Page 100 of Creeping Lily

The cabin sits ahead, bracketed by thick trees whose branches claw at the night sky. The porch sags a little under its own age. A rocking chair sways back and forth in the breeze, creaking faintly, like it’s been waiting for us. The air smells of pine and damp earth, heavy with the kind of silence that swallows sound whole.

“It’s a safe haven,” I tell her.

Her eyes narrow, full of doubt. “Sure it is.”

I step up onto the porch, crouch, and reach under the rocking chair. My fingers close around cold metal.

“You keep the key under the chair?” she asks, incredulous. “And I’m supposed to believe we’re safe here?”

“Relax, Lily. No one knows this place exists.” I slide the key into the lock. “We’re safe.”

52

LILY

The cabin is nothing like the mansion we left behind.

That place had been sprawling and cold, a labyrinth of echoing rooms and endless corridors that kept Titan and me at a constant, safe distance. Even when he was near, there was always space—walls, halls, shadows—to hide in.

Here? There’s no such luxury. The cabin is so small I can hear the shift of his weight on the floorboards. I can hear his slow, steady breaths if I’m quiet enough. His presence presses in from every corner, heavy and inescapable, until it feels like the air itself is thick with him.

The whole space is one open plan—what someone might callcozyif they didn’t know better. A bed sits pushed against one wall. Opposite it, a fireplace with a sagging sofa and a single armchair huddled close like they’ve been there for decades. The kitchen is little more than a counter and a stove tucked to the side, and at the far end, a closed door I figure leads to the bathroom. Titan follows my glance and confirms it with a simple, “Bathroom’s there.”

“I should get cleaned up,” he says, his voice rough with exhaustion.

He crosses to the bed, bends, and drags a battered trunk from underneath. The hinges squeal when he opens it, and he rummages through neatly folded clothes before pulling out a grey hoodie and dark sweatpants.

“We can eat after I shower.”

No hesitation. No checking to see if I’ll make a break for it. He moves past me without a backward glance, disappearing into the bathroom and closing the door.

It strikes me that he has a dangerous amount of faith I won’t try to run. What’s worse? He’s right. I surprise myself by sinking into the sofa, tucking my hands under my thighs to keep them still, and staying put. My nerves hum like live wires, but my feet don’t move.

I replay the last few hours in my head—the fight, the blood, the sound of bodies hitting the floor. By every sane measure, I should be terrified of Titan. But fear doesn’t come.

If he’d wanted to hurt me, he’s had more than enough chances. Instead, I’m caught in this strange pull toward him, one I can’t explain. After everything that’s happened in the last few months, I’m starting to think the real danger isn’t being near Titan. It’s being far from him.

The bathroom door opens. “You’re still here,” he says, and there’s a smirk in his voice.

I glance up. His hair hangs damp and messy over his eyes, and—of course—the mask is back in place, clean now, hiding whatever expression might be underneath. The grey hoodie is loose over his frame, the sweatpants sitting low on his hips.

A chill runs down my spine. How can I feel this drawn to someone I’ve never truly seen? A man who wears a mask, who slips in and out of my life like he belongs there.

“I didn’t have many options,” I reply, nodding toward the dark windows and the endless stretch of trees beyond them.

He pushes up his sleeves and walks to the kitchen. My gaze catches on the cords of muscle in his forearms, the tattoos revealed in shifting bands of ink.

Curiosity pulls me from the sofa. I step up beside him at the counter as he starts opening cans, the metallic crack of the lids breaking the silence. He tips their contents into a small pot with practiced movements, like this is second nature to him.

My eyes drift over his tattoos. Black and grey swirls twist around his arms, intricate as rivers on a map. Roman numerals march across his skin, marking moments I can’t name. A fire-breathing dragon coils around one bicep, its teeth bared mid-snarl. But it’s the skull that makes my stomach tighten—its hollow eye sockets wreathed in bleeding flowers. Lilies.

My name. My flower.

Titan doesn’t look at me, but I know he feels my stare. His lips tilt in a smirk before he turns back to the stove, setting the pot over a low flame. Then he leans against the counter, arms folded, facing me.

The tattoos have raised more questions than they’ve answered. It can’t be coincidence. The man stalks me, watches me, knows things about me I haven’t told a soul.

“Minestrone,” he says suddenly.