Page 143 of Creeping Lily
Because what comes next will stain everything.
The door clicks shut behind me, and the sound is final—like the slam of a coffin lid. Silence cuts through the room, sharp as a blade, leaving only the rasp of my breath and the pounding in my ears.
It’s just me. And them.
Tom Walker sits slumped in the chair, the man who once called himself my father. The man who took a broken boy and sharpened him into a weapon, then turned that weapon against the only thing that ever mattered—Lily. His eyes follow me in the gloom, cold, calculating, as if even now he wants to own me, control me, cage me. As if he still hasanycontrol over me.
And beside him, Bentley. My brother. Blood that should have been bond, shield, loyalty. Instead, he sold me out. He sold Lilyout. I see his lip curl even now, like he still thinks he’s above me, like betrayal is his birthright.
They’re bound. Stripped of power. Reduced to pale, sweating men under the half-light that spills across the room. But I don’t see men when I look at them.
I see the hands that reached for Lily’s throat, the same hands that would’ve crushed the light out of her if I hadn’t been there.
I see the animals who conspired to break her, to ruin her.
I see vultures. Parasites. Leeches fattened on my silence.
And that’s when something inside me—something black, something ruined and long-starved—snaps loose.
It isn’t a sound. It’s a feeling. Like the crack of bone. Like the shattering of glass underfoot. The restraint I’ve been clinging to, the mask of control, fractures down the middle and splinters into nothing.
I don’t feel the floor beneath me anymore. I don’t feel air in my lungs. All I feel is the weight of rage rising, blistering, consuming everything until there’s no room left for mercy.
The crack inside me widens until there’s nothing left to hold it back. My fury swallows the air, thick and choking, and for a heartbeat I just stand there, staring at them. At the ruin of what they were supposed to be. Father. Brother. Words that should mean safety, belonging, family.
Instead, they’re poison on my tongue.
Bentley sneers, even tied to the chair. “Go on then. Do it. You’ll always be what he made you.” He jerks his chin toward Tom, daring me, spitting defiance in the face of his own death.
I don’t give him time to breathe another word. My fist slams into his jaw so hard the crack echoes off the walls. His head snaps back, blood spraying from his mouth. I hit him again, harder, until his teeth rattle loose. Until the chair creaks under the violence. Until my knuckles split and I don’t even feel it.
Tom chuckles, a wet, rattling sound. “That’s my boy,” he rasps, smug even with the noose of death tightening around his throat.
That laughter is fuel to my fury.
I grab the knife from the table, the steel gleaming dully in the half-light, and I drive it into Bentley’s gut. Slow. Deliberate. His howl rips through the room, high-pitched, desperate, the sound of a man realizing he’s waiting for nothing but death now. Blood gushes hot over my hand, slick and burning. I drag the blade upward, carving through him inch by inch. The smell hits—iron, decay, and betrayal.
I lean close, my voice a snarl in his ear. “You never should’ve touched what’s mine.”
His eyes roll, wide and frantic, but I don’t stop. I want him to feel it. To know what it means to be gutted by the man he tried to destroy.
Tom shifts in his chair, muttering curses, prayers. I turn to him, Bentley still twitching at my feet. The old man doesn’t look afraid. That’s what makes me hate him most. He thinks he owns even this moment. Thinks he still has his claws in me.
“You thought you could erase me,” I snarl, pressing the knife under his jaw. “But you were wrong. I was born in fire long before you ever touched me. And tonight, my fire will burn you.”
I slash. One brutal pull, and his throat opens like a second mouth. Blood erupts, hot and arterial, spraying my face, coatingmy chest. He chokes on it, eyes bulging, head nodding furiously at the shock. I don’t move back. I hold him in place, forcing him to meet my eyes as he drowns in his own life. His life falters, strength draining, until his head drops forward and the light goes out.
Bentley whimpers on the floor, still alive, dragging broken breaths through torn lungs. I crouch low, watching him writhe. The rage inside me is ice now, sharp and cold.
“This is justice,” I whisper, driving the knife into his chest, straight through the heart. His body jerks once, twice, then goes slack.
The silence after is worse than the screaming. Heavy. Suffocating. The only sound is my breath, ragged, and the drip of blood hitting the floor.
I stand in it—ankle-deep in the carnage of the only family I ever had. My hands drip red. My chest heaves. And all I can think is that Lily will never have to see them again. Never have to feel their shadows crawling over her skin.
I’ve gutted my blood, carved out my past, slaughtered the men who made me.
And I’d do it a thousand times over.
