Page 18 of Glitter Rose
FIVE
PARIS
I apply a fresh layer of blue polish to my thumbnail. The stupid thing dared to splinter. Three coats later, it’s perfect again. A tiny patch of control in my fucked-up world.
Knox is still in the bathroom, humming some melody.
His backpack sits under my bed, where I stashed it after retrieving it from the alley this morning while he slept. I’d needed to know if he was dangerous—more dangerous than the obvious muscles and combat skills suggested.
I cap the polish and wiggle my toes to dry them faster. Fuck it.
In my bedroom, I drop to my knees and fish out the backpack. It’s heavy-duty canvas, military-grade with reinforced straps and too many pockets. Blood stains one corner.
“Sorry for snooping,” I mutter to nobody. “But a girl’s gotta protect herself.”
The main compartment yields disappointing treasures: a water canteen, energy bars, antibiotics, and an extra knife.
Boring.
I dig deeper, fingers sliding against the canvas lining.There’s a hidden pocket along the bottom seam. “What secrets are you hiding, Knox?”
Inside: ammo for the gun I hid in my closet, a whetstone, and a black notebook with water-damaged pages. I flip through it, but find only coordinates and cryptic notations. Nothing about communities or safe zones. No maps marked with X-marks-the-spot. Would be too easy…
“Dammit.”
I tuck everything back exactly as I found it.
If he belongs to a community, he’s not carrying proof. Which means either he’s lying, or he’s as alone as I am.
I should get dressed before he comes back out.
By the time Knox emerges from the bathroom, I’ve reapplied my glitter eyeshadow, braided my damp hair into submission, and put on a fresh sweater. He limps into the living room wearing the black t-shirt and joggers I brought up, the shirt stretching across shoulders broader than Jacob’s ever were. His hair is damp, face freshly shaved except for a deliberate shadow of stubble along his jaw.
He looks… good. Dangerously good.
“Better?” He gestures to his clean self.
“Fine.” Maybe he should have stayed dirty. I point at the couch. “Sit. Leg up. Doctor’s orders.”
He lowers himself onto the couch. “You’re not a doctor.”
“I have the medical book, which is the next best thing you’ll get. Speaking of books.” I gather a stack from the bookcase. “Since you’re stuck here until your ankle heals. Comics, survival manuals, novels. Take your pick.”
I drop them on the coffee table beside him.
“Thanks.” He picks up a dog-eared copy of The Road, flips through it. “Cheerful choice.”
“Felt appropriate at the time.”
His hands are large, scarred across the knuckles, the kindof hands that have seen combat. The kind that could snap my neck or cradle my face with equal skill.
Where did that thought come from?
I retreat to the balcony, sliding the glass door closed behind me. The greenhouse air hits me like a warm, humid embrace, soil and growing things filling my lungs.
“Water first, then pruning.” I fill the can from the rainwater barrel and face Freddie, the strawberry. “Your runners are getting aggressive again.”
The plants don’t answer, but they perk up as water darkens the soil around them. Through the glass door, I can see Knox on the couch, book open on his lap, eyes closed. Is he actually sleeping or pretending? His chest rises and falls evenly, but something about the stillness feels too controlled.
