Page 101 of Creeping Lily

I blink. “What?”

“Dinner.” His eyes glint through the mask. “I know you like minestrone.”

A shiver works its way down my neck. “How do you know that?”

“I know a lot of things about you, Lily. You’d be surprised how well I know you.”

I meet his gaze, heat building in my chest. “And why is it you know so much about me when I know nothing about you?”

“Because who I am is irrelevant,” he says without missing a beat. “But you, Lily… you’re the reason we’re here today. This all started with you.”

The words hang in the small space between us, thick as smoke. And for the first time, I wonder if the walls of this cabin are too close not just because of its size—but because there’s nowhere left to hide from the truth he’s holding.

Titan insists we eat.So we do.

In silence.

The cabin’s single overhead light hums faintly, casting a warm but dim glow over the small table between us. We eat canned minestrone—nothing fancy—but the steam rising from my bowl smells like comfort. I hate to admit it, but it’s some of the best I’ve ever had. Or maybe that’s just the hunger talking.

I tell myself it’s not the company. No way. But my fork keeps stalling midair as my eyes lift, sneaking glances at Titan from beneath lowered lashes.

He catches me more than once.

Every time he does, the corner of his mouth tips into that small, knowing smirk that makes my cheeks heat, and I look down quickly, pretending the broth is suddenly very interesting.

“I have questions,” I say finally, pushing my empty plate away. My bowl is long gone—slurped down in half the time it’s taken him to get through half of his. He eats like every spoonful is a decision, slow and deliberate, like he’s weighing the world between bites.

He sets his spoon down, the soft clink loud in the small room, and leans back in his chair. His hoodie sleeves are rolled down now, but I still catch the ink curling up from his wrists, coiling around the backs of his hands like snakes. With his hoodlowered, I can see more of it climbing his neck, a web of dark ink that winds upward like smoke staining his skin.

“Sometimes,” he says, voice low and even, “the answers to your questions are not the ones you want to hear.”

I huff out a laugh that has no humor in it. “Will you just stop talking in riddles, already? Enough! I deserve answers.”

His jaw tightens. For a heartbeat, I think he’s going to tell me I deserve nothing. His eyes narrow, hard enough to pin me to my seat, and I remember—again—how easily this man could end me if he wanted to.

“Whiny Lily,” he says at last, “is not a version of you that I like.”

The words sting more than I want to admit.

He rises, scooping up his half-finished bowl, and walks to the sink. He tilts the dish, straining the broth away, then scrapes the rest of the contents into the trash. I watch as he rinses the bowl in silence, the water running over his bloodstained gloves earlier now replaced by the clean slide of soap suds.

“I can do that,” I offer, my voice softer now. It’s the least I can do—he did make dinner, after all.

“You don’t have to.”

“I don’t have to be here either,” I shoot back, heat rising in my voice. “Yet, here I am.”

I carry my bowl to the sink, stepping beside him. The scent of him—clean soap mixing with the faint metallic ghost of earlier violence—wraps around me.

“You don’t want to hurt me,” I say quietly. “If you did, you wouldn’t have saved me—more than once. You wouldn’t have fed me. If you wanted to hurt me, you’d have done it by now.” My gaze finds his, searching for a crack in the mask. “You’re as much a mystery now as you were that day I saw you in the alley.”

His head tilts just slightly. “Is there a point in there that’s not so obvious?”

The quip lands with a sting, but there’s no malice in his tone—just a wall, tall and unshakable.

I shake my head, feeling the fight drain out of me. Begging, pleading—it won’t work. He’s only going to tell me what he wants to tell me. And right now, that’s nothing.

The fire crackleslow in the hearth, casting the cabin in a restless orange glow. Shadows lick the walls, stretching and curling like living things. The air between us is thick—silent but uncomfortable.