I WOULD KILL FOR YOU

Chapter 6: The Confession

I wasn’t looking for it.

Honestly, I was just changing the sheets. He’d left earlier, saying he had to "handle something." That could mean anything with Dario. It could mean a fight. A favor. Something worse. I didn’t ask anymore. I had stopped asking when I realized he always came back to me.

The mattress was heavier than usual when I tried to lift it and tuck in the corners. My fingers slipped under the edge, searching for a better grip, and that’s when I felt it—leather, cool and worn. I pulled it out slowly, my hands shaking even though I didn’t know why yet. Maybe I already knew.

It was a journal.

Black. No title. The spine cracked when I opened it.

Names.

Pages and pages of names, each one neatly written, then crossed out with thick black lines. Some had dates. Some had little notes scribbled beside them—"Too loud," "Lied to me," "Touched her arm."

Her. Me.

I didn’t breathe until I flipped to the middle. I didn’t know what I was looking for, but the moment I saw it, I felt the cold crawl over my skin.

My name. Right there. The only name not crossed out.

And next to it, in sharp, dark ink: If they leave me, I’ll burn the city down.

I stared at it for a long time.

The silence in the room was so loud, I could hear my heartbeat in my ears. The words blurred, but I couldn’t look away. My fingers tightened around the journal as my thoughts spiraled. I should have run. I should have grabbed my keys and bolted out the front door. I should have called someone. Screamed. Fought. Hid.

But I didn’t.

I closed the journal slowly and slid it back under the mattress, tucking the sheet in as if nothing had happened. My hands were still trembling when I walked to the kitchen. I opened the fridge, took out vegetables I didn’t even want, and started chopping them on the counter.

The knife moved in a rhythm, back and forth, back and forth. I kept telling myself to breathe, to focus. It didn’t matter what I found. It didn’t change anything, right? He loved me. He loved me enough to kill for me. Enough to destroy for me. That’s what this meant, didn’t it?

I didn’t know what kind of person that made me.

But I kept cooking.

The door creaked open half an hour later. I didn’t turn around. I could feel his presence before he said a word. It was like the air thickened when he entered the room. My shoulders tensed just slightly, but I kept stirring the pot.

Then I smelled it—metallic, sharp. Blood.

He stepped behind me, his body close enough to make my skin twitch. He pressed a kiss to my cheek, the warmth of his lips soft and familiar, and somehow terrifying.

“Smells good,” he said, voice low and satisfied.

I turned to him finally. His shirt collar was stained red. The cuffs too. He didn’t try to hide it.

“You hungry?” I asked, forcing my voice to sound normal, soft, sweet—like it always did.

He smiled. It wasn’t the kind of smile people give you on the street. It was the kind that promised things. Dangerous things. Things you couldn’t come back from.

“Starving,” he murmured.

He sat at the table like everything was normal. Like he didn’t just come back from doing something unthinkable. Like there wasn’t a list of people—dead people—hidden in his room, and my name wasn’t sitting at the bottom like a ticking time bomb.

I served the food. I sat across from him. I watched him eat like I always did.

And I told myself I was okay.

Because maybe if I acted like nothing changed, it wouldn’t. Maybe if I kept loving him, if I stayed, I’d never see my name crossed out. Maybe I could be the exception. The only one who didn’t end up in red.

But the truth was—it was too late.

I had already made my choice when I put that journal back.

And I didn’t run.