Page 69 of Creeping Lily

LILY

W hen I close my eyes, I fall into him.

Not just dreams—Linc.

They come vivid and unrelenting, spilling over me until I can’t tell where memory ends and longing begins.

It always starts the same. I’m on my bike, tearing down a street I’ve known my whole life, wind clawing at my hair, air burning my lungs.

The pavement hums beneath my tires, every push of the pedals dragging me closer.

I can see him now—standing at the far end like he’s been waiting his whole life, like he was carved into this place just for me.

And God, the way he looks at me… not like a boy anymore, not like the friend who dared me to race him to the corner or who patched my skinned knees with clumsy hands. No—this is the man he became. Hair loose and wild, shoulders broad, eyes the color of every impossible thing I’ve ever wanted.

He opens his arms, and I don’t think—I fly .

Legs pumping harder, harder, until the world around me blurs and there’s nothing but him pulling me in.

My laughter bursts free, breathless and bright, and when I reach him, he catches me like he always has.

Like no matter what’s coming, he’ll always be there to break my fall.

And then… the street melts away.

We’re somewhere endless now—an open meadow, wildflowers bowing to a lazy breeze. Sunlight spills across us like we’ve been blessed, like the world has forgotten how to hurt us. We walk until the grass brushes high against our legs, until we find a place soft enough to fall into.

He’s on his side, watching me. That smile—unguarded, unashamed—cuts right through me. His eyes hold something deeper than words could ever reach, and I swear if I look too long, I’ll forget how to breathe.

Here, there’s no past chasing us. No pain, no fear, no stolen safety. Just the two of us in a pocket of the world that belongs only to us. The silence is heavy in the best way—like it knows we don’t need to speak to understand.

Because I feel it.

That invisible thread binding us together. It’s more than a bond; it’s a lifeline, an unspoken promise that transcends time, distance, and every scar we carry.

And lying there, skin warm against the earth, I realize something that splinters me open—the universe didn’t just give me Lincoln. It stitched him into the very fabric of who I am.

A sound leaks in—faint, wrong. A slow drip. Cold. Heavy.

The meadow wavers at the edges, colors running like wet paint. The scent of wildflowers turns damp, stale, metallic. My lungs hitch before I can stop them.

Somewhere beyond the dream, water pools on stone. Footsteps echo down a corridor I can’t see. The breeze dies, the sun fades, and when I turn back—Linc is still there, smiling. But his shirt is dark now. Wet. Blooming with red.

I cling to the dream until it bleeds completely away, because I know what waits for me when it’s gone.

When I wake, Tom Walker is standing above me—looking like a slick parasite in a charcoal suit.

His presence doesn’t just take up space.

It infects it. He’s the smell of stale smoke that seeps into your clothes and never leaves.

He’s the mold in the walls that no one notices until it’s eaten everything.

I don’t give him the satisfaction of flinching. My gaze drifts toward the cell door, slow enough to look careless but sharp enough to clock the distance.

“Don’t even think about it,” he says, catching the movement. His voice is calm, almost indulgent. “It’s locked. And the key?” He pats his breast pocket. “You’d have to kill me to get it.”

My eyes snap back to his, unblinking. “That can be arranged.”

He chuckles, but it’s hollow. “You’re not a killer, Lily. You’re just a loud little girl playing with matches in a world made of gasoline. And sooner or later, you’re going to burn yourself alive.”

He takes a step closer, slow and deliberate, like he’s got all the time in the world to circle the shark tank he’s built for me. The muted shine of his shoes scuffs against the damp concrete, and every inch he closes feels like a dare.

He leans in just enough for me to smell his cologne—a chemical, choking blend that tries to mask the stink of rot beneath. His shadow swallows mine against the wall.

“You’ve upset Bentley,” he says.

I meet his gaze, lips curling into something that pretends to be a smirk. I want him to see my contempt, to taste it. “Oh no, poor Bentley. Did I bruise his delicate little ego? Shocking, how honesty tends to hurt the soft-skinned.”

A flash—quick as a knife—cuts across his perfect facade. Annoyance. And that makes my insides dance with pleasure .

“You always did have a sharp tongue, Lily,” he murmurs, voice pitched so low it slithers straight into my ears. “Shame you never learned how to keep it in check.”

My gaze flicks—fast—toward his breast pocket where the key rests. So close. A sharp jerk of my hand, a quick twist, and I could have it. Maybe. If he doesn’t snap my wrist first.

He notices the shift in my focus, lips curling into a thin, knowing smile.

“You’re not going anywhere, Lily.”

My pulse hammers in my ears, drowning out everything else. I could shove him back, drive my knee into his gut, claw that key from his suit, and end this here.

I hold his stare, my fingers curling into fists so tight my nails bite into my palms. The weight of the decision presses against my ribs. One move. One chance.

The decision hits me like a jolt of electricity. One second I’m pressed against the wall, the next I’m lunging forward—fingers snatching at his pocket like a starving animal going for meat.

For a fraction of a second, I actually feel the cool metal of the key beneath my fingertips.

Then Tom’s hand is on my throat.

It’s not a grip—it’s a vise. My feet leave the ground before I can suck in another breath.

He slams me back against the wall, the back of my skull cracking so hard against the concrete that white bursts of light explode behind my eyes.

Pain ricochets through my head, stealing my sense of up and down.

“You stupid little—” His words cut off as I dig my nails into the back of his hand, desperate to make him let go. But he’s not letting go. Not until I see black.

Air shreds out of my lungs in ragged gasps as he finally hurls me away from him. My body slams into the floor with a sickening thud, my shoulder taking the brunt of it. Pain burns down my arm like wildfire, my breath coming in wet, choking gulps .

I try to push myself up—fight my way to my knees—but the room tilts violently.

Tom’s already on me again, his shoes crunching on the damp floor. He grabs my wrist this time, twisting it hard enough to send a scream tearing out of me.

“You’ll regret this,” he says, voice a cold, oily snarl.

I spit blood at his shoes. It earns me another savage yank that nearly wrenches my arm from its socket.

My head snaps to the side, vision blurring.

My shoulder screams, my throat burns, and somewhere deep inside I know—if I don’t find a way out other soon, I’m going to die right here in this basement.

Tom drops me like I’m nothing, but only so he can stand over me and watch. He wants me broken. Wants me small. Wants me to know he can crush me whenever he feels like it.

And I hate him for it. Hate him enough that if I survive this, I’ll make sure he chokes on that smug grin before he takes his last breath.