Oh, you had him.

For a while at least. For a time he believed every little lie you told him, everything you said to not blow your cover as a spy. Due to unforeseen circumstances however, the curtain drew, and all was revealed. You were caught red-handed, and now you would be dealt with.

He grumbled to himself as he scattered gasoline around the chair to which you were bound, matchbox in hand, ready to end you, but he did not want it. He was frustrated. With himself, mostly.

"Ye 'ave to know one thing, luv." he admitted, not meeting your gaze.

"I 'on't want this. I don't wanna 'urt you, luv. But yer forcin' my 'and. I hate you." he muttered through gritted teeth, and it was evident he was trying his damndest to himself believe the last remark.