37. Lilith
CHAPTER THIRTY SEVEN
I was dead. Deceased. Buried six feet under the fucking ground.
My jaw dropped so hard I physically felt it hit the floor.
I could see him. I could actually see him.
No coat. No hoodie. No scarf. No blindfold.
Was I a saint in a past life? Did I die heroically saving orphans from a burning building? What the hell did I do to deserve this?
It was the first time I’d ever seen him all at once, and the universe was punishing me for every snide comment I had ever made because—
This man.
His jaw was strong, defined, a blade of bone and shadow, the kind of structure I now knew looked as good as it felt under my tongue. He had a strong nose.
And his lips—oh, his lips .
I’d kissed them before. Multiple times. But Jesus Christ.
Plump, obnoxiously full, the kind of shape that made my thoughts inappropriate at best, criminal at worst.
I could see his stubble. Not just feel it this time— see it. Dark. Just enough to make my stomach twist painfully, just enough to make my mouth dry.
I had felt that stubble scrape against my skin before, felt the roughness of it against my lips, my neck, my thighs—
I nearly choked on my own thoughts.
Was I fan-girling over my stalker?
I was. I was fan-girling over my fucking stalker.
Oh my God, Lilith. Stop.
He hesitated before taking a slow, careful step forward, like he was approaching a wild animal that might bolt if he moved too fast.
“Are you okay?” he asked again, his voice low and careful .
I let out a short, disbelieving laugh, blinking hard as I gestured toward him. “Are you serious?” I raised my brows, waving my hand at him like he was some kind of hallucination.
His chest rose and fell like he was trying to hold himself back. In a rough voice, he said, “Oh, Dio santo, Lilith. Can I touch you?”
My brain stuttered. “Uh—yes?”
He closed the distance between us in a heartbeat, arms wrapping around me so tightly against him I lost my breath.
For a moment, I let myself sink into it, let myself melt into his warmth, the solid weight of him. But my body had other ideas, and a sharp shock rippled through my ribs, my stitched-up skull throbbing in protest. I winced, sucking in a sharp breath.
“Oh, shit—fuck, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” he said, hands flying off me like he’d burned me, voice frantic, eyes darting over my whole body like he was searching for more damage.
“It’s fine, it’s fine,” I said quickly, shaking my head as I reached out, catching his hands before he could fully retreat. I squeezed gently. “I promise, it’s fine.”
For a moment, we just stood there, neither of us moving, neither of us speaking.
Then slowly, I loosened my grip. He didn’t pull back. He did the opposite. His fingers shifted, turning under mine, tracing lightly along my wrists before sliding up my arms. A slow, careful movement until his hands were on my face.
He just stared. His beautiful, dark brown eyes rimmed with tears.
And Christ, if that didn’t make mine sting too.
I had no idea what was going on. I didn’t know why he was looking at me like that, why it felt like I’d been ripped out of some nightmare and thrown straight into his arms. All I knew was that Mr. Stalker was here.
And now he had hold of my face and was peppering soft kisses all over it.
His lips pressed to my forehead, my cheek, the bridge of my nose, my jaw—
The room tilted a little, and I swayed, knees threatening to buckle, but before I could embarrass myself completely, his hands were there, steadying my waist.
“Do you want coffee?” he asked. “Food?”
“Coffee would be good,” I said, licking my dry lips.
“Come on.” His fingers threaded through mine, warm and firm as he led me to the kitchen. My brain short-circuited. Our hands. Laced together. It had happened plenty of times before. This just felt… different. And I wasn’t sure if I liked it.
That was a lie. I definitely liked it.
He pulled out a stool for me, watching as I sank onto it with a heavy exhale, propping my elbows onto the marble. “I don’t really know what to say,” I admitted, rubbing my temples, suddenly feeling woozy.
He glanced over his shoulder. “That’s okay, you don’t have to say anything.”
I let out a slow breath, closing my eyes for a second. Yeah. That sounded easier. But I couldn’t leave it alone, could I?
“What happened?” I asked, pressing my palms against the counter.
“How’s your memory doing?”
I cracked one eye open. “Evidently? Shit.”
He placed a steaming mug of coffee in front of me, and I wrapped my fingers around it, letting the warmth heat my palms, even as my brain struggled to catch up.
My eyes flicked back up to him as I took a slow sip. “How long have I been here?”
“Eleven days.”
I practically choked on the coffee. “Eleven?” I wheezed, setting the mug down so I wouldn’t drop it.
“Yeah.”
“Eleven days?” I repeated, like he might suddenly change his answer to something less horrifying.
“Yeah.”
Okay. Okay. Processing.
“Right. And where is here?” My fingers tapped once against the counter. “Airbnb? Hotel? Why am I not home?”
His gaze didn’t waver. “No. This is my home. And you’re not at your home because it’s not safe.”
I forgot the last part instantly, my brain latching onto one thing only. I looked around again, taking in the massive open space, the floor-to-ceiling windows, the insane view stretching out over the city.
Then I turned back to him, eyes wide. “ This is your house?”
“This is my pent house.”
I stared. Then I laughed—a slightly unhinged, borderline maniacal laugh that scraped its way out of my throat before I could stop it. “Right. Right. So, obviously I’m in a fever dream right now.”
He didn’t say a word, and when my laugh fizzled out, reality settled in. I looked down at myself, at the oversized shirt hanging loose over my frame, at the sweats that were cinched at my waist, at the bruises peeking out from the collar.
I lifted my gaze to his. “What’s all this?”
His expression shifted, like he was choosing his words very, very carefully. “Clark.”
The name landed like a punch to the ribs. My fingers lifted to my temple, brushing against the stitches again, but nothing came back. No flashes of memory. No sudden, violent clarity. Just a hollow, gaping space where something should’ve been. I fucking hated when this happened.
“Why?” I asked.
His throat bobbed, fingers flexing quietly against the counter. “I don’t know.”
“You do n’t know?” My voice was sharper than I meant it to be, and guilt immediately flickered in my belly. “What does that mean? He just—what? Decided to do this for fun?”
He stayed completely still, eyes locked on mine.
“Tell me what happened. Please,” I said.
“Lilith…” His jaw tightened for a beat before it softened again, his voice calm. “I don’t know. I was going to find you after work,” he said. “But you weren’t there. The store was closed early.”
My stomach dipped. He was coming to find me?
“I looked for you. I tried calling. You didn’t answer.” His fingers tapped once against the counter. “I was searching for you, and I found you.”
“And?”
“Clark was—” he ran a hand through his curls. “You were on the ground. He was—” the words stuck in his throat.
I squeezed my eyes shut, head tipping forward. “Okay. Then what?”
“I brought you straight here,” he said. “You were in and out of consciousness. My doctor checked you over. A nurse came in for the first week, giving you painkillers and fluids. She helped you dress, helped you… with everything.”
Oh, thank God.
Relief washed through me so fast I nearly fell off the stool.
He hadn’t seen me. Hadn’t seen what was under the shirt, the scars, the damage.
For some reason, that sent a fresh wave of gratitude washing through me.
Then, almost immediately, I caught myself.
That should’ve been the least of my worries.
“You’ve been out of it for a while, Lilith,” he continued. “Do you remember Dr. Hayes?”
I remembered snippets of conversation, but nothing concrete. “Vaguely.”
“She’s been checking in on you too,” he nodded. “You’re back on your medication now.”
Shit, that explained so much. Never mind what apparently happened with Clark. Being off my medication always knocked me for six. I’d learned that the hard way many, many times over the years.
“I’m so sorry,” he murmured. “I didn’t know you took anything.”
I shook my head. “How were you supposed to know that?”
“I don’t know. But still,” he muttered, rubbing the back of his neck.
I took another sip of the coffee, turning over all the words in my head. “Why isn’t it safe for me to go home?”
He stilled, then after a beat, he gestured toward the stool next to me, like he was asking for permission. I gave a small nod, and he lowered himself onto the seat.
“They haven’t found him yet.”
My stomac h dropped. “What?”
His fingers curled into a fist on his thigh. “They haven’t found him yet.” He repeated.
I gripped the mug. “What the fuck?”
“That’s what I said.”
I let out a slow, exhausted breath and dropped my head to the counter with a dull thunk. A sharp sting rippled through my skull, a reminder of the stitches, but I was too overwhelmed to care.
“He isn’t going to get away with it. I promise you.”
I didn’t respond, I didn’t even move, just shut my eyes and relished in the feel of the cool marble against my forehead.
“You’re safe now. I promise. I won’t let anything happen to you.”
I believed him. Every word. Not out of desperation or my brain being too foggy to fully grasp what was going on.
It was because he’d already proven it. He’d walked me home so many times, made sure I got through the door safe.
Held me when I needed it the most. Every gift had been meant to make my days better.
He’d saved me from Clark, apparently. He’d brought me here just to take care of me.
I trusted him.
Blindly, I reached out, my hand finding his. “I know.”
I rolled my head to the side, dragging my gaze up him. I’d spent so long piecing him together in fragments. Now all at once, every part of him fell into place in front of me, whole and unhidden.
“You don’t have your scarf on.”
The second the words left my mouth, I wanted to punch myself in the throat.
Obviously, he didn’t have it on.
We weren’t in the street, or in the store, or in some weird limbo where he got to be seen and unseen at the same time. This was his home. His kitchen. His world. He wasn’t about to sit here, drinking coffee in his own damn penthouse that he’d brought me to, whilst wrapped in shadows.
“No, I don’t,” he said. “I wasn’t wearing it when I found you either. I wanted you to see me.”
My pulse fluttered in my chest.
“I realised how much I hurt you by not giving myself to you.”
My chest ached. I had no idea what to do with that. With him. With the cautious way he was laying his words out in front of me like something fragile.
It was too much. My head hurt. My body hurt. My brain felt like it had been tossed in a blender.
“Do you want to know my name now?”
I blinked.
Did I ?
I mean, obviously. I’d been practically begging to know since day one.
But also— fuck. Did I?
“Well,” I sighed, rubbing my fingers against the marble. “It’d be kind of weird if I said no now.”
There was only a second of quiet between us before he said, “Silas.”
I mulled it over, rolling the name around in my head. Silas. Huh. I liked it. Smooth. Strong. A little sharp, but solid. Better than ‘Mr. Stalker.’
“Silas what?”
“Silas Graves.”
I stared at him. I blinked. I frowned. “Silas fucking Graves?”
His mouth quirked like he was fighting back a smirk. “No, my middle name’s Emilio. Not ‘fucking.’”
Oh, for God’s sake.
“I like it.” I said.
Something flickered in his expression for a second before he nodded once. “I’m glad.”
I squeezed my eyes shut as the silence stretched out between us. Not uncomfortable or heavy, just there.
My body was so damn sore, my head a foggy mess, my ribs felt like they’d gone ten rounds with a sledgehammer, and now I was sitting in the penthouse of a man I’d only ever half-seen until right now, trying to digest the fact that he had a real name.
A real face. A real life outside of the shadows he’d hidden in.
I peeked at him from the corner of my eye and huffed out a small breath. “This is a lot.”
“I know, sweetheart. What can I do for you right now?”
“Euthanise me?” I asked as I sat up straight, trying to push past the pain.
“That’s not funny.”
“It is a little bit.”
“Do you want to lie down?”
I let out a quiet snort. “I’ve been lying down for—what did you say? Eleven days?”
“Yes. And you’re still foggy and hurting. You’re wincing every time you breathe.”
I wanted to argue, but he had a point.
He looked exhausted. The tension in his jaw, the subtle hollow beneath his bloodshot eyes.
“You’re tired,” I said softly.
“I’m fine.”
“I know you’re not.”
His throat bobbed, his jaw working for a second. “It doesn’t matter.”
“It mat ters to me, asshole.”
He exhaled sharply, running a hand through his curls. “I thought I’d lost you, Lilith.”
Oh.
My heart clenched so tight it hurt. I didn’t know what to say. I didn’t know how to process the way he was looking at me, like he was expecting me to disappear if he blinked.
“Well,” I cleared my throat. “I’ve got the survival skills of a cockroach, so, you know. It would’ve taken more than that to take me out.”
He didn’t look amused. Not even a little bit.
I shifted slightly to face him more, cringing as the movement tugged at bruised muscles. “Listen. I’m okay, I’m here, some bad bullshit happened, but I’m good. Okay, big guy?”
His jaw flexed, shaking his head. “You’re not okay.”
“But I’m still in one piece,” I said.
His lips parted like he wanted to argue, but instead, he just breathed deep and nodded once, like he was trying to believe it.