Page 117 of Creeping Lily

She’s choosing me.

My chest tightens until it hurts. I lower my face into her hair, inhaling her, letting her scent flood me like poison. My arms crush her tighter, selfish, possessive, desperate, because I know the truth:

I’ll never let her go.

Not because I should.

Not because I deserve her.

But because she doesn’t fear me the way she should—and that makes me more dangerous than I’ve ever been.

The sheets are tangledaround our legs, sticky with sweat, heavy with heat that hasn’t burned off yet. Lily lies draped acrossme, her hair spilling down my chest, her fingers splayed across my chest.

She doesn’t see what it does to me—that every time she touches me, the world slows, then speeds up again, like my body doesn’t know how to handle her.

Her hand drifts lower, grazing near the jagged terrain of my back. Instinct kicks in before thought does—I catch her wrist, gently but firm, and steer her hand away. Not there. I’m not ready to share every ugly piece of me with her yet. She doesn’t get to feel the map of my ruin, not when I’m not ready to explain how every inch of burned skin was earned.

“When we go back,” she says softly, almost dreamily, “I think I want to see my family for a while.”

The words slice through me sharper than any blade. Go back. Family. Away. She doesn’t notice how the air changes, how every muscle in me tenses.

Her fingers keep moving across my chest, careless and sweet, while my mind roars with images of her gone. Out of my sight. Out of my reach. Vulnerable. A hundred ways the world could rip her from me before I could even draw breath.

“Wasn’t that where you were supposed to be for spring break?” I ask, watching her face too closely. Looking for cracks.

She shrugs, eyes unfocused, lost somewhere far from me. “It was. But I didn’t end up there. I still want to go… I think I need the time away.”

The ache that rips through me is ugly, selfish. Away. She wants to put distance between us. Distance I can’t tolerate. Distance that feels like death.

“Sounds like you’re asking my permission,” I say, and the frown carves deep into my face because I hear it—she was. She was asking.

Her gaze flicks back to mine, wide and clear. “But you’ll follow me, right?”

Her words punch the air out of me. She doesn’t know what she’s admitting—that she expects me to shadow her, haunt her, bleed into her life no matter where she runs. And the worst part? She’s right.

“If that’s what it takes to keep you safe,” I say, voice gravel, “yeah. I’ll follow you.”

Her breath shudders, shaky as it leaves her chest. “How did my life get so fucked up?”

“It didn’t.” The answer is out before I can stop it. My hand slides up her arm, anchoring her to me. “It might look that way right now, but it’s not ruined. Not beyond fixing.”

Her eyes soften, searching mine like she’s trying to find the part of me that still believes in redemption. She hesitates, then whispers, “And when this… whatever this is… is over, you’re going to?—”

The rest dies.

Because outside, a sound cuts through the quiet. A sharp clatter, wrong, invasive.

My body reacts before my mind catches up. I’m up in a breath, rolling from the bed, muscles coiled tight. My hand closes around the gun on the side table, the cold steel alive against my palm. One motion, one click, and it’s cocked, ready.

I glance at Lily once. Just once. My finger presses to my lips—an order, not a request.

No sound.

“Go to the bathroom,” I murmur, voice low and lethal. Already pulling on my sweatpants, dragging a hoodie over my head. “Get dressed. Lock the door. Don’t come out until I come for you.”

Her brows furrow, fear flashing across her face. “What is it?”

“No questions, Lily. Just do as I say.”