Page 31 of Glitter Rose
It’s been what?
Nine? Ten?
I dump the second bucket over my head, water sluicing down my back, washing away sweat and lingering shame. The thought of her going out. Without me there… Fucking nightmares.
Worse, Paris saw it all. My thrashing, my screaming, and my complete loss of control, then I grabbed her wrist hard enough to bruise, and instead of kicking me out on my ass, she brought me Batman comics.
Worst of all…
I kissed her wrist. Her bruised wrist that I caused.
What the hell was I thinking? I haven’t touched anyone like that since Sarah. Haven’t wanted to. Then Paris offered her arm, her eyes scrutinizing me with wariness and something else, and I lost my goddamn mind. Pressed my lips to her skin like I had any right to.
I can still feel her pulse racing beneath my mouth. Theway her breath caught. How soft her skin was, and that fucking scent of her—floral and earthy and alive.
She didn’t pull away. Not at first. Then bolted like I’d burned her.
Smart. Smarter than me, apparently, because I keep thinking about doing it again. About pressing my lips to other parts of her…
The bathroom mirror reflects a stranger, less gaunt than I’ve been in months. Regular meals will do that. Safety. Paris.
I scrub my face with borrowed soap that smells like something expensive I can’t name, and my skin prickles with the sensation of being clean. Proper clean, not creek-water-and-sand clean or rainwater-collected-in-a-helmet clean.
Why did I tell her about Sarah?
I never talk about Sarah. Not with Walsh, who found me half-dead and dragged me back to Iron Gate. Not with Gavin, who gave me purpose again. Not with anyone.
But with Paris, the words just… came out.
Day twelve of the apocalypse, and Sarah was laughing, actually laughing as we raided an abandoned pharmacy. Said we should grab condoms along with antibiotics because ‘end of the world sex is probably amazing, babe.’
Five minutes later, she was screaming, a biter’s teeth buried in her shoulder while I was still three aisles away.
I slam my palm against the marble counter, the sting yanking me back to the present. “Enough.”
My head still throbs where the stitches pull, a constant reminder of how I got here. Of how Paris dragged me up twelve flights of stairs, then proceeded to patch me up with no training except a medical book and what she called ‘binge-watching Grey’s Anatomy.’
And then she went out alone. Without telling me. Without backup.
My anger reignites, a hot coal in my chest.
But why? Why do I give a shit?
Paris, with her pristine blue nail polish. Paris, who talks to kitchen appliances. Paris, who claims zombies can’t see her.
That last one should set off every alarm bell I have. Should make me pack my shit and get her back to Iron Gate ASAP. Sofia wouldn’t poke and prod her, drain her for every drop of blood or tissue that might hold the secret.
Gabriel would.
And he will not lay his hands on her.
That’s it.
She’s valuable. That’s the only reason why I care…
Water drips down my spine as I towel off. I need to report back. Walsh is probably organizing a search party. Or writing me off as dead. And he is definitely going to kill me.
I change into the clean clothes Paris brought. Soft, expensive fabric that feels alien against my skin. The borrowed t-shirt clings to my shoulders, and the dark jeans fit better than they should. It’s been years since I wore anything that wasn’t tactical or functional.
