Page 134 of Creeping Lily
Not just dreams—Linc.
They come vivid and unrelenting, spilling over me until I can’t tell where memory ends and longing begins.
It always starts the same. I’m on my bike, tearing down a street I’ve known my whole life, wind clawing at my hair, air burning my lungs. The pavement hums beneath my tires, every push of the pedals dragging me closer. I can see him now—standing at the far end like he’s been waiting his whole life, like he was carved into this place just for me.
And God, the way helooksat me… not like a boy anymore, not like the friend who dared me to race him to the corner or who patched my skinned knees with clumsy hands. No—this is the man he became. Hair loose and wild, shoulders broad, eyes the color of every impossible thing I’ve ever wanted.
He opens his arms, and I don’t think—Ifly. Legs pumping harder, harder, until the world around me blurs and there’s nothing but him pulling me in. My laughter bursts free, breathless and bright, and when I reach him, he catches me like healways has. Like no matter what’s coming, he’ll always be there to break my fall.
And then… the street melts away.
We’re somewhere endless now—an open meadow, wildflowers bowing to a lazy breeze. Sunlight spills across us like we’ve been blessed, like the world has forgotten how to hurt us. We walk until the grass brushes high against our legs, until we find a place soft enough to fall into.
He’s on his side, watching me. That smile—unguarded, unashamed—cuts right through me. His eyes hold something deeper than words could ever reach, and I swear if I look too long, I’ll forget how to breathe.
Here, there’s no past chasing us. No pain, no fear, no stolen safety. Just the two of us in a pocket of the world that belongs only to us. The silence is heavy in the best way—like it knows we don’t need to speak to understand.
Because I feel it.
That invisible thread binding us together. It’s more than a bond; it’s a lifeline, an unspoken promise that transcends time, distance, and every scar we carry.
And lying there, skin warm against the earth, I realize something that splinters me open—the universe didn’t just give me Lincoln. It stitched him into the very fabric of who I am.
A sound leaks in—faint, wrong. A slow drip. Cold. Heavy.
The meadow wavers at the edges, colors running like wet paint. The scent of wildflowers turns damp, stale, metallic. My lungs hitch before I can stop them.
Somewhere beyond the dream, water pools on stone. Footsteps echo down a corridor I can’t see. The breeze dies, the sun fades, and when I turn back—Linc is still there, smiling. But his shirt is dark now. Wet. Blooming with red.
I cling to the dream until it bleeds completely away, because I know what waits for me when it’s gone.
When I wake,Tom Walker is standing above me—looking like a slick parasite in a charcoal suit. His presence doesn’t just take up space. It infects it. He’s the smell of stale smoke that seeps into your clothes and never leaves. He’s the mold in the walls that no one notices until it’s eaten everything.
I don’t give him the satisfaction of flinching. My gaze drifts toward the cell door, slow enough to look careless but sharp enough to clock the distance.
“Don’t even think about it,” he says, catching the movement. His voice is calm, almost indulgent. “It’s locked. And the key?” He pats his breast pocket. “You’d have to kill me to get it.”
My eyes snap back to his, unblinking. “That can be arranged.”
He chuckles, but it’s hollow. “You’re not a killer, Lily. You’re just a loud little girl playing with matches in a world made of gasoline. And sooner or later, you’re going to burn yourself alive.”
He takes a step closer, slow and deliberate, like he’s got all the time in the world to circle the shark tank he’s built for me. The muted shine of his shoes scuffs against the damp concrete, and every inch he closes feels like a dare.
He leans in just enough for me to smell his cologne—a chemical, choking blend that tries to mask the stink of rot beneath. His shadow swallows mine against the wall.
“You’ve upset Bentley,” he says.
I meet his gaze, lips curling into something that pretends to be a smirk. I want him to see my contempt, to taste it. “Oh no, poor Bentley. Did I bruise his delicate little ego? Shocking, how honesty tends to hurt the soft-skinned.”
A flash—quick as a knife—cuts across his perfect facade. Annoyance. And that makes my insides dance with pleasure.
“You always did have a sharp tongue, Lily,” he murmurs, voice pitched so low it slithers straight into my ears. “Shame you never learned how to keep it in check.”
My gaze flicks—fast—toward his breast pocket where the key rests. So close. A sharp jerk of my hand, a quick twist, and I could have it. Maybe. If he doesn’t snap my wrist first.
He notices the shift in my focus, lips curling into a thin, knowing smile.
“You’re not going anywhere, Lily.”
