Page 92 of Creeping Lily
“Why am I here?” she asks as I lead her down the hall.
The room I show her is small, but it’s the kind of cozy I knowshe likes—soft lighting, warm colors, a bed that will swallow her whole. She only asks because I told her it was hers, making it clear I wouldn’t be sleeping there.
“I think you already know, Lily,” I say. “But despite what you think of me, I won’t take anything you don’t give me willingly.”
Her brow furrows as she weighs her next question.
“Why me?”
I meet her gaze without hesitation. “The same reason anyone would want to possess a priceless work of art.”
48
LILY
The moment my hand brushes the doorknob and starts to turn it, a sharp, mechanical hiss slices through the air. My stomach knots. He wasn’t lying about the alarms.
I spin around, and from the ceiling, a massive flat-screen TV drops down with a low whir. His masked face fills the screen, eyes like cold steel, locking on to me with a look that says I’ve crossed a line. I let out a slow, frustrated breath and shake my head. I shouldn’t have tested him. Now I know for sure—there’s no leaving unless he decides to let me go.
“I’ll be back soon,” he whispers through the speakers, voice low and steady.
Then the screen goes black. My chest tightens. I don’t know how much trouble I’m in, but I pray it’s not enough to earn me another injection.
“Behave yourself, Lily,” I mutter under my breath, more like a warning to myself than a promise, as I drift deeper into the mansion.
Room by room, I search, letting curiosity pull me through its cold, echoing halls. The place is a neo-Gothic marvel—toweringceilings, ornate crown moldings, and shadows that seem older than time. Fourteen bedrooms between two floors, at least, but nothing personal. No photos. No papers. No clue to who he is or what he wants. He’s meticulous. Smart. Every trace of himself erased.
In the quiet, the walls seem to hum, whispering secrets of whoever came before. I open drawers, sift through shelves—nothing. Sparse furniture, polished surfaces, the kind of emptiness that feels intentional.
Finally, I find a room that feels different. His room. I pause in the doorway, half-expecting another alarm. Nothing.
Stepping inside, the scent hits me immediately—oud and sandalwood. Rich. Masculine. Him. My feet carry me to the closet. When I fling it open, I’m met with rows of shelves stacked with military precision. Henleys in shades of grey and black. Sweatpants folded so neatly it’s almost unsettling. Multiples of everything. Boxers in one drawer, navy wife-beaters in another. Every item perfectly placed.
I lift one of the Henleys to my face before I can stop myself. The fabric is soft, and his scent clings to it like it’s soaked into every fiber. I close my eyes and breathe him in, and just like that, I’m back in that alley the night of Bethany’s birthday. The first time I saw him. Back when I didn’t know his face would haunt my every thought. Back when I didn’t even know his name. Istilldon’t know his name.
The Henley is still pressed to my face when I realize I’m no longer alone. The air shifts. Heavy. Charged. My eyes snap open to find him standing in the doorway, a small, amused smile curving his lips.
“I’m glad you were able to entertain yourself while I was away,” he says.
Heat floods my face. I shove the Henley back on the shelf,but he steps in, retrieves it, and folds it neatly before setting it exactly where it belongs.
“Not becoming of you, Lily. I’ve seen how neat you keep your side of the room. I don’t mind you touching my things, as long as you put them back neatly.”
I silently curse myself, turning to leave, but his hand closes around my arm. In one smooth movement, he pulls me back, his body aligning with mine. The height difference swallows me whole.
“I think it’s only fair,” he murmurs, eyes locked on mine. “Since you’ve had your sniff… that I get mine.”
Before I can react, he dips his head, burying his face in my hair. His inhale is deep, almost reverent. When he finally pulls back, his eyes are closed, his chest rising like he’s holding the breath in, savoring it. He exhales slowly, as if he’s tasted something forbidden and addictive.
“My very own brand of poison,” he says, fingertips brushing my cheek.
I don’t move. Can’t. My heart is a drumbeat in my ears, my mind a blur. All I see is him. All I feel is him. The rest of the world falls away until there’s only this—only him and me, suspended in a moment that feels like it could devour us both.
“Lily,” he breathes.
“I don’t even know your name,” I whisper back.
A pause. His eyes don’t waver.
