Page 88 of Creeping Lily
“You’re insane,” he stammers, shrinking back against the wall as if it could shield him from me. His breath comes in ragged gasps, and his eyes dart toward the blood pooling beneath him. “You’re crazy,” he mutters again, his voice trembling.
A dark chuckle rumbles from deep within me, cold and sharp. “Crazy? That’s rich, coming from you. You traffic children. You kill them. And yet you think I’m the crazy one?”
His gaze falters, and for the first time, I see true fear in his eyes. Good. Let him feel it. Let him know what it’s like to face something he can’t control.
46
LILY
Ipress my palms to the glass and peer inside. Yeah, he told me not to leave the car—but like hell I was going to hold it any longer. My bladder made the call, not me. I ducked behind a thick shrub in the backyard, figuring it was secluded enough, then on my way back I spotted the window. Curiosity hooked me by the throat before I could stop myself.
And now I’m here, craning up on my tiptoes just to see in.
The room is dim, shadows pooling in the corners, but my eyes find him right away—my stalker—sitting on the floor with his arms draped over his knees like he doesn’t have a care in the world. Directly across from him is a man bleeding out, his face pale and slick with sweat. Off to the side, a woman lies motionless on the floor, her bright, floral skirt bunched up awkwardly around her knees.
I can’t hear a single word through the glass, but I don’t need to. I watch as my stalker tips his head back and lets out a laugh—deep, unhurried, like he’s sharing some inside joke. The sound dies quickly, though, replaced by a shift in his face. His eyes sharpen, a dangerous glint cutting through the easy act, and whatever he says next makes the bleeding man flinch.
It’s obvious now—this isn’t some random conversation. The man’s a hostage, and my stalker isn’t letting him leave alive. The air between them is thick with something I can’t quite name—revenge, retribution.
And despite myself, I’m hooked. My stalker has saved my life more than once, but looking at him now, I know the man in that room isn’t getting the same mercy. Whatever they’re discussing, it’s lethal. And I want to know every damn detail.
I continue to observe from my little perch at the window, watching and waiting.
I have no idea where we are. It’s a little clapboard home that’s seen better days, out on a massive block of land with the nearest neighbor hundreds of yards away. We could be anywhere in small town America and I still wouldn’t have a clue where we are.
I press my ear to the glass, trying to make out the conversation, but I get nothing, so I go back to observing, waiting anxiously to see what happens next.
My stalker’s posture is loose and easy as he sits chatting with the injured man as if they’re two buddies catching up after years apart. If not for the blood pouring from the man’s hand and the simmering hatred etched into my stalker’s face, I might almost believe it. But my gut knows better.
There’s a heaviness in that room, something dark and coiled, pressing against the walls like it wants out. I can’t tell if it’s coming from one man, both of them, or some unseen thing that’s been festering there long before I showed up.
Then my stalker goes still, his gaze flicking over his left shoulder. The woman on the floor is moving, groaning softly as she pushes herself up on shaky arms. Slowly. Painfully.
He turns back to the bleeding man, says something low, then rises to his feet and crosses to the woman. He doesn’t kneel or crouch—just plants a boot into her shoulder and forces herback down. Her nails claw at the grimy linoleum, scraping for purchase, her movements frantic and clumsy as she tries again to get up.
The injured man shouts something—loud, garbled, almost incoherent—and my stalker’s head snaps his way. That wicked smile spreads across the slash of skin visible under his mask, the kind of grin that promises pain.
Then, for the first time, he pushes back his hood. A spill of dark brown hair tumbles free, brushing his shoulders. The strands catch the dim light, soft and glossy—a sharp contrast to the violence hanging in the air. He doesn’t give me long to admire it. His focus is locked on the man, words flowing in a steady, deliberate rhythm.
But when he turns back to the woman, it’s with a brutal purpose. He crouches, fisting a handful of her hair and yanking her head up until her wide, terrified eyes meet his. Her body jerks, instinctively recoiling from the burn of his grip, and I realize I’m holding my breath—caught, hypnotized—as his dark gaze bores into her like he’s stripping her soul bare.
I can’t hear the words he speaks to her, but I see the way his mouth moves—measured, deliberate—before his hand slides behind him and comes back with a glint of steel.
The woman’s lips press into a hard line. She shakes her head once, sharp and stubborn. He speaks again, his tone low and insistent, but she only shakes her head harder, her eyes blazing with a defiance that refuses to give him whatever he wants. She’s not going to speak. Not for him.
My stalker’s gaze flicks back to the bleeding man, a silent exchange passing between them. And then—so fast my brain can barely register it—he moves. One smooth, merciless motion, and the blade slashes across the woman’s throat.
The sound isn’t what I expect—it’s wet, final—and the hot spray of her blood paints his face like a grotesque mask. Mybreath lodges in my chest, a scream clawing to get out but catching hard in my throat.
Maybe he hears the sound of my panic. Or maybe it’s something else. But his head snaps up, and his dark eyes lock on me through the glass. For a single, terrible heartbeat, we just stare at each other. Then my balance falters, and I stumble backward, hitting the ground hard.
Adrenaline explodes in my veins. My thoughts are a mess of jagged edges as I scramble to my feet and bolt. I don’t have a plan. I don’t have a destination. I just know I have to move—fast—because I’ve seen too much.
I’ve just watched him murder a woman in cold blood. And the man on the floor? He’s next. Which means if he catches me, I won’t be far behind.
And if there’s one thing I’m certain of—it’s that my stalker won’t let a witness walk away.
For a split second, I think I hear it—my name, carried on the wind in a voice I know far too well. My stalker’s voice.
