Page 8 of Creeping Lily
Another man replaces him, his thrusts fast, punishing. I turn my face to the side, press my cheek to the table, and try to leave my body. Tears leak onto the table.
When he zips up and steps away, the third man moves in. He’s not fully hard—grinds against me, muttering curses—before forcing his way inside. His rhythm is uneven, jagged.
And then—he’s gone. Ripped backward with a grunt.
Bentley stands there, chest heaving, eyes storm-dark and murderous.
“Fucking monsters,” he roars, kicking one so hard a bottle skitters across the floor. “Get the fuck out!”
They scatter, tripping over each other to reach the door, their laughter replaced by frantic curses.
The silence they leave is heavier than their noise.
Bentley’s steps toward me are slow, deliberate. He bends, gathers me into his arms like I might shatter. My body hangs limp, my hands falling to my sides like dead weight.
“Lily,” he whispers, voice breaking. “God. What did they do to you?”
The night replays in staccato flashes: the weight, the hands, the tearing pain.
“I’m so sorry,” he says into my hair. “So, so sorry.”
There’s remorse in his gaze—but something darker behind it. Something lethal.
He rocks me gently, murmuring that I’m safe now. Telling me I’m beautiful. Special.
The words warp the air between us, twisting reality into something else entirely.
When he lays me down on the couch and lifts my dress, my mind is already gone.
And the night that broke me just keeps breaking.
5
LINCOLN
The rescue takes forever.
One thing after another, each more pointless than the last. The battery’s in. The cables are tight. The car still won’t start.
I slam my boot into the tire. “Lousy piece of shit!”
Will just leans on the roof, smirking like I’m a toddler throwing a tantrum. “Don’t talk to her like that.”
“Why do you even hang onto this clunk of metal?” My hands drag through my already wrecked hair. “You could buy ten new cars and still have change for lunch.”
“This,” he says, patting the faded hood, “is history.”
“Yes, I’ve heard your Bundy theory before.”
He grins. “You love it.”
What I love is not freezing my ass off on the side of a freeway at midnight because Will refuses to let his precious rust bucket die. But before I can tell him that, my phone rings.
I don’t need to check the ID. The ringtone’s different—sharp. My mother.
Will’s smirk falters. He knows she never calls. Not unless it’s bad.
I answer.
