Page 96 of Creeping Lily
“Sometimes there are no other choices in life, Lily. Not if you want justice.”
50
LILY
The mansion crowns the hill, its dark silhouette dissolving into the mist that rises from the valley each night. Turrets and chimneys fade into the fog until the whole place looks less like a house and more like the ghost of a dream—one that clings to you long after waking, cold and damp against your skin.
If I didn’t know better, I’d think I’d stepped into a Du Maurier novel—Rebecca, maybe—where the house itself is as alive as the people trapped inside. The thought coils through me, each shiver running down my spine like rungs on a ladder of unease.
It’s too much house for two people. Too much history in its bones. The whitewashed stone walls are worn smooth by centuries, yet still strong enough to lock their secrets away. Time doesn’t touch this place—it circles it, hesitant, as though wary of what it holds. The gardens sprawl wild at its feet, paths swallowed by tangled vines, statues buried under ivy like bodies under shrouds.
Inside, the study breathes with shadows. A single lamp burns low, casting a thin amber light that shivers against thedark. Each flicker sends shadows gliding along the walls, shapes that seem to loosen themselves from the corners. The wallpaper is ornate, its muted florals faded to the color of old parchment. If you pressed your ear to the wall, you might hear the centuries sigh—every whisper, every confession seeping deep into the plaster.
The room is sparsely furnished, stripped of comfort as if by design. Yet the air still carries the scent of polished wood and cold stone—a mingling of something alive and something ancient. It feels as though the mansion is watching, patient and still, waiting for something to happen.
The ledger sits at the edge of the desk like a secret daring me to touch it.
Its cover is deep red, the leather cracked and weathered with age. I don’t know exactly how old it is, but it’s old enough to smell faintly of dust and ink that’s had decades to sink into paper. Titan hasn’t opened it since he brought it here… at least, not that I’ve seen.
My palm itches with the urge to feel its surface, to lift the cover and turn each fragile page until I find whatever truth it’s holding hostage.
“Can I?” I ask, letting my fingertips graze the leather. It’s cool under my skin, supple in places but stiff at the spine, like it’s reluctant to be opened.
Across the room, Titan stands at the window, a tall, immovable figure framed in pale light. He doesn’t answer right away. He just looks at me, silent, as though weighing the cost of letting me inside his secrets. His mask hides most of his face, but I don’t need to see his expression to know the answer he’s wrestling with. I’ve learned to read him in subtler ways—in the stillness of his body, the tightness in his shoulders, the quiet tension in the air between us.
When he finally moves toward me, it’s slow and deliberate,each step a measured choice. He drops into the chair at the far end of the desk, leaning back with casual precision, one long leg crossing over the other. His gaze pins me in place—steady, unblinking, the weight of it making my pulse race.
I keep tracing a finger along the spine of the book, dragging out the moment, reminding him I’m still waiting for permission. Questions churn in my head. Not just about the ledger, but about this house. About him.
Who is Titan, really? The masked man who stalks me from the shadows? Is he the man who pulled me out of the dark one night? Or the one who keeps me caged here under the pretense of protection? His presence is a paradox—unnerving and strangely reassuring at the same time.
“You think if you know what’s in that book, you’ll get the answers you need?” His voice is low, gravel scratching over stone.
I meet his gaze and shake my head slowly. “What I do know is that if I sit here another minute doing nothing, I’m going to lose my mind. This ledger… it’s why you came here, isn’t it?”
He nods once. “It’s part of it.”
Part of it. That’s all I get. The rest stays locked up behind his unreadable stare. It doesn’t tell me why I’m here. Why he abducted me after I visited the Walker home. Or why he warned me away from the Walkers in the first place.
Every question that forms in my mind drags another one with it, until they’re swarming in my head, restless and loud. “So why are we still here?” I ask.
As if on cue, his phone buzzes. The sound is small but sharp in the stillness. He glances at the screen of a battered burner phone, then looks back at me with a flash of something—warning, maybe—before answering.
His voice drops lower as he turns back toward the window. I catch only fragments: a grunt here, a short murmur there. It’s alluseless to me, the words swallowed in the distance and the way he keeps them guarded.
When he’s done, he slides the phone into his pocket and returns to me, his steps measured again, his presence heavier somehow. “We have to leave,” he says.
“Where are we going?” I rise halfway from my chair, but he’s already beside me.
His fingers curl around my elbow, firm but not rough, and he pulls me to my feet until we’re standing so close I can feel the heat of him. His height swallows mine, the shadows from his mask cutting his face into sharper edges.
“For someone so quiet,” he rasps, his breath brushing my cheek, “you sure do ask a lot of questions.” His gaze lingers, a glint of something unreadable flashing there. “You’re a curious cat, aren’t you, Lily Snow?”
The way he says my name sends a shiver racing through me—not fear exactly, but the kind that tells you you’re standing on the edge of something dangerous, and that part of you wants to step closer anyway.
We drive in silence,the night pressing in on all sides. The headlights slice through the darkness in pale, narrow beams, but beyond that is nothing—just the endless black swallowing the edges of the road. The mansion is long gone behind us, hidden somewhere back in the folds of the hills, though I can still feel its presence like a weight in my chest.
Titan doesn’t speak. He grips the steering wheel with the easy strength of someone who could crush it if he wanted to. His attention is fixed on the winding road ahead, jaw set beneath the shadow of his mask. I keep stealing glances at him, waiting for a hint, a clue, anything that tells me where we’re going. But hedoesn’t look at me. Doesn’t answer the questions I don’t bother asking out loud.
