Page 56 of Creeping Lily

LILY

T itan has had a change of heart.

Instead of claiming the sofa like he said he would, he lies on his side on one half of the bed, perfectly still, as if he could sleep through anything. His breathing is slow, steady, controlled. The mask is in place, the silicone molding to his face so perfectly it could be skin.

I stand on the opposite side of the bed, watching him in the dim light.

The fire in the corner throws shadows across his hair—dark brown, tousled, falling carelessly over his forehead.

Even with his eyes closed, even with that barrier between us, there’s no denying it: Titan is beautiful.

Beautiful in the dangerous, can’t-look-away way that makes my pulse trip over itself.

Something about him pulls at me, despite every warning my brain tries to send.

I lower myself carefully onto the mattress, mirroring his position, my head propped on one palm as I face him. My gaze drifts over him, slow and deliberate, committing the slope of his brow and the exact shade of his hair to memory.

“You going to watch me all night?” His voice breaks the quiet, low and scratchy from sleep—or maybe just pretending to sleep .

“Nothing better to do,” I murmur.

“There’s always something better to do, Lily.”

He doesn’t open his eyes, but I know he’s awake now, fully aware of every inch between us. His calm unnerves me.

“You’d have me believe otherwise,” I say. “Choices, and all.”

That gets him. His eyes snap open, brown irises catching the firelight, and for a long moment, they lock with mine.

No words, just that steady exchange—breath to breath, heat to heat.

This is the closest I’ve been to him. I drink him in: the sharp line of his jaw, the movement of his throat when he swallows, the set of his mouth.

And his lips—God. They look familiar. They feel familiar, like they’ve been on mine before, on my skin, undoing me one kiss at a time.

“Tell me, Titan,” I say, my voice steadier than I feel. “Is the mask for my benefit, or the world’s?”

“Doesn’t matter,” he says evenly. “Eventually, it will come off.”

“What will I find when it does?”

“Probably something you won’t like.”

He rolls onto his back, staring at the wood-plank ceiling, his tone final. I watch the slow rise and fall of his chest, listen to the subtle sound of his breathing, unwilling to let go of the question hanging between us.

“I’m sensing some Beauty and the Beast vibes here.”

A snicker escapes him, but he still doesn’t look at me. “Someday soon, you might wish this was just that—and nothing more.”

I push past it, ignoring the riddle in his voice. “I’m not much into fairytales.”

“Could’ve fooled me. All those books scattered around your dorm room…”

The image of him going through my things without me knowing makes my stomach twist. “They’re literary classics. Not fairytales,” I say, sharper than I mean to.

“Same, same,” he replies, the smirk audible in his voice.

“If you say so.”

“You’ve got one that’s more worn than the others,” he says after a pause.

My eyes narrow. “Do I even want to know how much time you spent snooping to notice that?”

“ Gone with the Wind ,” he answers, ignoring my jab. “The classic to rival all classics.”

“My favorite,” I admit, the words coming out softer than I intend.

The truth is, I’ve always loved that story. But the first edition I own—the one I’d never part with—isn’t just about the book. It’s about the giver.

“First edition hardcover,” he says, finally turning his head to me. “Not easy to get your hands on.”

So he knows his books. That catches me off guard.

“It was a gift,” I say quietly.

“You must be special to someone to get a gift like that.”

The comment slips under my skin. I’ve never thought about it like that, but he’s not wrong. That book was the last thing Lincoln Walker ever gave me, and it’s priceless for reasons no money could touch.

The thought of him makes my chest ache. I look away, not ready to drown in the past when the present already feels like deep water.

I lie on my back, closing my eyes, hoping sleep will take me. It doesn’t. Titan’s presence is too large, too near, filling the space between us even without touching me.

The bed dips slightly. I don’t have to open my eyes to know he’s rolled onto his side again, watching me now, the same way I was watching him before .

And somehow, that’s worse than the mask.

The smell of coffee and eggs pulls me out of sleep before my eyes even open.

When I do, the dim light of the cabin filters in, and Titan comes into focus—standing at the stove in the small space that passes for a kitchen. He moves with deliberate ease, flipping something in a pan, the steam curling upward and carrying the warm scent of eggs through the air.

At some point during the night, I must’ve actually fallen asleep, because I don’t remember closing my eyes.

“You ruined my plans to bring you breakfast in bed,” Titan says without turning, his voice carrying that dry, sarcastic lilt that’s sharp enough to cut through my lingering haze.

I blink, rubbing the sleep from my eyes. I hadn’t made a sound getting up, but somehow he knew I was awake. I’ve stopped questioning it—Titan has a way of knowing things before they happen. It’s unnerving.

“Haha,” I deadpan, swinging my legs over the edge of the bed. My feet find my shoes, and I slip them on. “I need to shower.”

He tips his chin toward the bathroom door. “Your duffel’s on the vanity.”

I glance at him, a flicker of gratitude surfacing despite myself. He must’ve transferred my bag last night when we switched cars.

In the bathroom, steam wraps around me as I let the hot water wash the night from my skin. When I’m done, I towel-dry my hair and pull on clean sweats and a long-sleeve shirt, leaving my hair loose so it will dry faster in the absence of a hair dryer.

When I emerge, Titan’s already seated at the small table, a steaming mug of coffee in hand. His phone rests in front of him, the screen lighting his face until he sets it aside the moment I sit down.

The plate waiting for me is simple—scrambled eggs, toast—but the first forkful tells me it’s exactly what I needed. The eggs are soft and warm, melting on my tongue, and I realize I’m hungrier than I thought.

“You can cook,” I say between bites, though that’s as far as I’ll go. I’m not about to hand him the satisfaction of knowing how good this is. Judging by the faint curve of his lips, he already knows.

“I can do many things,” he says, his voice low, laced with a kind of meaning I can’t quite name. The sound skates over my skin, leaving behind a faint shiver I try to ignore.

I raise an invisible wall between us, reminding myself it’s there to protect my heart—because, like it or not, this man gets under my skin far too easily.

“You’re extremely talented at stalking,” I say, lifting my brow as I take another bite.

His mouth curves into that dangerous almost-smile, the one that dares me to keep pushing.

“If I hadn’t been ‘stalking’ you,” he says, “you’d be dead by now.”

I resist the urge to roll my eyes, stabbing another piece of egg instead. “You’re never going to let me forget that, are you?”

He doesn’t answer. He doesn’t have to. The look in his eyes says it all—he’s going to hold that over me for the rest of my life.

And somehow, I think he might just be planning to stick around long enough to do exactly that.

I push the empty plate away, leaning back in my chair. Titan’s still drinking his coffee, his fingers wrapped around the mug like he’s in no rush to move. The smell of it drifts over the table, dark and bitter .

“Thanks for breakfast,” I say, because my mother raised me with manners—even if I’m thanking my kidnapper.

Titan doesn’t answer right away. He sets his mug down, the ceramic tapping softly against the wood, and studies me with that unreadable gaze that makes me feel like I’m under a microscope.

“We’ll be leaving soon,” he says finally.

The words land like a stone in my stomach. “Leaving? To where?”

His eyes narrow slightly, like he’s deciding how much he wants to tell me. “Somewhere safer than here.”

I glance toward the window. The forest outside looks endless, foggy and damp in the morning light. “I thought you said no one knew this place existed.”

“They don’t,” he replies, his voice flat. “But places like this don’t stay safe forever. People talk. Tracks get noticed.”

I rest my hands in my lap, trying to keep my voice even. “So where are we going?”

He leans back, one arm draped over the back of his chair. “Somewhere you won’t like.”

I blink at him. “You’re terrible at reassuring people.”

“I’m not here to reassure you, Lily,” he says, his tone soft but unyielding. “I’m here to keep you alive.”

The way he says it—calm, like it’s just a fact—does something to me. A chill runs along my spine, part fear, part… something else I don’t want to name.

“Am I allowed to pack my own bag, or is this another one of those ‘trust me’ situations?” I ask, my voice sharper than intended.

“We travel light, Lily. It’s safer that way,” he says, finishing his coffee and standing.

I exhale through my nose, caught somewhere between annoyance and resignation. He doesn’t wait for me to answer, already moving toward the door like the conversation is over.

And maybe it is—for him.

But for me? Every mile we put between this cabin and wherever we’re headed is another step deeper into a life I never agreed to.