Chapter 4 – Lily
LILY
Well, this is awkward.
He’s looking at me like he wants to burn a hole straight through me. His dark green eyes narrow into slits, and something dangerous flickers behind them—something that wasn’t there moments ago when he was gently tattooing my skin and laughing at my jokes. Maybe my instincts about him were right.
I shouldn’t have shared so much, but I couldn’t stop myself.
The words kept tumbling out. I wanted to tell him everything, and also know everything about him.
I’ve watched enough true-crime documentaries to know that sometimes psychos are hot, or at least decent-looking, and they use their charm to pull you in.
But damn it, he really is that good-looking.
The kind of olive-skinned, dark-haired perfection that usually exists in perfume adverts from the 90s.
The sort of man you’d find brooding on a rock whilst waves crash around him and the voiceover says something about fading time, ocean water, and musk.
His hair falls in effortless waves that seem meticulously engineered, and when he gazes up at me, those irritatingly long eyelashes frame eyes so green they resemble peridots.
He’s not bad from the neck down, either.
The tight black T-shirt he’s wearing does nothing to hide his build—broad shoulders tapering to a lean waist, and ample chest. Dark ink crawls up both forearms in intricate patterns.
I can make out crashing waves and twisted vines that disappear under his shirt and peek out at his collar—thick black lines tracing that tanned throat.
When he gestures, talking with those strong, neatly manicured hands, I catch glimpses of more artwork wrapping around his biceps where the sleeves hug tight.
Fine. He’s not bad for a psycho
He’s not just a psycho, though. He’s a liar, too. He’s lying about my mom’s tattoo and about saying that stuff in Italian. It was clear as day. Like a radio tuning through static then landing on a foreign station. It kept happening as he worked on me, but I never saw his lips move.
I know he’s not telling me the truth. I just can’t prove it.
“Cash or card?” he grunts, his full lips pressed together tightly.
I hand over my card and run my fingers over the saran-wrapped patch under my ribs. It stings, but in a good way. Almost like it’s grounding me, and I relax a little. I may not have gotten the answers I wanted, but I think Mom would be proud that I did this for her.
There’s a darkness to him. It’s extremely destructive, and it’s extremely fucking sexy. He’s a bubbling tar pit with a neon welcome sign, drawing me in and inviting me to drown.
“Thank you so much, I love it.” I beam, trying to disperse the tension, but he offers nothing but a curt nod in return.
I guess that’s it. The only lead I had and the closest thing I’ve had to a connection in a long time, and it’s over. At least I have a tattoo to show for it.
Cassini goes stiff, slowly tilting his head like he’s heard something in the distance. His jaw tightens, and that dangerous look in his eyes shifts from irritation to something that makes my heart drop.
Dread.
A loud bang sounds as the door flies open and reveals a man stumbling through the entrance.
Actually, the word “man” is generous. Despite an oddly handsome face, he’s more like a walking disaster—long, greasy hair that’s balding on top, his beer gut straining against a bloodstained Metallica T-shirt.
The atmosphere shifts, and my skin prickles all over, like someone is running an electric current straight through my bones. As he passes, the smell hits immediately: stale beer, unwashed armpits, and something metallic. Something that smells very much like blood.
In thirty seconds my mood has shifted from uneasy to terrified.
I can’t move. I’m too afraid to in case I become a target, but he’s so drunk he doesn’t notice me.
He staggers up to the desk, reaches out a filthy hand to hold on for balance, and sends a tower of aftercare balms clattering to the ground.
“Where’s that fuckin’ redhead?” he roars, slamming his hands against the tiles on the desktop. “The one with the nice ass.”
“Tegan’s not here, Cyrus,” Cassini says uneasily, running a hand through his hair and lifting the partition to create a path. “Come on, man, you’re drunk. I think you’ve had enough. You wanna come back and lie down for a bit? Maybe sober up?”
“No!” he shouts. “I want her. I need to see her. I can’t stop thinking about her. It’s driving me crazy.”
“I told you, man. She’s done for the night, and even if she wasn’t, I don’t think you wanna see her looking like this.”
The drunk sways from side to side, like he’s trying to focus, hiccups, and then jabs a fingernail into Cassini’s chest. “Alright, but I still wanna take a bite out of that bitch someday. Angel promised me a taste.”
A chill dances up my spine. Cassini seems uneasy, and if a guy like him is afraid, then I know I should be too. He motions Cyrus forward behind the partition, and his eyes search for mine. He subtly signals to the door behind me, and I get the message and start backing away.
Cyrus is still ranting about Tegan when I reach the door. My shaking hands grasp the handle, and I ease it open just a crack—but the damned bell above betrays me with a sharp, unmistakable chime.
Oh, shit.
The sound cuts through Cyrus’ rambling like a gunshot.
His head snaps toward me, bloodshot eyes locking onto mine with sudden, terrifying clarity.
The drunken stumbling act vanishes instantly.
He moves faster than should be possible—one moment swaying by the desk, the next his hand wrapped around my throat, pinning me against the wall beside the door.
“What have we got here?" he snarls.
Fear knocks the breath from my lungs, and his grip tightens like a vise around my windpipe. I’ve been attacked by patients before, been slapped across the face by drunks and grabbed by psychotics, but this is different. His strength is inhuman and terrifying.
He leans in close, nose practically touching my neck, and inhales deeply like he’s savoring the scent of expensive wine.
“Oh, you smell very interesting,” he whispers against my skin, and his rotten breath, unnaturally cold, raises goosebumps across my flesh. “What is that deliciousness?”
Everything happens too fast for my brain to process.
Just as darkness creeps at the edges of my vision, his hands fall away, and I’m left gulping air as Cassini materializes between us.
Cyrus is somehow across the room now, crumpled against the wall like he’s been thrown by an invisible force.
My vision blurs as I claw at my bruised throat, and through the ringing in my ears comes a sound that makes my skin crawl—a low, animalistic hissing.
“What the fuck is wrong with you?” Cyrus wheezes, rubbing his jaw with a bewildered scowl on his face.
Now it’s his turn to choke. Cassini grabs him by the neck and slams him into a wall of frames, sending the glass splintering in every direction. When he attempts to fight back, Cassini slams him again, and again, until he goes limp.
“Don’t try me, Cyrus,” Cassini snarls. “You forget that I’m much older than you. I could end you if I wanted to.”
Older? That doesn’t make any sense. Cyrus has got to be in his late forties at least, whereas I’d guess Cassini is thirty-something.
Cassini lifts him off the ground a few inches, and noises gurgle from Cyrus’ throat, filling the room with thick, wet gulps. He tries to leer at me, his pointy teeth bared, and I see something that makes my mind reel.
His eyes are glowing orange—not reflecting light, actually glowing—like embers in a dying fire.
“You’d betray one of your own for this cunt?” Cyrus coughs.
Cassini squeezes harder, pushing him so hard I think he might break his neck, but Cyrus is undeterred.
“I knew I was right about you. A fuckin’ snake in the grass. What is it, huh? You want to keep her all to yourself? In case you hadn’t noticed, we share everything around here.”
“This doesn’t concern you,” Cassini warns. “You’ve had too much to drink. She’s just a customer, alright? You can’t have her. It’s bad for business.”
“What’s he talking about?” I croak. My voice sounds like it’s coming from far away. “What does he want from me?”
“Nothing,” Cassini says, eyes fixed on Cyrus. “You stay right there, okay? Stay right where you are. I’m gonna make sure you get home safe.”
I couldn’t move even if I wanted to. I’m too scared. Too shocked by what’s happening to leave, my whole body poisoned with terror. This man just moved faster than humanly possible and threw a grown man across the room like he was a rag doll. It doesn’t make any sense.
Cassini releases Cyrus with a final, violent slam, and he drops to the ground. He spits out a mouthful of blood and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.
“You think you’re so fucking special, don’t you, pretty boy?” Cyrus says, eyes glinting menacingly. “You think you can just waltz around playing the brooding human, acting better than the rest of us?”
“Shut up,” Cassini snarls, but there’s something in his voice now—desperation.
“She doesn’t know, does she?” Cyrus grins, revealing his yellow, jagged teeth. “Poor little lamb has no idea what she’s dealing with.”
My heart is hammering so hard I can feel it in my throat. Whatever this is, I want out.
“I told you to shut up,” Cassini grits out, but Cyrus just laughs.
“Well, I guess she’s about to find out.”
Cyrus opens his mouth and tilts his head up. His amber eyes roll back until all that’s left are the whites, and the low humming sound rumbles from his gut creates tiny goosebumps on my forearms.
“Enough,” Cassini warns, lunging toward him. “Cyrus, fucking stop!”
But Cyrus just starts laughing—this horrible, manic sound that echoes off the walls like breaking glass. When his eyes roll back down, they’re normal again, but the smile on his face is pure malice.
I’ve never seen anything like that in my life. Not in any medical textbook, not in any case study. Human eyes don’t just roll back and stay white like that. There was nothing, no color, no pupil. It’s not possible.
He wipes the broken glass off his shoulders with a smirk.
“You shouldn’t have fucked with me, bloodtraitor.
They’ll be here soon, and when they find out what you’ve been doing.
” He glares at me again, and I want to disappear.
“Well, let’s just say they’re going to be very interested in having a little chat with you and your new girlfriend. ”
Cassini rubs the stubble along his jaw. “How many?”
“Enough.” Cyrus straightens his shirt like nothing happened.
“I’ve got a lot of buddies around here, unlike you.
You’ve got maybe three minutes before this place is crawling with my people who already hate you, by the way.
Who don’t believe a fuckin’ word you say.
I knew there was something wrong with you.
You confirmed it the second you put your hands on me.
So you’d better take your girl and run fast, handsome, or you’re both dead. I’ll even give you a head start.”
Without warning, Cassini tears across the room, grabs my hand and yanks me toward the door. “Come with me. Now.”
“Wait—what? No!” I dig my heels in, but he’s stronger than me. Much, much stronger. Freakishly so.
“Now,” he growls, and I swear my heart stops.
“I’m not going anywhere with you. I’m going home.” I force the words out as assertively as I can manage, though I can hear the shake in my voice as I turn toward the door.
“We don’t have time for this shit,” he hisses through clenched teeth.
Without warning he grabs me firmly by the hips, scoops me up in his arms and throws me over his shoulder.
I scream, writhe and kick, but it makes no difference.
Nothing I do makes any difference to him.
His grip is tight against my legs, but it feels strangely safe as his granite chest presses against the tops of my thighs.
Not that I’d let him know that.
“You piece of shit! Put me down!” I screech desperately. “I’m not going anywhere with you! Take me back to my car!”
“That’s not going to work,” he says, pulling me out into the warm night air. “They’ll track you, and when they find you—”
“Track me? What the fuck are you talking about? Let go of me! Help! Someone!”
My cries fall on deaf ears. Drowned out by the droning of the music and sounds that spill out of the bars and clubs along the street.
We move impossibly fast, and before I even get a chance to register my surroundings, we arrive at a beautiful black vintage car parked under a streetlight—something old, with sleek curves and polished chrome that belongs in a museum, not on Sixth Street.
He opens the passenger door and shoves me inside.
“Where am I taking you?” he demands, sliding into the driver’s seat.
“As if I’d tell you where I live, you psycho! I’m calling the cops,” I seethe, pulling out my phone. “I don’t know what that was back there, but I want no part of it.”
He starts the engine, and the seats vibrate and purr beneath us like some kind of predatory cat. I’m dialing 911 with one hand on the door handle when he moves lightning-fast, tears my phone out of my hand, and throws it in the back seat.
“Stop doing that shit. I’m trying to help you. There are some very bad people coming, so either you tell me where you live, or you’re dead. “
“Dead? What do you mean, dead?” My voice is hysterical. “Who were you talking about? Who’s coming?”
“More like Cyrus. Only worse.” His hands are gripping the steering wheel so tight his knuckles are white. “Much worse. So do you want my help or not?”
I stare at him, this stranger who just threw a man across a room, who’s talking about people tracking me and death like it’s all perfectly normal. Every rational part of my brain is screaming at me not to trust him.
But then I remember the way he positioned himself between me and the guy trying to hurt me, and a part of me softens. Somewhere deep down there’s a part of me that recognizes him as something safe rather than a threat.
I don’t understand it. I don’t understand any of this.
So despite every instinct begging me to run, I give him my address.