Page 9 of Glitter Rose
My hand reaches instinctively for my knife—gone. Sidearm, missing, too.
Fuck.
I shift my weight, testing my body’s damage report. Ankle: still fucked. Head: worse. Body: muscles screaming from the climb.
But functional.
I scan the room again, taking in the sheer luxury of the place illuminated by the sunlight that leaks through the edges of heavy curtains covering floor-to-ceiling windows. Persian rugs lie on the hardwood floors. Artwork that looks genuine, not reproductions, hangs on the walls, and a blue, weird, cat-shaped statue sits in front of the TV. A dining table that could seat twelve people stands unused in an alcove.
In the far corner, a kitchen with marble countertops gleams, and a pot sits abandoned on a camping stove. Everything is clean. Ordered. Not the chaotic refuge of someone who’s trying to survive.
This isn’t just a shelter. This is civilization preserved. Untouched by the apocalypse, like she’s been living in a bubble while the rest of us bleed in the streets. And that glitter shit around her eyes? Like we’re at some club instead of surviving the end of the world.
Who the hell is this woman?
My gaze tracks down to the weapon propped against her chair. A katana. The handle shows wear from actual use.
Princess with a sword. Interesting.
Maybe she’s alone. Maybe she’s bait. Maybe there’s a whole group waiting to jump me, take my gear, and my intel on Iron Gate.
Green’s people?
But she doesn’t look like them. And I doubt she would live secluded if she were.
Which leaves me with two options. One, she lives indeed alone. Two, she has someone, maybe a group of three, but they’re out scavenging?
The rise and fall of her chest follows the steady rhythm of someone who feels safe enough to truly sleep.
That’s rare, precious, and unbelievably stupid with a stranger in the room. What if I had died and turned?
I should wake her. Ask questions. Plan my exit. But my body has other ideas.
My vision swims, and I rub my eyes.
One more hour of rest. Light sleep only. The kind where I’ll hear her if she moves, wake if a pin drops.
I adjust my position on the couch and close my eyes to rest while I still can. And if someone kills me, at least I got a pretty cute girl playing doctor for me.
Shuffling wakes me—not the dragging feet of the dead, but the quiet, deliberate movements of the living.
I’ve slept longer than intended. Sloppy. Amateur mistake that could get me killed. She’s not going to be a threat, is she?
I track the sound without opening my eyes, mapping her path through the apartment as water runs, and cabinets open and close with muted clicks. She’s moving carefully, trying not to wake me.
Her footsteps approach, then pause before continuing with hesitation. I keep my breathing deep and even, feigning sleep as the couch dips near my hip. Her presence radiates warmth, bringing that distinct scent of flowers and vanilla washing over me again.
“He’s looking better, Telly.” Her fingers brush my templein a feather-light caress. Telly? Another person? “Less Frankenstein’s monster, more hot wounded soldier.”
Nobody answers.
Something cool and damp touches my forehead. A cloth. Gentle pressure as she dabs.
“What’s your story anyway?” she whispers. “Falling off my fire escape like some post-apocalyptic Romeo. Worst serenading technique ever.”
I crack one eye open. “Is that making you my Juliet?”
“Fuck!” She topples backward off the couch, landing hard on her ass, eyes wide as saucers. “You’re awake!”
