Page 24 of Creeping Lily
Walt’s eyes narrow, a flicker of surprise crossing his features. He’s not used to someone refusing the bait. Not used to someone looking at her and seeing anything but a thing to own.
“Tell you what,” he says, leaning forward. His tongue darts over his lips, and the room feels colder. “I’ll give you a sample. Five hundred, she’s yours for the night. Do whatever you want. There’s nothing like a silent scream when there’s a little choke play.”
The words land in my gut like spoiled meat. My stomach turns, acid clawing its way up my throat, but I don’t let it show. If I want to get anywhere with this bastard, I have to wear the mask. I have to play along.
I lift a brow, make a show of considering it. “Five hundred’s a little steep, don’t you think?”
“Not when you’re driving that car,” he says, jerking his chin toward the back door like the Pontiac’s already his.
And in that moment, I know—if he has his way, I won’t walk out of here alive.
12
TITAN
Barnaby’s only condition is that he gets to watch.
Given the sickness in his eyes and the evil in his soul, I don’t doubt for a second what he’s hoping for—that I’ll take his woman in front of him, brutalize her until there’s nothing left, and then, sometime in the dead of night, he’ll creep up behind me and put a bullet in my skull. He strikes me as exactly that kind of coward.
I have no intention of touching her. But I make a show of it—pretend to agree, even pull out the cash. I set it on the table like it’s nothing, take a slow sip of my beer, and then rise to follow him down the narrow hallway.
A small price to pay for what I’ve really come here to do.
The hallway is tight, the air stale with the stink of beer and sour sweat. We’re steps from the bedroom door when I move. Fast.
My arm snakes around his thick neck, my forearm biting into the muscle as I clamp him in a headlock. His breath catches—he wasn’t expecting this—and for one delicious second, I have the advantage. Then the fight kicks in.
He bucks hard, his body going rigid before he thrashes like ahooked animal. His hands claw at my arm, nails scraping skin, trying to pry me loose. His breath comes hot and damp against my forearm, each gasp more ragged than the last.
Barnaby’s heavy, his bulk giving him a brute’s strength. His elbow drives into my ribs, a hard, jarring blow that forces a grunt out of me. Pain flares hot in my side, but I grit my teeth and tighten the choke, cutting off his airway inch by inch.
He slams me backward into the wall. The impact sends a crack through my spine, but I use the momentum, pivoting us so he takes the next hit. We crash into a side table, splintering wood, knocking a lamp to the floor. Glass shatters, and small trinkets scatter like startled insects.
His movements are growing frantic now—less controlled, more desperate. I can feel his pulse hammering against my arm, each beat slowing, his body losing steam.
But he’s not done.
With a last, frantic surge, he shifts his weight, twisting hard. We topple, slamming into the floor. My back takes the brunt, the boards cold and unyielding beneath me. He tries to roll free, but I’m already dragging him back, my arm cinched tight around his throat.
His face is a grotesque mask—skin flushed a deep crimson, sweat slicking his temples, eyes bulging as he gurgles for breath. And now, finally, there’s fear there. The kind that tells him this might be the end. The kind that says no one’s ever gotten this close to taking him out before—and no one will again.
He swings wildly, a blind fist connecting with my jaw. White light bursts behind my eyes, the taste of copper flooding my mouth. My grip slips, just enough for him to suck in a desperate, shuddering breath and wriggle halfway free.
It’s a mistake.
He’s barely on his knees before I launch forward, tackling him down. We hit the floor hard, my fists raining down. Everypunch is a release—of purpose, of rage, of every moment I’ve imagined this man broken. His body jerks with each blow, the sound of knuckles on flesh echoing in the close space.
His strength ebbs fast. The fight drains from him until he’s little more than a lump of meat under my hands.
Finally, he goes slack. Limp. Finished.
I push off him, chest heaving, sweat running down my spine. Barnaby lies there on the floor, face swollen and mottled with bruises, breathing in shallow, uneven pulls. The monster’s gone. What’s left is a ruin—a pitiful, gasping man who knows he’s been beaten.
The room is silent now except for the harsh rhythm of our breathing. The air is thick with the stench of sweat and violence. I stand over him, catching my breath, and think about how easy it is to take away everything from someone who’s made a life of taking from others.
The first cutis just a whisper across his skin—barely enough to break the surface. I jab again, the knife’s tip digging into the thick flesh of his belly, starting just above his navel. His skin jumps under the blade. Within an hour, fourteen shallow lines crisscross his stomach, each one an ugly red welt. None deep enough to kill him. Not yet. Because I always leave the best for last.
Barnaby slurs every curse he knows, his voice thick, his words meant to cut as sharp as my knife.
