Page 47 of Creeping Lily

TITAN

“ R emember our agreement,” I say, as I hop out of the car.

My voice is low but firm, a quiet reminder of the boundaries I’ve set.

Or rather, the boundaries I’ve enforced.

She earned the privilege of sitting uncuffed in the car, but it hinges on her compliance.

If she tries to leave, it won’t end here.

I’ll find her and bring her back, no matter how far she runs.

That’s the part Lily Snow, with all her cleverness, can’t seem to grasp—she belongs to me now.

Fully. Irrevocably. And I’ll do whatever it takes to ensure she stays where she belongs.

“I remember,” she murmurs, her tone subdued, barely audible over the thrum of my pulse.

I pause at the driver’s side door before shutting it, my eyes lingering on her.

The way she refuses to look directly at me stirs something unexpected in my chest, like the uneven swing of a pendulum.

Her profile, illuminated by the soft glow of the fading sun, locks itself in my memory.

The delicate curve of her pout presses against my resolve.

“We’ll get something to eat as soon as I’m done,” I say, offering a tentative peace. A crumb of normalcy to wipe away that subtle, heartbreaking defiance on her lips .

The stone path crunches beneath my boots as I make my way to the back door of the weathered house.

It stands solitary and quiet, its exterior worn by decades of rain and neglect.

The door is a relic of another time—its wooden frame cracked and faded, with glass panels clouded by age and concealed by dingy, stained curtains.

They hang limp, heavy with the weight of time.

I knock, my knuckles rapping against the brittle wood.

The silence stretches for a beat too long before the curtain twitches aside.

A shadowed face peers out briefly, eyes glinting with curiosity, before the fabric falls back into place.

The door creaks open, revealing a woman in her forties.

Her hand rests on the doorframe, fingers curling into the chipped paint, while her other hand finds its place on her hip.

Her posture speaks of a sharp-edged confidence, though the lines on her face suggest she’s weathered more storms than most.

She narrows her eyes at me, her gaze flicking briefly toward the car in the driveway. Then her lips curl into a slow, knowing smile, one that promises more questions than answers.

“Well, darlin’, how can I help you, gorgeous?” she drawls, her faux Southern accent dripping with syrupy charm. Her brown hair is teased into a towering beehive, and the layers of makeup on her face do little to mask the passage of time.

A hollow laugh escapes me—low, cold, and devoid of humor—as I push the door open and step inside, cutting off whatever pretense of hospitality she might have had.

“He—” she starts, but she doesn’t get the chance to finish.

I pull the syringe from my pocket and jab it into her neck with practiced precision.

Her eyes widen in shock, a garbled sound slipping from her lips before her body goes slack in my arms. I ease her to the floor just as I hear the shuffle of footsteps deeper inside the house.

“Sheila?” a man’s voice calls out, sharp with concern. The sound grows louder as he approaches. I don’t bother hiding—I step away from her limp form, waiting.

When he storms into view, his expression twists in a mix of confusion and panic as he spots his wife crumpled on the ground. “What the—?” he starts, but he doesn’t get any further. He lunges at me, wild and desperate, but his movements are clumsy, fueled by rage rather than skill.

I meet him with a swift uppercut, the impact snapping his head back. He drops like a sack of potatoes, hitting the floor with a dull thud.

It always surprises me how soft these predators are. They’re formidable when preying on the vulnerable, but face-to-face with someone stronger, they crumble.

Larry Shine. The name is burned into my brain like a hot iron, seared so deep I’ll never forget it.

Goliath doesn’t go after whispers or rumors—we move on facts.

And the facts against Larry and his wife, Sheila, are undeniable.

Shallow graves hidden on their property.

Too many children who never made it home because of them.

The kind of evil that can’t be forgiven, can’t be undone.

They’ve signed their own death warrants.

On the floor, Larry groans and shifts, his body curling before he pushes himself upright. His face twists into pure hatred, his lip curling like he’s about to bite.

“What do you want?” he spits, every word soaked in venom.

I close the distance before he can blink, grab his arm, and wrench it behind his back until a raw cry tears from his throat.

“What do I want?” My voice is low, steady. Deadly. “I want to bury whatever faith I had left—in you. You and your kind have taken the last scrap of hope I had for humanity. ”

He snarls like a cornered animal, lunging as if he can still land a hit, then tries to spit in my face. I catch him by the hair, yanking his head back hard enough to make his eyes widen. I force him to meet my gaze, and what I see there isn’t fear—it’s defiance.

And that defiance? It only feeds the fire already burning in me.

“Stupid cunt! You think you have what it takes to stop me?” I sneer, my voice a low growl.

With a burst of fury, I throw him across the room.

He scrambles up, grabbing a broom like it’s a weapon, but he doesn’t stand a chance.

Before he can move, I’ve opened my pocketknife and thrown it, the blade embedding in his wrist. He howls in pain, dropping the broom as blood spurts from the wound.

“Money…” he croaks, nodding toward a side door.

“I don’t want your dirty money,” I snap, advancing on him.

“What—what do you want?” His voice wavers, his bravado crumbling.

“Your ledger,” I say, each word heavy with menace. “Where is it?”

“What…?” His face contorts with feigned confusion, but my hard glare tells him there’s no room for games. “Will you leave?” he asks?

I grimace cruelly. Stupid, defective man.

“The nature of your death,” I hiss, “depends on whether I get what I came here for. You can make this easy or hard. Choose.”

“Fucken mo…”

I backhand him before he can finish his sentence. He goes flying across the room, hitting his hand against the floor. The pocketknife loosens and dislodges from his wrist. His blood starts to gush like a geyser, causing him to pale. His death is inevitable. But it will be slow .

“Here, let me bandage that for you,” I say, my voice dripping with fake kindness, the kind that’s more insult than offer.

I snatch a filthy hand towel from where it hangs off the oven door—stiff with old stains and smelling faintly of grease—and wind it tight around his wrist. The blood pushes up instantly, soaking into the fabric, spreading like ink in water.

It’s thick, dark red, and watching it stain the towel sends a twisted satisfaction curling in my chest. From the way Larry swallows hard and turns pale, it’s making him sick. Good.

“Time’s running out, Shine,” I tell him, my voice low and deliberate. I make sure his name rolls off my tongue like a sentence being passed. It’s not just a reminder that I know who he is—it’s a promise.

That’s right, Larry. The game’s over.

“Who are you?” he whispers, leaning his back against a wall.

“I’m your redemption,” I hiss. “This is your last chance to make amends before you meet your maker.”

“You’re not God,” he stammers, and I have to wonder if he’s starting to lose his lucidity.

“No. No, I’m not. I’m the devil you know.”

I tilt my head and smile at him cruelly. At least he and his wife will be travelling together. Evil begets evil.

“Fuck off,” he hisses.

I drop down onto the floor across from him, folding myself into a lazy sit with my knees pulled up, my arms draped loosely over them. I watch him like I’ve got all the time in the world, my gaze steady and unhurried.

After a moment, I shift, crouching forward so we’re almost eye level. My voice is calm, casual—like we’re two old friends catching up instead of sitting in the middle of a blood-stained mess.

“You ruined my fun, Larry,” I tell him, my tone light but edged with steel.

“I was expecting a fight—something to get the blood pumping, make it worth my time. Instead, I get this…” I gesture at him with a flick of my hand.

“A pathetic, spineless coward who’s just going to bleed out and rob me of what I came here for. ”

I tilt my head, letting the disappointment drip from every word. “You know what? Next time I take a job, I’m going to start asking for references on my… projects. If I’d known I’d be stuck with this sorry excuse, I would’ve turned it down without a second thought.”

“You’re insane,” he stammers, shrinking back against the wall as if it could shield him from me. His breath comes in ragged gasps, and his eyes dart toward the blood pooling beneath him. “You’re crazy,” he mutters again, his voice trembling.

A dark chuckle rumbles from deep within me, cold and sharp. “Crazy? That’s rich, coming from you. You traffic children. You kill them. And yet you think I’m the crazy one?”

His gaze falters, and for the first time, I see true fear in his eyes. Good. Let him feel it. Let him know what it’s like to face something he can’t control.