Page 10 of Glitter Rose
“Generally am when people talk to me.” I prop myself up on my elbows, wincing as my head punishes me for it. “Morning, princess.”
Her eyes narrow, the surprise replaced by something sharper. “Don’t call me that.”
“Why not?” I gesture around the penthouse with my chin, simultaneously searching for ‘Telly.’ There is no one else. “If the tiara fits…”
She opens her mouth to protest, then stops herself, lips forming a thin line. “I saved your ass. Literally carried you up twelve flights of stairs while you bled all over my favorite top, rugs, and couch.”
“Thank you.” I shift to sit up properly, managing not to flinch as pain shoots through my ankle. “So what should I call you, if not princess?”
“Did you—Unbelievable… Then again, you did hit your head pretty hard.” She stands, tossing her hair over her shoulder with practiced nonchalance that doesn’t quite hide her tension. “Paris. My name is Paris.”
“Paris,” I test the name, watching her face. Of course, I didn’t forget. “Like the city.”
A sad smile plays on her lips. “My mother was French.”
Past tense tells its own story these days.
“So what’s the deal here? You live alone in this…” I wave at the obscene luxury surrounding us, “…palace?”
“Just me and the zombies. They’re terrible conversationalists, though.” She mimics claws with her fingers. “All ‘brains’ this and ‘arrrgh’ that. No originality.”
I snort.
“How’s the head?”
“Still attached.” I reach up, fingers finding the bandage stiff with dried blood.
“Let me take a look.” She settles down beside me. “The book said to check it every few hours.”
“The book? Did you raid medical libraries between manicures?”
“Funny, but no. I thought it would make sense to at least have them.” She leans in, fingers cool against the back of my head. “A year can be long and boring.”
Her perfume or shampoo hits me again. Something expensive that shouldn’t exist anymore. Like her. Like this place.
Like this beautiful innocence she carries, not thinking the worst of every person she meets.
She retrieves gauze from a medical pack and applies antiseptic to it.
“A year.” I study her hands. Blue nail polish, pristine. “How’d you manage that? Alone?” And who the fuck is Telly?
“Magic.” She winks, then winces at my expression. “Stop looking at me. I need to see the back of your head.”
I shift, letting her examine my head injury. Something doesn’t add up. “So how did you survive?”
“Told you magic.”
“And the zombies just—” I hiss as she cleans around the wound. Nobody gets this lucky. Especially alone and with this amount of things. “You immune or something?”
“No.” Too quick.
“Huh.”
“Done.” Her face appears directly in front of mine, our eyes locking unexpectedly. “Try not to…”
Fuck me.
Her eyes are so goddamn alive. A vibrant green against the smudged remains of glitter. In a world where most survivors’ gazes have gone flat and dull, hers sparkle with… something. Mischief? Hope? Pride? Whatever it is, it’s…
