Page 105 of Creeping Lily

Because the alternative is unthinkable.

54

LILY

Titan has had a change of heart.

Instead of claiming the sofa like he said he would, he lies on his side on one half of the bed, perfectly still, as if he could sleep through anything. His breathing is slow, steady, controlled. The mask is in place, the silicone molding to his face so perfectly it could be skin.

I stand on the opposite side of the bed, watching him in the dim light. The fire in the corner throws shadows across his hair—dark brown, tousled, falling carelessly over his forehead. Even with his eyes closed, even with that barrier between us, there’s no denying it: Titan is beautiful. Beautiful in the dangerous, can’t-look-away way that makes my pulse trip over itself.

Something about him pulls at me, despite every warning my brain tries to send.

I lower myself carefully onto the mattress, mirroring his position, my head propped on one palm as I face him. My gaze drifts over him, slow and deliberate, committing the slope of his brow and the exact shade of his hair to memory.

“You going to watch me all night?” His voice breaks the quiet, low and scratchy from sleep—or maybe just pretending to sleep.

“Nothing better to do,” I murmur.

“There’s always something better to do, Lily.”

He doesn’t open his eyes, but I know he’s awake now, fully aware of every inch between us. His calm unnerves me.

“You’d have me believe otherwise,” I say. “Choices, and all.”

That gets him. His eyes snap open, brown irises catching the firelight, and for a long moment, they lock with mine. No words, just that steady exchange—breath to breath, heat to heat. This is the closest I’ve been to him. I drink him in: the sharp line of his jaw, the movement of his throat when he swallows, the set of his mouth.

And his lips—God. They look familiar. They feel familiar, like they’ve been on mine before, on my skin, undoing me one kiss at a time.

“Tell me, Titan,” I say, my voice steadier than I feel. “Is the mask for my benefit, or the world’s?”

“Doesn’t matter,” he says evenly. “Eventually, it will come off.”

“What will I find when it does?”

“Probably something you won’t like.”

He rolls onto his back, staring at the wood-plank ceiling, his tone final. I watch the slow rise and fall of his chest, listen to the subtle sound of his breathing, unwilling to let go of the question hanging between us.

“I’m sensing some Beauty and the Beast vibes here.”

A snicker escapes him, but he still doesn’t look at me. “Someday soon, you might wish this was just that—and nothing more.”

I push past it, ignoring the riddle in his voice. “I’m not much into fairytales.”

“Could’ve fooled me. All those books scattered around your dorm room…”

The image of him going through my things without meknowing makes my stomach twist. “They’re literary classics. Not fairytales,” I say, sharper than I mean to.

“Same, same,” he replies, the smirk audible in his voice.

“If you say so.”

“You’ve got one that’s more worn than the others,” he says after a pause.

My eyes narrow. “Do I even want to know how much time you spent snooping to notice that?”

“Gone with the Wind,” he answers, ignoring my jab. “The classic to rival all classics.”