Page 77 of Glitter Rose
Today. It’s finally happening today.
The lock clicks, and I sit up, heartbeat skyrocketing as Knox’s familiar silhouette fills the doorway. He’s in full gear, face arranged in that careful blank expression he wears around others, but his eyes—those gray eyes burn when they land on me.
“Morning, princess.” He closes the door behind him. “Ready?”
I hop off the bed, legs shaky beneath me. “I guess.”
He steps up to me, his hand catching mine. “You remember the route?”
“East corridor, maintenance door, fence line,” I recite it like a prayer. “Wait for the boom.”
“And if anything goes wrong?”
“Run. Don’t wait for you.” I hate that he expects me to move on without him. “I won’t do that.”
“You will.” His voice takes on a rough edge. “Promise me.”
I don’t answer. Can’t lie to him today of all days.
“Promise me, Paris.”
“I can’t.”
“Goddammit—” He cups my face. “I didn’t spend three months in this hellhole to watch you die at the finish line.”
“And I didn’t survive everything to leave you behind.” I grip his wrists. “Don’t ask me for what I can’t give.”
His jaw clenches, that little muscle jumping beneath the stubble. “Stubborn.”
“Wonder where I got that from.”
A ghost of a smile touches his lips before vanishing. He steps back, all business again, checking his watch. “Lab in ten. Min-ji’s waiting.”
“Let’s do this.”
I shuffle behind Knox, playing the part of the submissive prisoner. Four months of practice make the act convincing.
“Breathe,” he whispers. “You look like you’re marching to your execution.”
“Maybe I am.” I force my shoulders to relax, pasting a bored expression on my face as a lab tech passes us, clipboard clutched to his chest. “What if Gabriel sees through this? What if Ramirez betrays us?”
“Then we adapt. But they won’t. Trust me.”
Trust. Such a simple word for something we’re betting our lives on. But with Knox, it’s like breathing—automatic and necessary.
He raps his knuckles against the door twice before opening it, gesturing for me to enter first.
Min-ji stands by her workstation, arranging empty vials in a rack. “Good morning, Paris. Officer Jones.”
“Doctor.” He positions himself by the door.
“Morning.” I take my usual seat on the examination table, rolling up my sleeve to expose the crook of my elbow. The skin there is a constellation of puncture marks, some fresh, others faded to silvery pinpricks.
Another record of my captivity written in scar tissue.
Min-ji snatches on latex gloves. “How are we feeling today?”
“Fine.” I shrug. “Hungry. Tired. The usual.”
