Page 8 of Glitter Rose
He glares but doesn’t stop me when I reach for the laces. The boot’s expensive, that much I can tell. I loosen the laces completely before easing it off, watching his face for pain signals.
His jaw tightens, a muscle jumping beneath stubbled skin. That’s all the reaction I get.
“You military types and your pain thresholds.” I peel off his sock. “Normal people say ‘ouch.’”
“Ouch.”
His ankle looks angry-red and swollen, but not grotesquely misshapen. I press gently around the malleolus—thank you, medical textbook jargon—and Knox’s entire body goes rigid.
“That hurt?” I ask.
“What do you think?” His voice drops lower, rougher. “Sorry, I meant—Ouch.”
“Seems like you’re getting better.” I compare his ankles side by side. “I think it’s a sprain, not a break. Book says RICE—rest, ice, compression, elevation.” I grab a pillow from the other end of the couch and tuck it under his foot. “Rest and elevation, check.”
My freezer still works thanks to the building’s solar panels. I retrieve an ice pack wrapped in a kitchen towel and return to find Knox asleep.
I place it on the ground, grab an elastic bandage from the medical kit, and wrap his ankle with more confidence than I feel, weaving it between his toes and around his heel like the book shows. Lastly, I secure the wrap with metal clips before propping the ice pack on it.
Not ideal, but better than nothing.
After ten minutes of observing, I can’t stand the mud on his face anymore.
I grab a clean cloth and dampen it with water, then begin wiping away the grime from his face. Under the dirt andblood, his skin is surprisingly unmarked—no weathered texture like most survivors who live rough. His clothes, while worn, are well-maintained. His hair, though matted with blood, has no splits so must have been cut relatively recently. And his nails are trimmed, not ragged and filthy.
“You’re cleaner than most apocalypse dwellers.” I wipe a smudge from his jaw, my eyes locking on his lips. “Better fed, too.”
The medical book says to wake concussion patients regularly, which means a long night ahead.
I sink into the armchair across from him, katana propped against the side, and watch the rise and fall of his chest. The pasta water I’d put on earlier is long cold, my dinner plans abandoned.
“What exactly am I supposed to do with him, Telly?” I whisper to his sleeping form. “And I need to get his stuff.”
I hug my knees to my chest, settling in for my watch.
Did I save his life or complicate mine beyond repair?
THREE
KNOX
Pain registers before I even open my eyes. Throbbing, white-hot, like someone’s driving railroad spikes through my temples.
Not dead. Wish I was.
I crack one eye open, immediately regretting it as light sends fresh needles into my brain. A ceiling with ornate crown molding and spotless white paint emerges from the blur, and the scent of vanilla and something floral fills my nose.
Definitely not outside. Not Iron Gate either.
Where the fuck?—
Paris.
Curled up in an armchair across from me, the small woman sleeps with her knees pulled to her chest. Dark hair frames her face, which seems too clean for the world we live in now. In the dim light of two flickering candles, she looks impossibly beauti—young… early twenties, or so. Beneath the blood, smudged makeup, and what looks like… glitter?… around her eyes, her features hold a delicateness that belonged in magazines before everything went to shit.
She saved me. Dragged my ass up the stairs if my concussed brain remembers right.
Why?
