collapses into a motionless heap.

"D, what are you doing?" she asks softly, disbelief in her tone as he stoops to wipe the blade on Masters's shirt. "This is your ticket out, remember? Your shot at a normal life. They won't let you have that if you let me live."

He stands, sheathing the blade as he turns toward her. "It isn't worth having unless you're in it, duchess."

Tears start to well up in her eyes as he undoes the clasp securing her wrist. She takes his hand as soon as hers are free, clutching it to her chest as she sits up.

"Please, D," she begs. "Don't do this. Finish the job. Earn your freedom like you always wanted."

His rough palm cups her cheek. "Duchess, I don't want it if it's going to cost me you."

She sobs, smiling as he presses his forehead to hers.

"I wasn't even living till I met you," he whispers. "If I got to burn down the whole Establishment to keep you, then pass me a fucking match."

He kisses her, pressing his lips to hers like he could inhale the very essence of her. She wraps her arms around him, clutching him so tight she could leave a mark. He hopes she does. He doesn't ever want her to let go.

They pull apart slowly, staring into each other's eyes a moment.

"They'll never stop hunting us," she whispers.

"Good," he says with a wicked grin. "We could use the practice. Come on." He helps her off the table and reaches down, pulling Masters's gun from his belt. "Let's get off this fucking rock."