Chapter 17
Pip
My heart slammed against my ribs as I jerked awake. The nightmares were back, this time with the added twist of my Daddy being the one who got hurt.
We’d been back at The Restaurant. Instead of the Bratva leaving peacefully, they’d decided to open fire at Pharrell’s back.
It turned into a bloodbath almost identical to the massacre I caused years ago after a certain group of men thought they could trade women and children for money while having me as their security.
I made those fuckers bleed.
In this nightmare, there’d been no time to get to Henny. No time to save him from the destruction. And all I could hear when I held his lifeless body in mine were the words others had told me before.
You’re wrong. Broken. Unlovable.
There was a time I’d believed every word. I felt thrown back to those days. How was I meant to find happiness if I couldn’t protect the one person who mattered most in this world?
Of course I didn’t deserve happiness.
Blinking to clear the images, I forced myself to relax my grip on the sheets. Sweat cooled on my skin, making me shiver despite how comfortable the room had felt when we’d gone to bed. For a long moment, I didn’t know where I was.
Then I felt the warm solid presence beside me and remembered.
Henny.
Home.
My body didn't believe it yet. Adrenaline still flooded my system, fight-or-flight instincts screaming that I needed to move, to run, to do something. Instead, I reached out and grabbed onto Henny, pressing myself against his back with enough force that he stirred slightly in his sleep.
His warmth was real, which helped pull me from the dark place my mind lingered.
The steady rise and fall of his chest was a rhythm I could match.
One I could use to calm my own ragged gasps.
I buried my face between his shoulder blades and just held on, fingers twisted in his shirt, trying to anchor myself in the present.
Slowly, the nightmare released its grip. My heart rate settled. My breathing evened out. But I didn't let go.
The clock on the nightstand read three forty-five. It would be hours before the alarm went off. Right then, in the dark silence, there was nowhere to hide from the memories the nightmare had brought up.
I'd never told anyone about my childhood. Not the real details, anyway.
People knew I was a freelance killer. They’d assumed I'd grown up rough. The rest were details.
No one needed to know about the foster father who'd used me as a punching bag, or the woman I refused to call mother who'd watched and done nothing.
No one needed to know about the foster system that had shuffled me between homes like a broken toy no one wanted to keep, ignoring the obvious abuse.
No one needed to know that by the time I was twelve, I'd already figured out that violence was the only language that got results.
"I was seven the first time a foster parent broke my arm," I said quietly into the darkness.
Henny went still, his even breaths halting and telling me he’d woken up.
I kept talking before I could stop myself. "He was drunk. I'd spilled juice on his newspaper. Such a small thing. But he grabbed my wrist and twisted until I heard the snap."
The memory was crystal clear and painful.
Henny started to turn over, but I held him in place, kept my face pressed against his back. This was easier if I didn't have to look at him.
“The hospital asked him what happened. He told them I’d been goofing around and fell. They didn’t ask questions after that. Just set the bone, gave me a lollipop, sent me home." I laughed bitterly. "That was the first time. Not the last."
Silence stretched between us, heavy with the weight of what I was revealing. I'd killed people, had done terrible things without flinching, but this felt more exposing than anything else I’d experienced.
"Eventually the state took me away. Put me in a new home." My fingers tightened in Henny's shirt. "I went through six more in three years. Some were okay. Some were worse than the first. All of them made it clear I was temporary. A paycheck with a behavior problem."
Henny's hand came up to cover mine where it gripped his shirt. The touch was grounding. It reminded me of where I was. Of who I was.
"The last home had a son. Seventeen and angry at the world.
He liked to pick on the foster kids." The words came easier now, like a dam breaking.
"Started with small things. Hiding my clothes, breaking my stuff.
Then escalated. Pushing, hitting when his parents weren't looking.
Making sure I knew how fucking worthless I was. "
I could still remember the rage that had built inside me during those months. It had nowhere to go. Nothing seemed to make it better.
"One day he cornered me in the garage. Said he was going to teach me my place. There was a wrench on the workbench. I grabbed it and hit him. Kept hitting him until he stopped moving."
Henny's breathing had changed, but he didn't pull away.
"He lived," I added. "Fractured skull, broken jaw, three cracked ribs.”
"Pip," Henny said quietly, but I wasn't done.
"I ran away before they could lock me up. Met people who taught me that violence could be useful. That the thing everyone said was wrong with me, that rage and lack of fear, could actually be valuable. Profitable." I finally loosened my grip on his shirt.
My past wasn’t pretty. Sharing this side of me could change how Henny saw me. It could send him running to know how deep my issues were.
Then again, he’d been putting up with my chaos just fine. He never seemed bothered when I made things more difficult or bloody than they had to be.
"After everything, you became an assassin," Henny said.
"Became someone who mattered,” I corrected. "My whole life, I'd been disposable. Something to be thrown away when I became inconvenient. But as a killer? People needed me. They paid me damn good money. They respected what I could do, even if they feared it."
I took a deep breath. The truth of my confession settled over me.
"And the best part? The absolute best part? I was good at it. Better than good. Exceptional. I was Pip, the assassin no one could match. Look out assholes. Pip is ready to smash your head in."
"You found purpose in it," Henny said softly, ignoring my dark humor.
I hummed, taking a moment to solidify my words. "Every job proved I had value. Every kill proved I deserved to exist. As long as people kept hiring me, kept needing me, I mattered. Plus, I started to like it. I craved the control and rejoiced in the carnage."
Finally, I let Henny turn over. He moved carefully, giving me space to pull away if I wanted. But I didn't want space. I wanted him.
His face was barely visible in the darkness, but I could see the way he looked at me. Not with pity or horror or disgust.
"You've always mattered," he said, cupping my face with both hands. "Your worth was never dependent on what you could do for other people."
I tried to smile but it came out wrong. "Wasn't it? Everyone in my life made it clear I was only valuable if I was useful. If I made things easier, stayed quiet, didn't cause problems. The second I stopped being convenient, they got rid of me. Or they gave me the kind of attention no kid wanted."
"I'm not getting rid of you." Henny's thumb wiped away the tears on my cheek.
"You say that now."
"I mean it." His voice had that firm quality, the one that made me believe him despite my instincts. "You could stop killing tomorrow. Never take another contract. And I'd still want you here. Still want you with me."
The words hit hard.
But decades of experience told me that worth was conditional and love was temporary. Eventually everyone left.
"I had another nightmare," I admitted, changing the subject because I couldn't handle the intensity of what he was offering. "This time was different. You got hurt. I didn’t have time to save you, and you died in my arms."
“Do you want to talk it out? Maybe find the flaws in the dream so you can firmly say it wasn’t real?”
I shook my head. "Not right now I just… I don't want to go back to sleep. Can't face another bad one."
Henny studied my face for a moment. "Okay. What do you want to do instead?"
"I don't know. Something that doesn't involve thinking about the past."
"Come on then." He sat up, taking my hand. "Let's make pancakes."
I blinked at him. "It's four in the morning."
"So? We're already awake. Might as well eat." He pulled me out of bed with a firm tug. "Besides, you never got to have normal childhood breakfast experiences. Time to fix that, baby."
Aw, fuck.
Henny was going to make me cry. He'd heard everything I'd said about my childhood, and his immediate response was to give me a small piece of what I'd missed.
I was so in love with the jerk.
We shuffled into the kitchen hand in hand. Henny turned on the light over the stove, leaving the rest of the apartment dim. It felt intimate, like we were in a bubble separate from the rest of the world.
"Get the eggs and milk," he instructed, pulling flour and sugar from the pantry.
I did as I was told, easily following his orders. He moved through the kitchen, measuring ingredients while I watched and handed him things he needed.
"My mother used to make pancakes on Saturday mornings," Henny said as he mixed the batter. "Before everything got complicated with the family business. It was the one time during the week that felt normal."
"What happened to change it?" I asked, leaning against the counter.
"My father got promoted. More responsibility. More time away." He poured batter onto the hot griddle, making it sizzle. "My mother tried to maintain the routine, but it fell apart. By the time I was in middle school, Saturday pancakes were a memory."
"Is that why you're rigid about routine now?"
He flipped the first pancake with ease. "Partially. If I control my own schedule, maintain my own traditions, then no one can take them away."
I understood that on a soul-deep level. We'd both built our coping mechanisms from childhood trauma. His was order, mine was chaos. And somehow we'd found a way to make them complement each other.
"Here." Henny slid a plate across the counter a few minutes later. Three perfect golden pancakes, steam rising from them. "Syrup is in the cabinet."
I retrieved it, then grabbed forks and sat at the counter while he made his own plate. We ate in silence. The normalcy of the moment settled the jagged edges inside me.
“This was really good. I’m happy my nightmare and oversharing didn’t scare you away.” I forced out a laugh to cover my insecurity.
While I wouldn’t let my past be the end of us, I knew it was hard to hear. And he’d not only heard it, but he’d understood, then had gone out of his way to distract me when sleep wasn’t an option.
Henny sat down his fork and looked at me directly. "Pip, I grew up in the mafia. My family tree is full of murderers, thieves, and sociopaths. You think your past scares me?"
"It should."
"Well, it doesn't." He reached across the counter and took my hand. "You survived horrible things and came out the other side. That's having strength."
"I became a killer."
"You became a survivor who found a way to feel valuable in a world that tried to tell you weren't. And now you're here, eating pancakes at four in the morning, letting me take care of you. That takes more courage than anything those assholes ever did."
I had to look away because it was too much. "You have a habit of saying exactly what I need to hear."
"Good. Someone should." He stood and moved around the counter to stand beside me. "And for the record, you telling me about your childhood doesn't change how I feel about you. It just makes me understand you better."
"How do you feel about me?" The question escaped before I could stop it.
Henny's expression softened. "For one, I am proud to be the man you wanted. Secondly, I’m falling in love with you. Past, present, nightmares and all. I want all of you."
The words hung in the air between us. He'd said them so simply, like it was obvious. Like it was a fact rather than the biggest mindfuck of my life.
"You love me," I repeated, testing the words.
“I said falling, but yes.”
"Even knowing what you do now. Even knowing I'm broken."
"I’ll repeat myself from earlier—you're not broken." His hands framed my face. "You've been coping in the way you know best. There's a difference."
I wanted to argue. Wanted to list all the reasons he was wrong, all the evidence that I was permanently damaged. But looking at his face, at the absolute certainty in his eyes, I couldn't.
Maybe he was right. Maybe healing was possible. Maybe I didn't have to be defined by my worst moments forever.
"I love you. In case that wasn't obvious."
Henny smiled, genuine and warm. "It was a little obvious. But I like hearing it anyway."
He kissed me then, soft and sweet, tasting like maple syrup and home. When we pulled apart, I felt steadier than I had since waking from the nightmare.
"More pancakes?" Henny asked.
"Yes, please."
He made another batch while I cleaned our plates, and we fell back into the easy rhythm we'd developed over the weeks. This was what normal looked like, I realized. Not the absence of problems or pain but having someone who stood beside you through them.
By the time we finished eating, the sky outside was starting to lighten. We'd eaten our way through half a dozen pancakes each and talked about everything and nothing. My childhood felt less like an open wound and more like a scar. Still there but no longer bleeding.
"What do you want to do with the rest of the morning?" Henny asked as he loaded the dishwasher.
"Stay here with you." I wrapped my arms around him from behind, chin on his shoulder. "Maybe watch something mindless on TV. Fall asleep on the couch at an absurd hour."
"That's not part of the routine."
"Think you can handle breaking routine just this once? Will you be a bad boy, Daddy?"
He turned in my arms, and his smile was teasing. "For you? I can handle a little chaos."
We settled on the couch with a blanket, some cooking show playing quietly on the TV. I curled into Henny's side, his arm around my shoulders, and felt the last of the nightmare's grip fade away.
This was healing, I thought. Not forgetting the past or pretending it didn't happen. I was building something new on top of it. Something stable and safe and full of love.
"Thank you," I murmured as my eyes grew heavy. "For all of this."
"Always, baby. Anything for you.”
For the first time in my life, I believed that always might actually be true.