Page 65 of Creeping Lily
The truth cuts clean through me. No. It wouldn’t have. But at least I could’ve mourned. I could’ve laid down the anger I carried like a corpse strapped to my back. I could’ve let him rest instead of letting his absence gnaw at me every single day.
My head shakes, barely more than a twitch. “I hated him for leaving. I thought… I thought I’d get to tell him that. Or maybe…” My chest heaves. “Maybe I’d get the chance to forgive him.”
But there’s no chance. The fire devoured it.Devoured him.
A sob tears loose, ripped raw from my ribs before I can swallow it down. My arms wrap around myself, too tight, like if I squeeze hard enough maybe the pieces of me won’t fall apart in the dirt. I see him—Lincoln—like I last remember: hollow-eyed, that half-smile carved in pain. The boy who once swore forever, and maybe already knew he was lying.
And now I’ll never know why he left.
Grief shreds through me, sharp as glass, tangled with rage and regret that burns down my throat. I press my hand against my mouth, but the noise still claws its way out, fractured and ugly.
I spin away from Bentley before he can drink it in, before hecan savor the wreckage he’s made of me. My feet stumble forward, carrying me blind into the dark, away from his shadow.
But his words won’t leave me. They sink their hooks in and drag, stitched into my skin like barbed wire, snagging every time I breathe. Each syllable is a thorn tearing deeper.
Lincoln. Dead.
The sound of it rattles in my skull, over and over, until it doesn’t feel like words anymore—it feels like a curse. A sentence. A death knell that never stops ringing.
I can’t tell if I’m running from the truth or if it’s running with me, gnawing at my heels. Every step forward feels heavier, like I’m carrying his body on my back, like the smoke from that fire is still curling into my lungs, black and choking.
The fire took him. Burned him down to ash and bone and silence.
And it’s too late now. Too late for apologies. Too late for forgiveness. Too late for anything except this gaping hole inside me where his name used to live.
There’s no coming back from that. No resurrection. Just ruin.
33
LILY
My pulse kicks into overdrive, pounding in my ears as I catch movement at the far end of the path. My stalker—the one who slips into my dorm room like he owns the place—is standing there. A shadow carved from menace.
He doesn’t move, doesn’t speak. Just stands in a silent standoff with Bentley.
I don’t know who scares me more.
Bentley, with his sharp edges and the defiance radiating from him like a shield, or the stalker, who wears fear the way other people wear skin—using it, controlling it, bending it to his will.
The air between them feels like a drawn bowstring, seconds away from snapping. The stalker tilts his head in a slow, deliberate motion. A nod. Or a warning. Then another tilt, almost a question, before he turns and melts into the darkness like he was never there at all.
My heart caves in on itself, leaving me gasping in the hollow space it leaves behind.
“Who was that?” Bentley’s voice is sharp, slicing through the night, his eyes pinning me in place.
I swallow, my throat dry as dust. “I… it doesn’t matter.” The words barely make it past my lips.
But it does matter. It matters too much.
Because his presence is never random. He told me—don’t dig into the Walkers, don’t go looking for answers. And then Bentley Walker showed up on my doorstep.
The realization slams into me like a freight train: my stalker warned me to stay away from Bentley’s family, and now Bentley is here, dragging all of it—the shadows, the danger—back into my life.
The odds aren’t slim. They’re impossible. And that impossibility is starting to feel like a noose tightening around my neck.
Bentley studies me, his brows drawn together, concern flickering across his face. “Are you okay?”
I nod, though my throat feels sealed shut, the words trapped like they’ll betray me if I let them out. My thoughts are a storm, circling and circling, refusing to settle. He wasn’t here by accident. My stalker never moves without reason, and tonight was no different. The way he lingered, the way his shadow pressed in around me—it was like a warning. A claim. His silent way of saying,I’m still here. I’m still watching. And I told you to stay away from them.
