Page 36 of Creeping Lily

LILY

T he scent of leather and oud embraces me like a long-lost lover. It seeps into my lungs, thick and intoxicating, and for a heartbeat, I forget to breathe.

His hand slides up my side, slow at first, then harder—fingers digging into my waist until my skin throbs beneath his grip. My breath stutters. I can’t stop my eyes from tracking the way his hands roam, crossing and recrossing my body like he’s mapping out territory that’s already his.

The edge of his bottom lip is trapped between his teeth as he works, deliberate and unhurried, savoring every second.

Ink winds over his hands—fresh, darker than before, curling into new designs that snake from his wrists toward his knuckles.

I try to follow the shapes, to make sense of them, but he moves too much, gives me no chance to piece them together.

Still, heat prickles across my skin, shame curling in my gut for noticing the beauty in his marks.

“Eyes, Lily,” he rasps. “Give me your eyes.”

His voice is gravel over silk, and it burrows under my skin.

I feel his fingers on my chin, firm but not cruel, tipping my head until my gaze collides with his. We stay there—locked—eyes speaking in a language more dangerous than words.

One hand drifts into my hair, combing through strands like he’s memorizing the texture. Then he leans in. His lips brush mine, warm through the cutout of his mask. It’s soft at first, almost careful, his tongue teasing the seam of my mouth until I let him in.

I want to move closer. To wrap myself around him and disappear inside whatever dark place he’s dragged me to. But my hands are bound, my wrists useless at my back, and the only skin-to-skin contact I get is what he decides to give.

When his hand moves lower, between my thighs over my jeans, my muscles lock. He freezes too, watching me. Asking without asking.

One blink. That’s all I give him. Permission.

Our language doesn’t need sentences. It doesn’t need a voice. It’s touch and heat and the way air shifts between us.

I didn’t know him before Colt. He was just a stranger—until Bethany’s birthday, until the night the club swallowed me whole in its flashing lights and pounding bass. He appeared from nowhere, a shadow in the chaos, his presence a magnet that both drew me in and made my skin crawl.

Since then, he’s been everywhere. In hallways.

Across the quad. At parties he’s not invited to.

Always close enough for me to feel him, never close enough for anyone else to notice.

He moves like he belongs here, like the campus was built with him in mind.

But he’s a ghost—no one calls his name, no one pulls him into a conversation.

Because no-one in my circle sees him but me.

I’ve never asked questions. Maybe because I’m afraid of the answers. Maybe because some part of me doesn’t want the mystery to end. Could he be someone I already know? Someone hiding in plain sight? The thought sinks its teeth into me and doesn’t let go.

Weeks have stretched into months, his presence sharpening like the edge of a knife pressed just close enough to threaten. Every time our eyes meet, something passes between us—an unspoken dare.

Fear and attraction twist together until I can’t tell one from the other.

“Do I want to know what you’re thinking, Lily?” His voice is low, rich, curling around my name like smoke. “Should I be worried?”

I shake my head because words feel too fragile. Electricity hums between us, a live wire under my skin. I want my hands back. I need them. I want to thread my fingers into his hair, feel the shape of his skull, trace the lines of muscle under his shirt.

Khaki Henley. Worn jeans that hang low on his hips. A body carved for sin.

Danger. That’s what he is.

And yet?—

I rip the thought from my head before it can root itself. I can’t pretend I’m special to him. For all I know, I’m just another girl in a long, silent line.

“Lily.”

This time, my name is an order. Sharp. Pulling me out of my head like a hook in my ribs.

I meet his gaze, and it’s like staring into a locked room. I’ll never see all of him unless he decides to open the door.

“Why are you here?” I ask, my voice rough. “And what do you want?”

“So fucking beautiful… and you’re all mine.”

The words are a low growl against my ear, his voice rough silk, warm breath sliding over my skin like it belongs there.

The heat of it makes goosebumps rise down my arms. My heart kicks against my ribs, fast and frantic, as if it already knows I’m standing in dangerous territory.

I’m drowning in quicksand, and the sensation feels like a luxury.

I turn toward him, slow, like I’m afraid the moment will vanish if I move too fast. The dim light spills across his mask, catching the sharp edges of his cheekbones and the cut of his jaw, but it’s his eyes that hold me still—storm-dark, locked on me with a hunger I can’t mistake and something else beneath it.

Restraint. Like he’s one wrong breath away from breaking.

His knuckles skim my cheek, slow enough that I can feel every ridge of bone, every callus earned from a life I don’t understand.

The touch is gentle, but there’s power behind it, the kind that makes my pulse throb in my throat.

The air between us feels alive, charged with something that smells like danger and sandalwood, and it’s thick enough to drown in.

“Lily.” My name leaves his mouth like it’s his favorite word, slow and husky, as if he’s tasting it. I’ve heard my name a thousand times, but never like this. Never carved from wicked desire.

I search his gaze for answers. For something that tells me why it feels like I’ve known him forever when I don’t even know who he is. His stare catches me, pins me. There’s recognition there, something that stirs a part of me I’ve kept buried deep, a part that whispers you’ve met him before.

Everything else falls away—the dorm walls, the night beyond the window, the rest of the world.

There’s only the space between us, heavy with the kind of silence that says more than words ever could.

His fingertips trace my jaw and my whole body lights up in response, nerves sparking like they’ve been waiting for this moment all my life.

“You’re mine,” he says, voice low but edged with steel.

It’s not a question. It’s not even a request. It’s a claim, threaded with something that feels like both promise and threat.

My stomach flips, because in those two words I hear the weight of something I can’t name—a past I don’t remember and a future I’m not sure I’ll survive.

I lean toward him without meaning to, drawn into his orbit like he’s gravity itself.

His breath brushes my neck, hot and close, smelling faintly of mint and smoke.

The heat of his chest radiates into me, closing the space between our bodies until I feel like I’m standing on the edge of something I can’t step back from.

In him, I feel safety and danger wrapped together so tightly I can’t separate them. My body aches to trust him, but my mind screams to run. And still… I don’t move.

“Lily,” he says again.

This time it’s not just my name—it’s a confession. A truth he’s not ready to explain. It slips into me, winding itself deep into the marrow of my bones, where I know it will stay indefinitely.

His hand slides from my cheek, curling around the back of my neck, not hard enough to hurt but with a weight that says I’m not going anywhere until he’s ready to let me.

His thumb presses just beneath my ear, tilting my head back so he can take me in—studying me like he’s cataloguing every reaction, every flicker of breath.

“Good girl,” he murmurs, though I’m not sure what I’ve done to earn it—stand still? Breathe? Let him touch me like I’m his?

The heat from his body seeps into mine, a slow, dangerous warmth.

I think he might close the gap, kiss me again, or crush the little space left between us until there’s nothing else.

Instead, he leans in, the edge of his mask grazing my temple.

The faint scrape against my skin makes my stomach twist.

“You don’t see it yet,” he says, voice so low the words are almost felt rather than heard. “But you will.”

A shiver slides down my spine, cold in contrast to the heat radiating from him .

“You’re standing in the middle of a fire, Lily,” he murmurs, the words sinking into me like embers searing through thin fabric.

His breath is hot against my ear—thick, humid heat that smells faintly of smoke and leather—and it ghosts over the fine hairs at my nape until my skin prickles.

“And I’m the only one who knows where the edges are. ”

The syllables drag slow, each one a deliberate brand. I swear I can feel them, molten and heavy, burning themselves into my pulse. My stomach tightens, my throat dries, and it’s suddenly hard to tell whether the heat flooding me is fear, arousal, or both twisted together.

My pulse hammers, loud enough that I swear he can hear it. He hums, low and satisfied, like my reaction is exactly what he wanted.

Then he steps back—not far, but enough for the air between us to cool. He reaches into his pocket, the faint rattle of metal filling the silence, and I realize what he’s about to do. His fingers find the cuffs at my wrists, unlocking them with slow, deliberate clicks.

The cold bite of steel falls away, replaced by a sudden, aching emptiness. My arms are mine again, but I don’t move them—not while the warmth of his touch still lingers there.

“Stay away from them,” he says, each word spaced like he’s nailing it into my skull. “The Walkers. Their friends. Their shadows. Stay. Away .”

His tone makes it clear—this isn’t a suggestion.

Before I can speak, he’s already at the door. He unlocks the chain with quiet precision, the kind of ease that only comes from slipping in and out of places unnoticed.

Just before stepping out, he pauses. Doesn’t turn, doesn’t give me the mercy of his eyes—just lets his final words curl back toward me like smoke finding its way under a door .

“You can disobey me if you want,” he says. “But we both know this ends with you choosing me anyway.”

The door shuts with a soft click, but the echo of his words lingers—heavy, unsettling, and impossible to ignore.

I stand there for a long moment, wrists tingling where the cuffs had been, breath shallow in my chest. The room feels too big without him in it, too quiet—like the walls are holding their breath, waiting for him to return.

My legs move without thinking, carrying me to the door. I press my palm flat against the wood, half-expecting to feel the echo of his presence through it. Nothing. Just the cool, lifeless surface.

I flex my fingers, the faint marks from the cuffs still ghosting my skin. My heart is a mess in my chest—part pounding with relief, part aching with something that feels too much like loss.

The scent of him still clings to the air—leather, oud, smoke—wrapping around me like invisible hands. I close my eyes, and for a moment I’m back there, feeling the scrape of his mask, the warmth of his breath, the weight of his hand on my neck. My body remembers, even if my mind tries to fight it.

I should be angry. I should be terrified. And I am. But it’s not enough to stop the other thing thrumming beneath it—the pull.

I sink onto my bed, knees drawn up, my mind looping his warning over and over until it blurs into something else entirely. The edges of his voice are still sharp in my ear.

Stay away from them.

Stay away.

I don’t know if I can.

And that might be exactly what he’s counting on.