64. Lilith
CHAPTER SIXTY FOUR
T hick. Sour. Sweaty. Mouldy. Rotting wood. Stale beer.
It clawed down my throat, curled in my gut, made me gag.
It was everywhere—from the damp, spongy floorboards, to the water-stained ceiling that sagged like it was seconds from collapse.
The walls were streaked with grime, the wallpaper curling away in brittle, yellowed sheets.
Empty bottles littered the corners, their contents long dried to sticky, congealed sludge.
Something dark crusted the edge of the counter—blood, maybe.
Or vomit. Or both. The air was damp enough to cling to my skin, heavy and humid, like the whole place was sweating along with me.
“Well,” a voice rasped. “This is unexpected.”
My head snapped toward it. Clark stepped forward from the far corner, a half-empty beer bottle dangling from his fingers.
Holy mother of God.
He looked like he’d crawled out of a sewer and barely lived to tell the tale.
His hair clung to his forehead in damp, greasy strands, eyes bloodshot, the whites spiderwebbed with angry red.
His clothes were rumpled and stained, hanging loose on a frame that had thinned quite a bit since I last saw him.
And yet, despite all that, despite looking like absolute shit, he still had the fucking audacity to smirk.
His gaze flicked over me, scanning the scarf, the hood shadowing my features.
“Why do you have your face covered?” He tilted his head, squinting. “I know it’s you, Lilith.”
Bile rose up my throat. I didn’t know what I’d thought. I’d just done it for sentiment.
“Come on, you think I wouldn’t recognise you?” He took a lazy step forward.
Silas shifted slightly, just enough to angle himself in front of me.
“Oh yeah,” Clark drawled, taking a swig of his beer. “You brought your guard dog.”
My grip tightened around the wrench.
Clark let out a rough chuckle. “What’s the plan, huh? You gonna hit me again?”
Silas exhaled slowly, then tilted his head, lowering his voice. “Is that an invitation?”
Clark blinked, his smirk faltering for a split second before he plastered it back on, masking the tiny flinch with something oily as he tipped his bottle toward me. “Huh. That healed nicely.”
My stomach knotted, nausea roiling through my nerves as the scar on my temple prickled, like it remembered the person who put it there.
Silas shifted a little closer, his fingers brushing against my wrist. Just one small, grounding movement. A reminder that he was right there. I wasn’t alone in this.
I took in a heavy pull of air, keeping my shoulders squared.
Don’t react. Don’t run.
“ No, no, look—it’s fine.” Clark lifted a finger tapping his forehead. “I have one too.”
I could barely see it in the dim light, but there was a scar slicing across his brow—jagged and mean, the kind that didn’t heal clean.
It was ugly. Puckered and raised like it’d been pissed off the whole time it was trying to close.
The edges looked like it had gotten infected at some point too, angry and swollen, probably painful as shit.
“Psycho over here did that one,” he said, flicking a glance toward Silas with a grin. “After he got in the middle of our little… misunderstanding.”
“And I’ll do it again,” Silas said as his fingers shifted, so he was lightly gripping my wrist now. “Maybe another one—to match the other side.”
Clark let out a chuckle, shaking his head as he took another slow sip from his bottle like this was nothing.
I ignored them both, ignored the burning in my chest, ignored the way the rusted wrench bit into my palm.
Instead, I pushed forward with the question that had been clawing at the back of my throat for way too long.
“How the hell have you stayed off the grid this whole time?” I asked.
Clark’s lip curled. “Irrelevant. Better question. How did you find me?”
An answer for an answer.
I tilted my head. “Irrelevant.”
Clark just laughed. “Did you miss me? Is that why you came to find me, Lilith?”
My breath caught in my throat. He was trying to bait me—poke and prod until he found something raw, something he could sink his teeth into. I could feel it, the way he watched me, waiting for a reaction, waiting for me to snap.
Nope. Not happening.
I kept my face neutral, forced my shoulders to stay loose. “You are so damn predictable, it’s boring.”
His jaw twitched. Yeah, he didn’t like that. Good .
Silas’ fingers tangled with mine, warm and steady, the silent pressure keeping me anchored to the moment. I could feel how much he wanted to jump in. To end this right now. But he was holding himself back. For me.
Clark let out a huff through his nose, running his tongue over his teeth before plastering on another one of those slimy, condescending smirks.
“You know, a few weeks ago, I might’ve taken you back.
Forgiven you, maybe.” He let out a deep sigh, shaking his head.
“But these last few weeks? They’ve shown me I deserve better than you.
You’re nothing but a crazy bitch who couldn’t handle the truth and took everything from me. ”
The air thinned, my pulse drumming hot against my ribs. “Don’t twist it.”
“Oh, I’m sorry,” he drawled, tipping his head. “Are we leaning into the victim role again, Lilith?” His voice turned mocking as he stuck out his bottom lip in a pout. “Poor, fragile little thing. Always making herself the centre of the tragedy.”
I rolled my eyes, shaking my head. “Right. Because you’re the real victim here.”
The pout turned up into a smirk, and something flickered behind his bloodshot eyes as he took a step closer. “You always did love playing that part, huh? The wounded little bird. The mistreated girl who just needed saving.”
I barked out a sharp laugh. “Oh, fuck off, Clark.”
Silas shifted beside me, heat radiating off him in thick waves, but I squeezed his hand once, just a quick press, a silent ‘ I’ve got this.’ Because I did. Because I wasn’t her anymore. At least not the entire way. I was better now.
“You’re the one who’s been running like a wounded little bird,” I said, voice steady.
“Hiding like a coward, like a rat in the walls. And judging by the state of this place—” I wrinkled my nose, sweeping my gaze over the peeling walls, the mould-stained ceiling, the rotting stench clinging in the air, “—you’ve been real comfortable rolling around in your own filth. ”
Clark’s fingers flexed around the bottle, his mouth pressed into a tight line.
I tilted my head. “What? No smartass remark? No cutting little jab? That’s funny. You always have so much to say.”
The air shifted.
Clark lunged.
Silas moved.
His body collided with Clark’s, a sharp, bone-jarring impact that sent them both crashing into the far wall. Silas didn’t hesitate, he drove his forearm into Clark’s chest. Hard. Pinning him in place.
For a second—just a second—Clark’s eyes widened, a flicker of panic flashing through them.
Then, he twisted.
Using the tight quarters, the momentum, the sheer unfortunate angle of it all, Clark hooked his arm around Silas and yanked.
The yacht rocked violently, sending me stumbling back as the floor pitched beneath us.
“Silas!”
The thud of bodies hitting the ground was sickening, a brutal mix of flesh and wood and sharp, choked sounds. Clark was already scrambling, leveraging his weight, his knees pressing down as he swung—
Red tinged the edges of my vision.
Oh, absolutely the fuck not.
The first hit rattled through my bones in a sharp, jarring shock that travelled up my arm and shot through my shoulder, coiling hot and electric in my viscera as metal met flesh.
Clark let out a strangled noise, his body jerking sideways from the impact. But I wasn’t done.
I swung again.
A sick, wet thud sounded out as the rusted wrench slammed against his flesh and bone, vibrating through my palms, feeding something raw and primal inside me. Something I hadn’t even known was there. And shit, it was hungry.
My pulse roared in my ears, yes, yes, yes, drowning out the shaky, rattled breaths that tore from Clark’s throat.
He coughed, curling inward, but I didn’t want to stop.
Adrenaline flooded me, filling every crack, every hollowed-out space left behind by too-harsh hands and cruel mouths from every person who’d touched me like I was nothing, who thought I’d stay quiet, who thought they’d get away with it.
I was not small.
I was not weak.
The molten lava in my blood burned away every second I had ever felt helpless, had ever felt trapped.
Another swing. Another satisfying, punishing hit.
“Oh, angel,” Clark rasped, breath leaving his lungs as he rolled off Silas, sprawling onto the cold, damp wood . “ See what I’ve been telling you this whole time? You’re psychotic. Real crazy.”
Nope.
I swung—or at least, I tried to.
“What the hell are you doing?” I snapped, jerking my head toward where Silas had grabbed my wrist mid-air.
He met my gaze. “You’re not letting me have a turn?”
He couldn’t see my smirk, but he must have caught it in my eyes.
He let go, and launched himself at Clark, whose head snapped back, blood spraying as the crowbar met bone.
A choked, garbled sound tore from Clark’s throat, but Silas didn’t stop, going harder, growling out words filled with pure rage as he did.
“That’s for touching my fucking girl.”
Another hit.
“That’s for every bruise, every fucking mark you put on her.”
Another. Harder.
“That’s for thinking you’d ever fucking get away with it.”
His voice grew louder, each word punctuated by the sickening crunch of metal slamming into flesh.
Clark tried to scramble away, his body twisting, slipping, but Silas caught him. Dropped the crowbar. Grabbed his collar. Dragged him back like a ragdoll. His fist coming down again and again and again.
Fuck this.
The wrench clattered to the floor. My hands were shaking, heart a wild, erratic thing slamming against my ribs.
Clark’s body jerked beneath Silas’ weight, the grotesque crunch of bone splitting through the air.
I kicked.
Hard.
The heel of my boot slammed into Clark’s ribs.
Kick.
His body convulsed.
Kick.
His head lolled.
Silas’ fist stopped mid-swing.
Our eyes locked.
For just a second, we weren’t moving. We were just there . The moment stretching tight between us, the world closing in around nothing but the rise and fall of our chests, the heat radiating between us, the absolute, all-consuming rage reflected back at me.
A flicker of light caught my eye. A thin gleam across the floor.
My pulse lurched.
It was moving.
Water.
Pooling beneath Clark’s body.
My stomach plummeted.
How the fuck —
It didn’t matter.
It didn’t fucking matter.
I saw him. For everything he was.
The men in the hostels.
The people who caged me, who kept me trapped, small, afraid.
The ones who looked at me and saw something they could control.
The strangers in the wrong places.
The man who murdered Katie and those girls.
Evelyn.
Wayne.
Every single asshole who had turned every single woman into just another statistic at their own sick hands.
I was done.
My heartbeat pounded in my ears in a frenzied, animalistic rhythm that drowned out everything else.
Clark’s body was a wreck—slumped, bloodied, barely human. His lips were swollen, split wide open, water lapping around his ears, seeping across the floorboards, swallowing the edges of his hair. The dark, briny liquid swirled thicker, higher, faster.
Oh, fuck. Oh, fuck. Oh, fuck.
Silas mirrored my thoughts, muttering a curse, chest heaving as the realisation slammed into both of us at once.
The yacht was sinking.
His grip closed around my wrist, and he was yanking me back. “We have to go. Now.”
Clark gurgled something, his bloodied mouth barely forming words, but I didn’t stop to listen. I didn’t care.
He had wrecked me. He had wrecked Silas. He had nearly wrecked us.
My feet were unsteady beneath me, the whole world pitching and tilting as the water rushed in, creeping higher against my ankles.
Silas tugged me, his free hand bracing against the shifting walls as he half-dragged me through the boat.
I stumbled, fingers gripping him tight as we reached the door, the jagged wood splintered from where Silas had kicked it open.
The cold air slapped against my face as a storm raged—howling winds, sheets of rain hammering the docks, the ocean a restless, churning void beneath us.
Of fucking course it was storming.
Why did it always storm here?
I turned back just once.
Clark was still there. Still lying in the waterlogged cabin, his chest barely rising and falling.
Pathetic.
The ghost of th e man who had once tried to seep into my skin—to crawl beneath it and take root in my bones, like he could make a home out of my pain and suffering.
I stared him down, for one final time.
“Drown.”
Then I turned, and ran.