Page 50 of Creeping Lily
For a second, I think he might swing again—but then he shoves me off and storms into the dark, Wendolyn trailing after him like a shadow that doesn’t know any better.
I stand there, chest heaving, watching him vanish into the night. Whatever we had—whatever history kept us tied together—it’s gone now. Burned up in the firelight.
And I’m not sure I want it back.
26
LILY
Iknow something’s wrong the second I open the door.
It’s not loud or obvious—no smashed glass, no overturned furniture—but the air feels… thick. Different. Like it’s holding its breath.
“Lordy Lord, what is thatsmell?” Bethany’s voice slices through my thoughts as she steps in behind me. She wrinkles her nose and yanks her shirt collar over her mouth like a makeshift mask.
It hits me then. A scent so strong it feels alive—raw, heavy, cloying, the kind that doesn’t just sit in the air but seeps into your skin.
Bethany takes another step inside, eyes sweeping the room, and her frown deepens. “That’s not air freshener. That’s… something else.”
I can taste it now, on the back of my tongue—rich sandalwood, that smoky depth of oud, the kind of cologne you smell once and remember forever. My stomach turns, not from the scent itself but from the fact that it’s here at all.
Because I know I didn’t bring it in.
“Someone’s been in here,” Bethany says, voice low andcertain. Her arm shoots out in front of me, stopping me cold before I barrel into her.
Her words drop like a stone into my chest. The stillness around us sharpens, every sound amplified—the hum of the mini fridge, the faint tick of the wall clock, my own pulse slamming in my ears.
I force myself to look past her. My gaze skims over the bed, the shelves, the desk?—
The desk.
The chair isn’t where I left it. I always tuck it in before I leave. Always. Now it’s pulled out, angled like someone sat there, leaned in, maybe even rested their elbows while they lingered in my space.
I take a step forward. The scent gets stronger, wrapping around me like a hand closing at my throat.
My fingertips brush the desk’s edge, and I feel it—a faint tremor in my own hand I can’t quite control. That’s when I see it.
“There,” Bethany whispers, pointing. Her voice barely cuts through the rush of blood in my ears.
A single red rose rests on top of my book. The petals are lush and perfect, every curve deliberate, every thorn intact. It doesn’t belong here, but it’s not just the flower—it’s the way it’s been placed. Precise. Intentional. Like whoever left it wanted me to find it exactly this way.
“Lily…” Bethany’s tone falters, all her usual bravado slipping into something brittle. “Who would do this?”
I can’t answer. My throat has closed around the words. My eyes stay locked on that rose, my mind spiraling through possibilities, none of them safe.
The petals are beautiful, but there’s nothing soft about them. They’re a warning dressed up like a gift.
And somewhere out there—maybe on this floor, maybe right outside—someone knows I’ve seen it. Someone’s still watching.
The city’s madness has a scent.
And now it’s inside my room.
Bethany’s voicespikes like a fire alarm. “What do you mean, you don’t know who left the rose?”
Her usual calm has cracked wide open, disbelief sharpening every word. She paces the room like a caged animal, eyes flicking between the door and the desk where the flower still sits. It’s as if she’s waiting for the air itself to confess.
“How would I know?” I ask, forcing my shoulders into a shrug I don’t feel. My voice is steady only because I’ve practiced that skill—masking panic. “I was with you all morning.”
