Page 48 of Creeping Lily

LILY

I press my palms to the glass and peer inside.

Yeah, he told me not to leave the car—but like hell I was going to hold it any longer.

My bladder made the call, not me. I ducked behind a thick shrub in the backyard, figuring it was secluded enough, then on my way back I spotted the window.

Curiosity hooked me by the throat before I could stop myself.

And now I’m here, craning up on my tiptoes just to see in.

The room is dim, shadows pooling in the corners, but my eyes find him right away—my stalker—sitting on the floor with his arms draped over his knees like he doesn’t have a care in the world.

Directly across from him is a man bleeding out, his face pale and slick with sweat.

Off to the side, a woman lies motionless on the floor, her bright, floral skirt bunched up awkwardly around her knees.

I can’t hear a single word through the glass, but I don’t need to.

I watch as my stalker tips his head back and lets out a laugh—deep, unhurried, like he’s sharing some inside joke.

The sound dies quickly, though, replaced by a shift in his face.

His eyes sharpen, a dangerous glint cutting through the easy act, and whatever he says next makes the bleeding man flinch .

It’s obvious now—this isn’t some random conversation. The man’s a hostage, and my stalker isn’t letting him leave alive. The air between them is thick with something I can’t quite name—revenge, retribution.

And despite myself, I’m hooked. My stalker has saved my life more than once, but looking at him now, I know the man in that room isn’t getting the same mercy. Whatever they’re discussing, it’s lethal. And I want to know every damn detail.

I continue to observe from my little perch at the window, watching and waiting.

I have no idea where we are. It’s a little clapboard home that’s seen better days, out on a massive block of land with the nearest neighbor hundreds of yards away. We could be anywhere in small town America and I still wouldn’t have a clue where we are.

I press my ear to the glass, trying to make out the conversation, but I get nothing, so I go back to observing, waiting anxiously to see what happens next.

My stalker’s posture is loose and easy as he sits chatting with the injured man as if they’re two buddies catching up after years apart. If not for the blood pouring from the man’s hand and the simmering hatred etched into my stalker’s face, I might almost believe it. But my gut knows better.

There’s a heaviness in that room, something dark and coiled, pressing against the walls like it wants out. I can’t tell if it’s coming from one man, both of them, or some unseen thing that’s been festering there long before I showed up.

Then my stalker goes still, his gaze flicking over his left shoulder. The woman on the floor is moving, groaning softly as she pushes herself up on shaky arms. Slowly. Painfully.

He turns back to the bleeding man, says something low, then rises to his feet and crosses to the woman.

He doesn’t kneel or crouch—just plants a boot into her shoulder and forces her back down.

Her nails claw at the grimy linoleum, scraping for purchase, her movements frantic and clumsy as she tries again to get up.

The injured man shouts something—loud, garbled, almost incoherent—and my stalker’s head snaps his way. That wicked smile spreads across the slash of skin visible under his mask, the kind of grin that promises pain.

Then, for the first time, he pushes back his hood.

A spill of dark brown hair tumbles free, brushing his shoulders.

The strands catch the dim light, soft and glossy—a sharp contrast to the violence hanging in the air.

He doesn’t give me long to admire it. His focus is locked on the man, words flowing in a steady, deliberate rhythm.

But when he turns back to the woman, it’s with a brutal purpose.

He crouches, fisting a handful of her hair and yanking her head up until her wide, terrified eyes meet his.

Her body jerks, instinctively recoiling from the burn of his grip, and I realize I’m holding my breath—caught, hypnotized—as his dark gaze bores into her like he’s stripping her soul bare.

I can’t hear the words he speaks to her, but I see the way his mouth moves—measured, deliberate—before his hand slides behind him and comes back with a glint of steel.

The woman’s lips press into a hard line. She shakes her head once, sharp and stubborn. He speaks again, his tone low and insistent, but she only shakes her head harder, her eyes blazing with a defiance that refuses to give him whatever he wants. She’s not going to speak. Not for him.

My stalker’s gaze flicks back to the bleeding man, a silent exchange passing between them. And then—so fast my brain can barely register it—he moves. One smooth, merciless motion, and the blade slashes across the woman’s throat.

The sound isn’t what I expect—it’s wet, final—and the hot spray of her blood paints his face like a grotesque mask. My breath lodges in my chest, a scream clawing to get out but catching hard in my throat.

Maybe he hears the sound of my panic. Or maybe it’s something else. But his head snaps up, and his dark eyes lock on me through the glass. For a single, terrible heartbeat, we just stare at each other. Then my balance falters, and I stumble backward, hitting the ground hard.

Adrenaline explodes in my veins. My thoughts are a mess of jagged edges as I scramble to my feet and bolt. I don’t have a plan. I don’t have a destination. I just know I have to move—fast—because I’ve seen too much.

I’ve just watched him murder a woman in cold blood. And the man on the floor? He’s next. Which means if he catches me, I won’t be far behind.

And if there’s one thing I’m certain of—it’s that my stalker won’t let a witness walk away.

For a split second, I think I hear it—my name, carried on the wind in a voice I know far too well. My stalker’s voice.

It’s probably just my mind playing tricks on me.

At least, that’s what I want to believe.

But I don’t look back. I can’t. My feet pound the dry earth as I cut along the side of the house, every instinct screaming at me to keep moving.

I don’t even stop to think about the rules he laid out before going inside.

Rules don’t matter anymore. Not when I’ve seen what he’s capable of.

He’s not some dark guardian in the shadows—he’s a killer.

And I’m not naive enough to think I’m safe just because he’s saved me before.

If I stay, he won’t just come for me—he’ll come for the people I care about. And when he’s done, there’ll be nothing left but blood and silence.

The dirt path stretches endlessly ahead, my lungs burning with each gulp of air.

I scan the horizon, desperate for anything—a house, a road, a car—but all I see is the bone-dry emptiness of nowhere.

My legs want to quit, muscles screaming, but I force them on.

Eventually, I’ll find someone. Something. I have to.

The sun glares down from a cloudless sky, baking my skin despite the lingering chill in the air. Sweat clings to me like a second layer, and my mouth feels like sandpaper. It’s as if I’ve been running for hours, though I know it’s only been minutes.

Then I hear it—the low, guttural growl of an engine. At first, I think it’s ahead of me, hope flaring in my chest. But the sound grows louder, closer, and I realize with a sick drop in my stomach—it’s coming from behind.

I whip my head around just in time to see the Pontiac cresting the rise, its dark shape cutting through the sun-bleached landscape like a predator closing in. My body reacts before my brain can catch up. My legs surge forward, every step light and desperate, as though running on air.

I don’t know where I’m going. All I know is I have to put as much distance between me and that car as humanly possible. Because if it catches me…

The sound of Kryptonite rips through the air, sharp and taunting, as my stalker closes in. Every beat of the song matches the frantic pounding of my heart. Of course the bastard would pick this for my capture—mocking me with the soundtrack of my own downfall.

The roar of the Pontiac grows louder until a rush of air blasts past me, tugging at my clothes and hair. He guns it ahead, the black blur of the car eating up the ground between us, then fishtails hard twenty yards in front of me. Dust explodes into the air, swallowing me in a gritty haze.

I skid to a stop, my shoes grinding into the dirt, and find myself staring straight into the driver’s side. My chest heaves. Fear slicks my skin like a second layer, making it impossible to tell if the heat rising off me is from the sun or pure terror.

He’s just sitting there, eyes locked on me, his head tipped slightly to one side like I’m some fascinating puzzle he’s not quite ready to solve. And then it happens—his mouth curves into a boyish grin. He’s not just chasing me. He’s enjoying this.

I stay frozen, unsure whether to bolt or hold my ground. The Pontiac’s engine purrs in the background, Kryptonite still thundering through the speakers, every note digging under my skin. Then, without a word, he shoves the door open.

The music doesn’t stop. Neither does the engine.

He steps out, slow and deliberate, his long legs planting wide in a stance that screams control—military, disciplined, unshakable. His head tilts again, the faintest spark of anticipation in his eyes, as if he’s already two moves ahead of me in this twisted game.

And I realize—he’s not wondering if he’s going to catch me.

He’s wondering how.

“Get in the car, Lily,” he orders, his voice sharp and unyielding when I stay frozen in place.

I shake my head hard. His mask is back on, the dark fabric hiding his expression, his hoodie pulled up so that only the shadow of his face is visible beneath it. There’s no way I’m getting in that car. If I’m going to die, it won’t be with my hands folded neatly in my lap—I’ll go down clawing.

He steps forward. I take an equal step back, my eyes locked on his like I’m daring him to keep coming.

“Just leave me alone!” I yell, my voice cracking. “I won’t tell anyone what I saw—just let me walk away.”

And then he grins. That slow, Cheshire-cat smile spreads across the slash of skin visible beneath the mask, and for one hot second, rage flares so bright I could almost kill him myself. Would that make me just like him? Maybe.

“You know I can’t do that, Lily,” he calls out, his voice slicing through the pounding music .

“Just let me go,” I beg, the words barely above a whisper. “Whoever you are, this never happened. Just… disappear.”

Another step forward. I match him with another step back, my muscles trembling from the tension winding tighter in my body. His smile grows wider, more deliberate, before he turns toward the car. He leans inside and twists the volume knob.

The music swells, and the unmistakable first chords of Creep flood the air.

A chill races up my arms, every hair standing on end.

“Fuck,” I breathe, my chest collapsing around the word. This is worse—so much worse—than I’d let myself imagine.

That’s my cue.

I turn and run. As fast as my legs will carry me. The dirt sprays beneath my feet, the music chasing me in jagged waves, but it’s not Radiohead that hammers in my ears.

It’s his voice.

Roaring my name.

Like the hunt’s only just begun.