Chapter 27 Holland
HOLLAND
The remainder of the evening unfolded in a much more relaxed manner as we gathered around the table for dinner.
The aroma of the meal mingled with the soft glow of candlelight, creating a cozy atmosphere that contrasted with the tense undercurrents of the earlier conversation.
I had no idea what Death and Kip had discussed during their time outside, but a nagging suspicion lingered in my mind.
It was likely about me and the decision of whether I would be allowed to live or not.
If I were in Death and Ella’s shoes, I would have made my decision hours ago—and it would’ve ended with me zipped in a body bag.
I seemed to have struck a chord with Ella on a deeper, more primal level.
It was fascinating how swiftly people forged connections with others when bound by shared dark secrets.
It felt like an unspoken form of insurance, a pact.
After dinner, Death picked up the rigid corpse from the floor with a practiced ease and then he and Kip left for a while.
Ella and I slipped on our safety masks and gloves Kip had provided and set to work scrubbing the bloodstains from the floor with a potent chemical solution that was left in the abandoned building.
It hadn’t taken me long to realize what this building was used for: a remote place to kill and clean victims.
This wasn’t quite how I’d imagined the evening playing out, but in the process, I picked up a few useful tricks regarding Kip’s cleaning techniques.
Once the men returned, Death and Ella said goodbye, and Kip and I slipped into bed, exhausted.
I curled against him, my head resting on his chest, the steady thrum of his heartbeat beneath my ear.
His arms banded around me, strong and unyielding, yet tender in a way that made me feel safe for the first time in years.
I spread my hand over his heart, claiming proof he was real, that he was here.
He shifted just enough to pull me closer, his thumb brushing lazy circles across the sliver of skin exposed where my top had ridden up.
His touch was soft, almost absentminded, but it sank deep, quieting the chaos in my mind.
I let my body mold to his, every breath syncing with the rise and fall of his chest, until the tension bled out of me.
Sleep came quickly—peaceful, unbroken. For the first time in years, I didn’t dream of my sister or Draco.
Sometime past midnight, a sharp shift in the air jolted me awake. Snapping out of a deep sleep, I patted the bed next to me searching for Kip, but it was empty. The sound of running water reached my ears, and I rubbed my sleep-filled eyes. Was Kip taking a shower at this time of night?
I crept down the hall, bare feet soundless on the wood floor while my heart thudded in a tight, uneasy rhythm. The door was cracked open just enough for the light to spill into the dark.
“Kip?”
No answer.
I pushed it open. And froze.
Kip sat on the closed toilet lid, head bowed, forearms resting on his knees. His fingers were white-knuckled around the cross at his neck, the blade edge pulled free, his hand moving in slow, precise strokes—dragging the sharp tip across the inside of his forearm.
Thin lines. Shallow, careful, precise. Like he’d done this a hundred times before.
His lips moved, breathless, soundless, but I caught the shape of the words.
“… though your sins be as scarlet, they shall be white as snow …”
My stomach flip-flopped. Not at the blood, but at the way his body rocked, small, rhythmic, like a boy being scolded.
“Kip,” I said again, soft but firm.
His shoulders flinched. His head jerked up, his stare wild—and empty. The Kip I knew wasn’t behind his eyes right now.
Fear prickled my skin. This wasn’t the man I had slept next to. For a second time, I wondered if I’d made the biggest mistake of my life staying here.
I crossed the room anyway. This wasn’t the first time I’d dealt with a fragile situation, and it was important that I help bring him back to the present slowly. I knelt in front of him, then reached up and wrapped my fingers around his.
“It’s Holland. I’m here in the bathroom with you. You cooked for me, and it was the best steak I’ve ever eaten. Death and Ella seemed nice under the circumstances,” I whispered, waiting to see if any of the words about our evening would snap him out of his trance. “Come back.”
His mouth opened on a ragged exhale. His eyes darted to mine, confused, desperate.
“I—I wasn’t—”
“It’s okay,” I murmured, even though it wasn’t. Even though none of this was okay. But I was here, and so was he, and somehow, that had to count for something.
I pried the cross from his hand and set it gently on the counter. I slid my palm up his scarred arm, feeling the tremor still shivering under his skin.
Confusion and fear twisted his expression. “I don’t … what am I doing here?”
“Stay with me,” I whispered.
He stood, sweat beading his forehead. He grabbed the cross and slipped it around his neck again.
“Where did you go?”
He shook his head, extending a hand to help me up. Even as I posed my question, I noticed the unmistakable signs. PTSD, undoubtedly severe, but there was something else, something elusive. I'd only encountered it twice before, and I needed more insight from him before reaching any conclusions.
I took his arm and guided him to the living room.
He collapsed onto the couch, visibly shaken, his eyes lost in a distant world.
As I rummaged through the refrigerator for some milk, I hesitated.
Should I give him time to gather himself, or should I press for answers right away?
I was also eager to examine the marks on his arm, but uncertainty gnawed at me.
I joined him, offering the milk. He accepted it, drinking it all, though I couldn't tell if it was out of thirst or the need for distraction.
“Kip? Can I see your arm?” I asked tentatively.
He frowned, a flicker of reluctance in his features, but eventually extended his left arm.
The thin line of dried blood told a story of its own.
The cut wasn't deep enough for stitches, only surface cuts, but its presence raised more questions than answers, leaving me torn between concern and the urge to uncover the truth.
“What are the scars from?”
A shadow of shame crossed his face. “Heroin.”
“You have an addiction problem?” I asked, trying to keep my tone free of judgment, though internally, I was torn.
“Not anymore. It’s been years.”
Thank god. At the same time, I knew how powerful addiction was. “How did it start?”
He leaned back in his seat, stretching his legs out in front of him, as if trying to physically distance himself from the memories.
“Mother. The scars on my back are from her. She gave me opiates for the pain after she spiritually cleansed me and carved up my skin. The addiction was fast and hard, but she kept feeding me the drugs. She used them to control me. It was her way to ensure I never told anyone what she was doing.”
Spiritual cleansing. Jesus. “Shit. Kip, that’s …” Words failed me. I was caught between disbelief and anger, but he seemed detached, his voice steady and emotionless as if he were recounting someone else’s story.
“She’s evil. There’s no other way to say it. She manipulated me, controlled me, kept me helping my uncle and silent about the work. I cut all ties with her and my uncle until she got sick. Now she’s back in my life.” I didn’t miss Kip’s expression.
“She lives close?” All the color drained from my cheeks with my question. The woman who sold me and ruined Kip’s life. The woman who was ultimately responsible for my sister’s death.
“An hour away. It’s the same place that you and your sister … since we saw each other last.”
A heavy silence filled the space between us. It was there that our lives changed, turned inside out for the worst. Something clicked inside me, turning off my humanity as I realized that the bitch lived close. Revenge was finally at my fingertips. Soon.
I placed my palm on his thigh, unsure if it was to comfort him or myself. “What was your mother up to? Cleaning the bodies?”
“That was part of it. I don’t remember what else. I didn’t realize shit was as fucked up as it was until a year or so ago. My friends kept saying I would disappear, and I had no goddamn idea what they were talking about.”
Dissociative gaps that long? It wasn’t just trauma. Someone had broken his mind deliberately. I reached up and rubbed the back of his neck as I continued. “That had to be alarming.”
“Something like that. At first, I thought I was using again, but that didn’t make any sense.” He tilted his head so I could reach his neck better.
“Do you remember anything from that time at all? Do you remember tonight?” I asked, a bit anxious myself.
He exhaled heavily and shook his head. “I only remember hearing you at some point.” He rubbed his hands together, glancing at me with uncertainty. “I’m fucked up, Holland.”
I smiled at him, trying to reassure him that I wasn’t going anywhere. “Lucky you, I like fucked up.”
“With your background, do you know what’s happening to me? Am I losing my goddamn mind? For some reason, I thought Mother would crack first, but I’m not so sure anymore.”
Without warning, Kip turned on me and grabbed me by the throat. “Don’t tell. Don’t you say a word,” he snarled at me.
My nails dug into his wrist. I couldn’t breathe. And maybe it wasn’t just the air being stolen from my lungs—maybe it was the realization that I was trapped, and he wasn’t letting go.