Page 50 of Glitter Rose
Circular marks dot her arms and chest, old puncture wounds like silver constellations mapping pain I wasn’t there to witness.
My fingertips hover above her skin, afraid my calloused hands—hands that have killed, hands that have broken—aren’t gentle enough for something so precious.
Too late, Sullivan. Always too fucking late. Where were you when she needed you?
I wasn’t there then. But I’m here now.
In one swift move, I flip our positions, pinning her beneath me on the cushions. Her hair fans out across the pillows, dark against light.
“Knox,” she breathes, trying to cover herself.
“Don’t.” I catch her wrists gently, placing one above her head. “Let me see you.”
That perfect pink tone spreads across her chest, rising to her cheeks.
I lift her other wrist, examining the pattern of scars moreclosely. “What kind of treatments require this many injections?”
She turns her head, avoiding my eyes. “I told you I was sick.”
“Sorry. I know. I—” I lower my mouth to her forearm, pressing my lips to each mark. One by one, as if I could erase them. Her breathing quickens, body tensing, then melting beneath me. “I wish I’d been there.” Another kiss, this one at the crook of her elbow. “Holding your hand.”
Her laugh lacks humor. “My hero.”
“Did you suffer much?” I move to her shoulder, where three scars cluster in a triangle.
“Yes.” She shivers as my lips brush the sensitive skin. “But necessary.”
I trace a particularly deep mark below her collarbone with my tongue. Her fingers thread through my hair, tugging until I meet her gaze, and I stop, because tears mixed with fear swim in her eyes.
“Knox.” Her voice drops to barely a whisper. “I need to tell you something.”
I stroke her cheek, feeling her lean into my touch. “I’m listening.”
TWELVE
PARIS
The words freeze on my tongue.
This is it.
The moment where I either trust him completely or keep hiding behind half-truths. I trace one of the circular scars on my arm, feeling the slightly raised tissue under my fingertip. Knox watches me, waiting, his eyes soft in the flickering candlelight.
Please don’t hate me.
“I lied before,” I say. “About my illness. About the doctors.”
“How so?”
“There weren’t a million doctors.” The candles flicker as I exhale. “Just one. My father.”
His hand finds mine, fingers interlacing. “Your father was your doctor?”
“He was a research scientist. Specialized in immunology and viral engineering.” I focus on our joined hands. “When I got sick, he… he couldn’t accept that conventional medicine had no answers.”
“So he experimented on you.”
It’s not a question, but I nod anyway. “He said it was to cure me, and maybe it started that way. But after a while…” I gesture to my arms, my chest, the visible map of puncture wounds. “Fourteen different treatment protocols. Different viral vectors, different delivery methods.”
