Page 54 of Creeping Lily

LILY

T he cabin is nothing like the mansion we left behind.

That place had been sprawling and cold, a labyrinth of echoing rooms and endless corridors that kept Titan and me at a constant, safe distance. Even when he was near, there was always space—walls, halls, shadows—to hide in.

Here? There’s no such luxury. The cabin is so small I can hear the shift of his weight on the floorboards. I can hear his slow, steady breaths if I’m quiet enough. His presence presses in from every corner, heavy and inescapable, until it feels like the air itself is thick with him.

The whole space is one open plan—what someone might call cozy if they didn’t know better.

A bed sits pushed against one wall. Opposite it, a fireplace with a sagging sofa and a single armchair huddled close like they’ve been there for decades.

The kitchen is little more than a counter and a stove tucked to the side, and at the far end, a closed door I figure leads to the bathroom.

Titan follows my glance and confirms it with a simple, “Bathroom’s there. ”

“I should get cleaned up,” he says, his voice rough with exhaustion.

He crosses to the bed, bends, and drags a battered trunk from underneath. The hinges squeal when he opens it, and he rummages through neatly folded clothes before pulling out a grey hoodie and dark sweatpants.

“We can eat after I shower.”

No hesitation. No checking to see if I’ll make a break for it. He moves past me without a backward glance, disappearing into the bathroom and closing the door.

It strikes me that he has a dangerous amount of faith I won’t try to run. What’s worse? He’s right. I surprise myself by sinking into the sofa, tucking my hands under my thighs to keep them still, and staying put. My nerves hum like live wires, but my feet don’t move.

I replay the last few hours in my head—the fight, the blood, the sound of bodies hitting the floor. By every sane measure, I should be terrified of Titan. But fear doesn’t come.

If he’d wanted to hurt me, he’s had more than enough chances. Instead, I’m caught in this strange pull toward him, one I can’t explain. After everything that’s happened in the last few months, I’m starting to think the real danger isn’t being near Titan. It’s being far from him.

The bathroom door opens. “You’re still here,” he says, and there’s a smirk in his voice.

I glance up. His hair hangs damp and messy over his eyes, and—of course—the mask is back in place, clean now, hiding whatever expression might be underneath. The grey hoodie is loose over his frame, the sweatpants sitting low on his hips.

A chill runs down my spine. How can I feel this drawn to someone I’ve never truly seen? A man who wears a mask, who slips in and out of my life like he belongs there .

“I didn’t have many options,” I reply, nodding toward the dark windows and the endless stretch of trees beyond them.

He pushes up his sleeves and walks to the kitchen. My gaze catches on the cords of muscle in his forearms, the tattoos revealed in shifting bands of ink.

Curiosity pulls me from the sofa. I step up beside him at the counter as he starts opening cans, the metallic crack of the lids breaking the silence. He tips their contents into a small pot with practiced movements, like this is second nature to him.

My eyes drift over his tattoos. Black and grey swirls twist around his arms, intricate as rivers on a map.

Roman numerals march across his skin, marking moments I can’t name.

A fire-breathing dragon coils around one bicep, its teeth bared mid-snarl.

But it’s the skull that makes my stomach tighten—its hollow eye sockets wreathed in bleeding flowers. Lilies.

My name. My flower.

Titan doesn’t look at me, but I know he feels my stare. His lips tilt in a smirk before he turns back to the stove, setting the pot over a low flame. Then he leans against the counter, arms folded, facing me.

The tattoos have raised more questions than they’ve answered. It can’t be coincidence. The man stalks me, watches me, knows things about me I haven’t told a soul.

“Minestrone,” he says suddenly.

I blink. “What?”

“Dinner.” His eyes glint through the mask. “I know you like minestrone.”

A shiver works its way down my neck. “How do you know that?”

“I know a lot of things about you, Lily. You’d be surprised how well I know you.”

I meet his gaze, heat building in my chest. “And why is it you know so much about me when I know nothing about you? ”

“Because who I am is irrelevant,” he says without missing a beat. “But you, Lily… you’re the reason we’re here today. This all started with you.”

The words hang in the small space between us, thick as smoke. And for the first time, I wonder if the walls of this cabin are too close not just because of its size—but because there’s nowhere left to hide from the truth he’s holding.

Titan insists we eat. So we do.

In silence.

The cabin’s single overhead light hums faintly, casting a warm but dim glow over the small table between us.

We eat canned minestrone—nothing fancy—but the steam rising from my bowl smells like comfort.

I hate to admit it, but it’s some of the best I’ve ever had.

Or maybe that’s just the hunger talking.

I tell myself it’s not the company. No way. But my fork keeps stalling midair as my eyes lift, sneaking glances at Titan from beneath lowered lashes.

He catches me more than once.

Every time he does, the corner of his mouth tips into that small, knowing smirk that makes my cheeks heat, and I look down quickly, pretending the broth is suddenly very interesting.

“I have questions,” I say finally, pushing my empty plate away. My bowl is long gone—slurped down in half the time it’s taken him to get through half of his. He eats like every spoonful is a decision, slow and deliberate, like he’s weighing the world between bites.

He sets his spoon down, the soft clink loud in the small room, and leans back in his chair.

His hoodie sleeves are rolled down now, but I still catch the ink curling up from his wrists, coiling around the backs of his hands like snakes.

With his hood lowered, I can see more of it climbing his neck, a web of dark ink that winds upward like smoke staining his skin.

“Sometimes,” he says, voice low and even, “the answers to your questions are not the ones you want to hear.”

I huff out a laugh that has no humor in it. “Will you just stop talking in riddles, already? Enough! I deserve answers.”

His jaw tightens. For a heartbeat, I think he’s going to tell me I deserve nothing. His eyes narrow, hard enough to pin me to my seat, and I remember—again—how easily this man could end me if he wanted to.

“Whiny Lily,” he says at last, “is not a version of you that I like.”

The words sting more than I want to admit.

He rises, scooping up his half-finished bowl, and walks to the sink.

He tilts the dish, straining the broth away, then scrapes the rest of the contents into the trash.

I watch as he rinses the bowl in silence, the water running over his bloodstained gloves earlier now replaced by the clean slide of soap suds.

“I can do that,” I offer, my voice softer now. It’s the least I can do—he did make dinner, after all.

“You don’t have to.”

“I don’t have to be here either,” I shoot back, heat rising in my voice. “Yet, here I am.”

I carry my bowl to the sink, stepping beside him. The scent of him—clean soap mixing with the faint metallic ghost of earlier violence—wraps around me.

“You don’t want to hurt me,” I say quietly.

“If you did, you wouldn’t have saved me—more than once.

You wouldn’t have fed me. If you wanted to hurt me, you’d have done it by now.

” My gaze finds his, searching for a crack in the mask.

“You’re as much a mystery now as you were that day I saw you in the alley. ”

His head tilts just slightly. “Is there a point in there that’s not so obvious? ”

The quip lands with a sting, but there’s no malice in his tone—just a wall, tall and unshakable.

I shake my head, feeling the fight drain out of me. Begging, pleading—it won’t work. He’s only going to tell me what he wants to tell me. And right now, that’s nothing.

The fire crackles low in the hearth, casting the cabin in a restless orange glow. Shadows lick the walls, stretching and curling like living things. The air between us is thick—silent but uncomfortable.

“Why do you wear the mask?” I ask, the question cutting through the quiet like a blade.

Titan doesn’t move at first. His head tilts slightly, and his eyes—dark through the openings—flicker with something I can’t read.

Earlier, before his shower, the mask had been streaked in blood, the kind that clings to every groove and refuses to come off without a fight.

Now, the one he wears is spotless. Too spotless.

It’s unnerving, the contrast between the violence I watched him commit and the clean, untouched surface staring back at me.

His gaze sweeps over me, quick but deliberate, as if assessing whether the question is worth answering at all. “Obviously, because I don’t want people to see me,” he says at last, his tone dry and edged with sarcasm.

I lean forward, resting my elbows on my knees, my curiosity pushing past my better judgment. “So you’re hiding because you’re a criminal?”

A low scoff slips from him—sharp, dismissive. He turns his head just slightly, enough to show me the hard line of his jaw beneath the mask. It’s not a big movement, but it drips with disdain… or maybe discomfort. I can’t tell which .

“Everyone’s concept of criminality varies,” he says.

His eyes find mine again, and even half-obscured, they burn with an intensity that makes me hold my breath.

There’s something in them—something I’m sure he’ll never admit—that says his story is far more complicated than the label criminal could ever cover.

He lets the words hang there for a moment before continuing. “Criminality,” he says, slower now, his voice carrying a note of defiance, “is as fluid as the definitions people impose on it. What one person sees as a crime, another might see as survival. A necessity. A means to an end.”

I shift on the sofa, the firelight warming my skin even as a cold awareness creeps up my spine. “Well, that’s interesting,” I say, steepling my fingers between my thighs, my tone sharper than I mean it to be. “That you don’t see yourself as a criminal.”

“Like I said,” he replies, leaning back into his chair as though the conversation costs him nothing. “Concepts.”

The flames snap loudly, sending sparks up the chimney. His mask catches the light for a second, reflecting the fire in a brief glint. It’s the closest thing to a tell I’ve gotten from him all night—proof that there’s something under there that shifts, reacts, even if I can’t see it.

But then it’s gone, and we’re back to the same impasse: me wanting answers, him deciding which truths I’m allowed to have.

And right now, I’m not sure which of us is more dangerous—the man behind the mask… or me, for wanting to know him badly enough to keep asking.