10. Lilith #2
She snorted, shaking the carton.
The coffee machine beeped, and we both lunged for our mugs at the same time, our knuckles bashing together awkwardly before we raised them in a toast.
“To catching creepy exes,” she said, wiggling her eyebrows.
“And to keeping all bodily functions in check while doing so,” I added with a smirk.
We flopped back down onto the couch, coffees in hand. The TV flickered softly, but I barely paid attention. My attention was elsewhere.
On the side table.
On the gun.
My fingers tightened around my mug as I stared at it, the weight of what I was planning pressing down on me almost too intensely.
“You’re really gonna do this, huh?” Molly asked.
“Yeah,” I said quietly, setting my mug down and leaning forward.
“Are you sure it’s gonna work?”
“Yeah,” I said again as I picked it up. “I’m sure.”
The truth? I had no idea if it was going to work. Just like I had no idea where the burst of confidence had come from. Maybe it wasn’t confidence at all, just exhaustion disguised as bravery. But for once, I wasn’t second guessing myself, and that felt right.
I turned it over in my hands, the metal cool in my palms as I inspected it like it was some rare artefact, something powerful and dangerous, yet strangely comforting.
Molly shifted beside me. “This isn’t really like you, Lils.”
“That’s the point,” I said as I aimed it toward the empty pizza box on the table, heart thumping as my finger hovered over the trigger. My breath caught as I squeezed.
A sharp click .
Then a fwoosh.
A small, flickering flame burst from the end of the barrel, dancing for a second before vanishing.
Silence.
“It looks like something a Bond villain would pull out right before monologuing,” she said with a snicker.
“Dramatic for dramatic,” I shrugged. “It’s the only language Clark understands.”
She smirked, sipping her coffee. “Well, at least you’re leaning into it.”
I rolled it between my hands. It had been years since I’d actually used it for anything other than to light candles. But back then, when I first bought it, it had meant something else entirely.
I’d been living in a hostel—a revolving door of people, voices too loud in the halls, fist fights left, right, and centre. I never really felt safe there.
I was scared shitless of guns. But this lighter? It had been enough to make me look scary, without the very real fear of accidentally shooting someone.
It was all perception. The illusion of power. How something harmless in function could be deadly in appearance. How people saw what they were conditioned to fear.
And fear? It was a currency.
And tonight, illusion or not, I was the one cashing in.
“Lils—” A hand shook my shoulder, hard. “Lils, wake up. I think he’s here.”
My eyes shot open, and I jumped up so fast my heart practically ejected itself from my chest.
Molly’s face was way too close, eyes wide and serious.
“I—what?” I croaked, my voice thick, slurred with exhaustion.
“Clark. I think I heard him,” she hissed.
“Shit,” I muttered, stumbling to my feet and blinking rapidly, trying to clear the gritty dryness gluing my eyes half shut. I’d fallen asleep. Idiot.
I grabbed the lighter-gun from the table and fumbled blindly toward the door. My fingers shook as I twisted the deadbolt and yanked it open.
My gaze dropped to the small box sitting dead centre on my doorstep. And then my eyes snapped up, to where a figure was just stepping onto the sidewalk.
My grip tightened on the gun, chest burning with adrenaline, fury, exhaustion.
“Hey, asshole!” My voice cut through the stillness. “No more games!”
He went completely rigid .
I tried to take a steadying breath, but my chest was too tight. Something was wrong.
Too tall.
Too broad.
That wasn’t Clark.
I squinted, trying to make sense of it, head spinning as my brain scrambled for an explanation.
“Are you… Has he got you doing this shit for him?” I asked.
The figure didn’t move, didn’t turn, didn’t react.
The stillness pressed in on me, thick and suffocating, the kind that only comes in the early hours of the morning. The sky was still tinged with nighttime indigo, but the first streaks of pale pink stretched over the rooftops, bathing the street in a soft glow.
The only sound was the occasional chirp of a waking bird.
Oh, shit.
It hit me that I was standing there in nothing but an oversized, ancient T-shirt that hung off one shoulder, exposing my collarbone like a tragic Victorian ghost. Bare legs out in the open, with goosebumps prickling up my thighs, not just from the cold but from embarrassment.
My neighbours were lovely, all polite smiles and ‘welcome to the neighbourhood cookies.’ And now?
Now this was going to be the only impression of me burned into their minds.
The new local crazy lady, standing outside before sunrise, wielding what looked like a gun, yelling after some guy on the sidewalk.
The figure shifted slightly, just enough to jolt me back to reality.
Right.
Embarrassment later. Figure out what the hell was going on now.
I cleared my throat, lowering my voice to a harsh whisper. “Hey! Turn around, now!”
His shoulders tensed slightly, like he was debating whether to listen or bolt. But then slowly, he turned.
My vision swam for a second, breath catching in my throat as the world tilted.
Pretty-eye-bike-guy.
He was standing right here, on my street, in front of my house. His hood was up, coat zipped high, scarf pulled over the lower half of his face, but I knew it was him.
What the hell was he doing here?
The weight of the lighter in my hand suddenly felt useless, stupid. It was a little metal toy in a real-life nightmare.
My heart hammered a frantic, erratic beat against my ribs.
I didn’t know what was worse—Clark, the devil I knew…
Or this guy—the one who had grabbed me in the street and was now stood frozen in the dead quiet of the morning, just staring at me.
This wasn’t how this was supposed to go .
My hands were shaking, but like hell I was going to face some man lurking in the shadows without at least looking like I had some semblance of ferocity in me, so I raised the gun.
Our eyes locked, and for a split second—one ridiculous, completely inappropriate second—all I could think was, ‘wow, those really are pretty eyes.’
I blinked hard, snapping myself out of it.
Jesus Christ, Lilith. Focus.
This was serious.
Okay. Confident face. He didn’t know my stomach was threatening to fall right out of me or that my knees felt like they were about to give out. He didn’t know a single thing unless I let him see it. So I squared my shoulders, planted my feet, and forced steel into my voice.
“You!” I whisper-yelled, jabbing the lighter-gun toward him. “Get the fuck here. Now.”
His head tilted slightly like he was weighing me up, trying to decide if I was actually a threat or just some unhinged woman waving a gun around in her worn-out clothes and broken slippers.
The answer was both.
His gaze dropped from my face to my bare legs, slowly tracing the length of them, lingering where my shirt barely skimmed the tops of my thighs.
My lungs seized.
I couldn’t see his mouth, couldn’t see if there was a smirk hidden beneath that damn scarf, but his eyebrows lifted ever so slightly.
A slow, uncomfortable heat crept up my neck and I yanked at the hem of my shirt, as if that would somehow fix the situation, but it was pointless.
“My face is up here, asshole,” I hissed.
His head snapped up.
“Say something!” I demanded. “I’m not playing your mute game again. You either talk, or—”
He raised his hand.
And waved.
He fucking waved.
A tiny, awkward wave.
Like this was normal, like he was just some guy acknowledging his neighbour after dropping off a damn fruit basket.
“Are you—” I took a step forward, rage thrumming through my veins. “Are you fucking serious right now?!”
Molly materialised behind me, making me jump. “Huh. That’s… not Clark. ”
I didn’t answer at first. I was too busy trying to figure out what the hell was going on.
“No,” I muttered, my grip still tight around the lighter-gun. “This is the guy I told you about. The one who grabbed me in the city, remember? The one who wouldn’t speak?”
Silence.
“Ohhhh. The one with the pretty eyes?”
Oh, God. I couldn’t believe I’d told her that.
I whipped around so fast my neck nearly snapped. “Molly!”
“What?” She shrugged. “I’m just saying.”
I exhaled through my nose, willing my soul not to leave my body. “Can we not right now?”
She crossed her arms, lips twitching. “I mean… he does look kinda hot.”
“Are you kidding me?”
She gestured toward him. “Strong build, good posture, mysterious.”
I turned back to him. He was still standing there, looking like he was waiting for the ground to swallow him whole.
“He looks like a discount Phantom of the Opera!” I gaped.
Molly gasped. “You love Phantom of the Opera.”
“Yeah. The music. Not the creepy masked guy lurking around in the shadows kidnapping women.”
“So this is where you draw the line? Not when you thought he was Clark, not when you threatened him with a—” she raised her voice a few decibels louder, “—real gun! But when I point out he’s attractive?”
I took another step toward him, closing the space between us, but the second I moved, he took a step back. Then another. He didn’t stop until his heel was nearly hanging off the curb.
My heart kicked up, frustration flooding every capillary.
“Why the hell has Clark got you doing this?” I demanded.
He didn’t say anything. Just stood there, staring, eyes dark and unreadable.
“Has Clark got you doing this?”
A pause.
His eyes widened. A rapid shake of his head. Not just a ‘ no ,’ but a ‘ hell no.’
Clark’s brows had furrowed when he’d said, ‘ what gifts? ’ He was a bullshitter, but he’d never deny himself the credit of something he’d done. Because if he did something, he wanted you to know it was him.
Which meant…
“Was it all from you?”
He hesitated, shoulders shifting. Then he nodded .
Ah, there it was, my stomach falling out of my ass.
“You’ve been leaving gifts at my doorstep for weeks?!” My voice pitched higher, even at a whisper.
I took another step forward, but the second I moved, so did he, his stance shifting like he was about to make a run for it.
“Oh, no you don’t!” I snapped, lunging forward. “Get back here, I’m not—”
Too late. He was already walking. Not running. Just a supernaturally fast walk, like some kind of hoodie-wrapped cryptid gliding away into the fog.
I wasn’t about to be the crazy woman sprinting down the street half naked after some guy who had apparently been leaving me gifts for weeks.
And even if I wanted to?
Yeah, that wasn’t happening. I’d make it ten feet before my lungs staged a full-scale revolt. Nothing like a good old-fashioned asthma attack to really drive home the fact that I absolutely wasn’t built for dramatic chases.
I huffed, watching as he disappeared around the corner.
Coward.