Chapter 3
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?
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 temple in 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!”
“Generally am when people talk to me.” I prop myself up on my elbows, wincing as my head punishes me for it. “Morning, princess.”
Her eyes narrow, the surprise replaced by something sharper. “Don’t call me that.”
“Why not?” I gesture around the penthouse with my chin, simultaneously searching for ‘Telly.’ There is no one else. “If the tiara fits…”
She opens her mouth to protest, then stops herself, lips forming a thin line. “I saved your ass. Literally carried you up twelve flights of stairs while you bled all over my favorite top, rugs, and couch.”
“Thank you.” I shift to sit up properly, managing not to flinch as pain shoots through my ankle. “So what should I call you, if not princess?”
“Did you—Unbelievable… Then again, you did hit your head pretty hard.” She stands, tossing her hair over her shoulder with practiced nonchalance that doesn’t quite hide her tension. “Paris. My name is Paris.”
“Paris,” I test the name, watching her face. Of course, I didn’t forget. “Like the city.”
A sad smile plays on her lips. “My mother was French.”
Past tense tells its own story these days.
“So what’s the deal here? You live alone in this…” I wave at the obscene luxury surrounding us, “…palace?”
“Just me and the zombies. They’re terrible conversationalists, though.” She mimics claws with her fingers. “All ‘brains’ this and ‘arrrgh’ that. No originality.”
I snort.
“How’s the head?”
“Still attached.” I reach up, fingers finding the bandage stiff with dried blood.
“Let me take a look.” She settles down beside me. “The book said to check it every few hours.”
“The book? Did you raid medical libraries between manicures?”
“Funny, but no. I thought it would make sense to at least have them.” She leans in, fingers cool against the back of my head. “A year can be long and boring.”
Her perfume or shampoo hits me again. Something expensive that shouldn’t exist anymore. Like her. Like this place.
Like this beautiful innocence she carries, not thinking the worst of every person she meets.
She retrieves gauze from a medical pack and applies antiseptic to it.
“A year.” I study her hands. Blue nail polish, pristine. “How’d you manage that? Alone?” And who the fuck is Telly?
“Magic.” She winks, then winces at my expression. “Stop looking at me. I need to see the back of your head.”
I shift, letting her examine my head injury. Something doesn’t add up. “So how did you survive?”
“Told you magic.”
“And the zombies just—” I hiss as she cleans around the wound. Nobody gets this lucky. Especially alone and with this amount of things. “You immune or something?”
“No.” Too quick.
“Huh.”
“Done.” Her face appears directly in front of mine, our eyes locking unexpectedly. “Try not to…”
Fuck me.
Her eyes are so goddamn alive. A vibrant green against the smudged remains of glitter. In a world where most survivors’ gazes have gone flat and dull, hers sparkle with… something. Mischief? Hope? Pride? Whatever it is, it’s…
A beautiful pink flush spreads across her cheeks.
Before I know what I’m doing, my thumb brushes across her cheek, the warmth and softness of her skin seeping into my calloused fingertip. Her flush deepens under my touch, spreading down her neck, and time suspends.
I should pull away. Yet my hand stays, thumb brushing over that blush like I’m memorizing it.
Her lips part on an inhale, pupils dilating.
What the hell am I doing?
I jerk my hand away like I’ve been burned, the warmth of her skin lingering on my fingertips. “Sorry. Eyelash.”
Lie. Fucking liar.
She blinks rapidly, hand flying to the spot I touched. “Oh. Thanks. I-uh.” She scoots off the couch, avoiding my eyes. “I should check the streets. Yes. Make sure we’re secure. You need anything? Water? Food?”
Did I make her uncomfortable? “Water would be good.” I clear my throat. “And maybe some answers about how you’ve survived alone in a high-rise for a year.”
Her face falls. “Water first. And I told you… magic.”
“Huh.”
“That again. What’s it supposed to mean?”
“Nothing.” I stretch. I kind of like her directness. “Just trying to figure out what I’ve walked into.”
“Fallen into. And you’re welcome, by the way. What were you doing climbing my fire escape in the middle of the night anyway?”
“Shelter,” I say. “Didn’t know it was booby-trapped.”
“You weren’t supposed to use it.”
“And you shouldn’t be helping strange men. For all you know, I could be worse than what’s out there.”
She chews on her lip. “Are you?”
“Depends who you ask.”
“I’m asking you.”
“No.” I lounge back against the couch cushions. “But that’s exactly what the bad guy would say, isn’t it?”
“Bad guys usually don’t point that out.”
“Unless they’re playing the long game, princess.” I let a hint of danger bleed into my voice, studying her reaction closely. “Gain your trust, wait until you’re comfortable, then take everything.”
Her eyes widen, but instead of the fear I expect, a spark lights them. She crosses her arms, jutting her hip out. “You’re testing me.”
“Just stating facts. World’s full of monsters now. Not all of them are dead.”
“Whatever.” She glances at my ankle. “How bad is it?”
“I’ve had worse.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“It’s the only one you’re getting.” I swing my legs to the floor, testing the weight. Pain shoots up my calf, but I suppress a flinch.
She notices anyway. “The book said to stay off it for—”
“We both know that’s not happening.” I try to get up, ignoring the white-hot flash of pain. My vision tunnels, and I breathe through it. “Got places to be.”
“Right. The zombie apocalypse social calendar. Very demanding.” She rolls her eyes. “What’s the rush? Hot date with a horde? You can barely walk.”
I fix her with a look that silenced dangerous men. “Watch me.”
“Where would you even go?” She plants herself between me and what I assume is the door.
Five-foot-nothing of stubbornness in designer jeans and a yellow crop top.
“Your pack’s torn, your weapons are gone, and there’s a herd outside that’s been circling the building since your grand performance last night. ”
“You took my weapons?”
“I secured them.” Her chin tilts up defiantly. “Standard apocalypse protocol for unconscious strangers.”
Suppose they’re circling the building. How did she get my stuff? “Where is it?”
“Safe.”
“That’s not—”
“Yeah, and ‘I’ve had worse’ isn’t an answer either.” Her eyebrow arches. “Tit for tat.”
I bite back a smile. Fuck, she’s got nerve. In another life, I’d—
No. Not going there.
“Stay another day,” she says it casually, like offering a cup of coffee. “Or two. Until the swelling goes down. The couch is all yours.”
“What? No spare bedroom in this castle?”
“For what?”
“A friend who wants to stay over? Don’t these places always have spares?”
“No friends.” She fidgets with her nail polish. “Why are you still standing? You’re going to make it worse.”
My ankle throbs in agreement. “Fine.” I fall back into this cloud of a couch. Maybe Walsh will find me. The question is, how do I tell him I’m here? “Two or three days. Then I’m gone.”
The smile that breaks across her face hits me like a physical blow. Jesus, when was the last time someone looked that happy to have me stay?
“Great! I mean, whatever. Your choice.” She moves toward the kitchen, suddenly animated. “I’ll get that water. And breakfast. You must be starving.”
“Breakfast?” I call after her, unable to keep from smiling at her enthusiasm.
“Porridge.”
“I was expecting eggs Benedict.”
“Funny.”
I track her movements around the kitchen. She knows this space. Has for a long time. The way she reaches for items without looking, and the automatic paths she takes between counter and stove are indication enough.
My guess is that she was living here before the apocalypse.
No doubt.
“What do you think, Poti? Cinnamon or honey?” She leans down to the pot, head tilted slightly as if listening for an answer. “Both? You’re right. Why choose?”
Poti? Is she talking to the pot?
Slightly concerning, somehow cute, and the proof that she really has been alone.
For a year. In this gilded cage.
Still, she’s hiding something. Nobody survives alone in a penthouse for a year with food, water, and fucking glitter eyeshadow.
But, truth is, I feel like hammered shit. My head throbs with each heartbeat, and my ankle’s swollen to twice its normal size. I can’t get back like that.
I should rest three days, maybe four or more…
I mean…
There are worse ways to start a day.
Walsh will give me shit about going off alone anyway.
Let’s enjoy this a bit.