Page 113 of Creeping Lily
Her words slice me open. She has no idea what she’s asking for. No idea what kind of disaster lies beneath the silicone, beneath the name, beneath the man.
For a long moment, I say nothing. Then I hear myself mutter, “The mask isn’t for me. It’s for everyone else.”
Her brow creases. “What does that mean?”
I shift, restless, hating how raw this feels. “People see what they want. A faceless man is easy to fear. Easy to forget. The mask keeps the lines clean.”
Her fingers keep moving, stroking the bridge of the false nose, then moves across to the hard jaw. She cups my cheek like she believes she can feel me through it. “But it doesn’t keep me out. I can still feel you.”
The words gut me.
“You shouldn’t want to,” I rasp.
“But I do.” She presses harder now, eyes burning. “I want to know everything about the man who thinks he’s a monster, because all I see is a quiet beauty.”
My chest locks. My pulse slams. She can’t be looking at me this way.
Then she presses her lips to the edge of my mask, right where silicone meets skin. The sound that leaves me is low, guttural, animal. I fist my hand in her hair, dragging her head back just enough to look at me.
“You don’t know what you’re asking,” I grind out. My voice sounds dangerous even to me.
“Yes, I do.” Her tears shine, catching the dim light. “I’m asking for permission to know you. Every piece. Even the broken ones.”
It’s too much. Her words, her touch, the way she looks at me like I’m worth anything at all. My hands find her face, thumbs grazing the wet tracks on her skin, and I want to believe her. I want it so bad it’s tearing me apart.
But all I can do is roll her onto her back and crush my mouth to hers.
The kiss is punishment. A warning. A surrender.
She sobs against me, clinging, and I can’t stop, won’t stop,because she’s the only thing holding me to this earth. My monster and her softness, colliding, bleeding, binding.
When I break away, I press my forehead to hers, breath shaking. “Careful, Lily. You keep pulling at masks, one day you won’t like what you find.”
But my thumbs are still wiping away her tears. My body is still trembling over hers.
And in that moment, I know the truth I’ll never admit aloud:
The mask isn’t just to hide me from the world.
It’s to hide the world from me.
She fallsasleep tangled in me.
Her breath is warm against my chest, her fingers curled into my skin like she’s anchoring herself there. Every exhale brushes over me in a rhythm I can’t ignore, steady, unbothered, as if lying beside me—masked, scarred, ruined—is the safest place she’s ever been.
It kills me.
I stare at the ceiling, wide awake, every muscle locked. I’ve been trained to lie still for hours, to play dead when the world demands it. But this—this stillness—is something else. It’s torture.
Because I can’t stop looking at her.
Her soft hair spills across my arm. Her face, slack with sleep, looks younger, untouched by the weight she carries when her eyes are open. She trusts me with this—this unguarded piece of her—and I don’t deserve it. Not me. Not the man who’s killed more than he’s saved. Not the man who hides behind a mask because the truth underneath is worse.
I shift just enough to see her better. My hand finds her shoulder, then her arm, sliding down to her wrist. Her pulsebeats steady beneath my fingers. Proof she’s alive. Proof I didn’t destroy her by pulling her into my fire.
God help me, I want to keep her.
I brush a strand of hair off her face, careful not to wake her. My hand hovers there a second too long, aching to linger, aching to believe.
