Page 29 of Glitter Rose
A vein pulses at his temple, and we glare at each other in a silent battle.
“Sarah was my fiancée.” His voice is flat. “Did you ever have to choose between killing someone or letting them become one of those things?”
Oh.
I can’t breathe. Can’t move. Can’t find a single fucking thing to say that won’t sound empty or stupid or both.
“You don’t have to—” I start.
“I know.” He deflates, staring down at his hands. Strong hands. Hands that killed zombies. Hands that killed someone he loved. “We went for supplies.”
I sink onto the arm of the couch, not touching him but close enough that I could. “Knox?—”
“She was bitten because I reached her too late.” His fingers twitch, like they’re remembering the weight of a gun. “Fever hit fast. She asked me to… before she turned.”
My throat tightens. “I’m sorry.”
“Yeah.”
I weigh my options, a mental scale tipping back and forth. Tell him. Don’t tell him.
Fuck it.
“Zombies don’t see me,” I say. “Never have. So you don’t have to worry about me, if that’s why you’re so angry…”
He stares. “What?”
“That’s how I’ve survived alone for over a year. That’s how I can walk outside without getting torn apart. That’s why I went without you.”
“If this is true?—”
“It is.”
“—then why the hell didn’t you tell me?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Maybe because the last guy tried tobleed me dry for it?” I laugh, the sound brittle even to my own ears. Funny how I refer to my father now with ‘last guy.’ “Or maybe because it’s not exactly first-date conversation material. ‘Hi, I’m Paris, zombies think I’m invisible, how’s your pasta?’”
“Give me your wrist.”
I cradle it against my chest, rubbing the tender skin where his grip left marks. “It’s fine.”
“Paris.” He sighs. “Let me see your wrist.”
“Why? So you can feel bad? No thanks.”
His eyes hold mine, not challenging but something else. Patient. “Please.”
Ugh.
I scoot over, close enough that the heat from his body radiates against my side. Our thighs almost touch. Almost. I look away, focusing on the Batman figurine across the room as I extend my arm, offering my wrist like some kind of sacrifice. “There. Happy?”
His fingers brush my skin, removing the glove before circling my wrist. Not the grip of a soldier but the touch of someone handling something fragile.
“Shit.” He turns my wrist gently. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s nothing. I’ve had worse… paper cuts.”
“That’s not the point.” His thumb traces a circle over my pulse point, sending tingles up my arm.
