Chapter 8
EIGHT
KNOX
Another day or two or three, maybe four.
It’s been what?
Nine? Ten?
I dump the second bucket over my head, water sluicing down my back, washing away sweat and lingering shame. The thought of her going out. Without me there… Fucking nightmares.
Worse, Paris saw it all. My thrashing, my screaming, and my complete loss of control, then I grabbed her wrist hard enough to bruise, and instead of kicking me out on my ass, she brought me Batman comics.
Worst of all…
I kissed her wrist. Her bruised wrist that I caused.
What the hell was I thinking? I haven’t touched anyone like that since Sarah. Haven’t wanted to. Then Paris offered her arm, her eyes scrutinizing me with wariness and something else, and I lost my goddamn mind. Pressed my lips to her skin like I had any right to.
I can still feel her pulse racing beneath my mouth. The way her breath caught. How soft her skin was, and that fucking scent of her—floral and earthy and alive.
She didn’t pull away. Not at first. Then bolted like I’d burned her.
Smart. Smarter than me, apparently, because I keep thinking about doing it again. About pressing my lips to other parts of her…
The bathroom mirror reflects a stranger, less gaunt than I’ve been in months. Regular meals will do that. Safety. Paris.
I scrub my face with borrowed soap that smells like something expensive I can’t name, and my skin prickles with the sensation of being clean. Proper clean, not creek-water-and-sand clean or rainwater-collected-in-a-helmet clean.
Why did I tell her about Sarah?
I never talk about Sarah. Not with Walsh, who found me half-dead and dragged me back to Iron Gate. Not with Gavin, who gave me purpose again. Not with anyone.
But with Paris, the words just… came out.
Day twelve of the apocalypse, and Sarah was laughing, actually laughing as we raided an abandoned pharmacy. Said we should grab condoms along with antibiotics because ‘end of the world sex is probably amazing, babe.’
Five minutes later, she was screaming, a biter’s teeth buried in her shoulder while I was still three aisles away.
I slam my palm against the marble counter, the sting yanking me back to the present. “Enough.”
My head still throbs where the stitches pull, a constant reminder of how I got here. Of how Paris dragged me up twelve flights of stairs, then proceeded to patch me up with no training except a medical book and what she called ‘binge-watching Grey’s Anatomy.’
And then she went out alone. Without telling me. Without backup.
My anger reignites, a hot coal in my chest.
But why? Why do I give a shit?
Paris, with her pristine blue nail polish. Paris, who talks to kitchen appliances. Paris, who claims zombies can’t see her.
That last one should set off every alarm bell I have. Should make me pack my shit and get her back to Iron Gate ASAP. Sofia wouldn’t poke and prod her, drain her for every drop of blood or tissue that might hold the secret.
Gabriel would.
And he will not lay his hands on her.
That’s it.
She’s valuable. That’s the only reason why I care…
Water drips down my spine as I towel off. I need to report back. Walsh is probably organizing a search party. Or writing me off as dead. And he is definitely going to kill me.
I change into the clean clothes Paris brought. Soft, expensive fabric that feels alien against my skin. The borrowed t-shirt clings to my shoulders, and the dark jeans fit better than they should. It’s been years since I wore anything that wasn’t tactical or functional.
My ankle barely twinges when I put weight on it. Another day, maybe two, and I’ll be combat-ready.
The question is, what then?
I run fingers through my damp hair, trying to make it look half-good. Before Paris, everything was clear. Mission parameters. Threat assessment. Action plan. Now I’m standing in a luxury bathroom, thinking about a woman’s green eyes and the curve of her mouth when she smiles.
Thinking about how her eyes glowed when I didn’t laugh at her for talking to a pot, and how she blushes when I call her princess, the flush starting at her cheeks and spreading down her neck.
I grab the sink edge, steadying myself against a wave of… something. Not pain. Not fear. Something worse. Something that feels like the most dangerous thing in this world.
I step out of the bathroom, barefoot and clean, borrowing time in a world that doesn’t offer much of either.
Paris stands at the kitchen counter, her back to me.
She’s talking again, not to me. The telescope, I think.
Telly, she called it. Unlike the strawberry plant outside, which she calls Freddie.
Her voice rises and falls in the cadence of actual conversation, as if it might answer back. Maybe in her world, it does.
“I know, I know,” she murmurs. “But he had a nightmare. About the woman he loves and lost. I can’t just—”
She doesn’t hear me approach. I stop three feet behind her, close enough to catch her fucking floral scent mixed with the earthiness of her garden. Her hair falls to one side, exposing her elegant neck.
Delicate. Vulnerable.
My fingers itch to touch that spot. To brush against the soft skin. To press my lips there and feel her pulse jump under my mouth.
Woah. Hold it.
What the fuck am I thinking again?
Back at Iron Gate, there are plenty of women. Attractive, willing women who don’t talk to plants or wear glitter eyeshadow. Women who understand the rules of survival. Women who don’t make me feel like I’m free-falling every time they smile.
I’ve never been tempted. Not once. So why now? Why this maddening, impossible woman who makes me question every decision I’ve made since the world ended?
“Anyway, he’ll be leaving soon.” She stops whatever she is doing, her words coming out slower. “And then it’ll just be us again. The way it’s supposed to be.”
Supposed to be? Huh? I clear my throat.
She whirls around, knife in hand, eyes wide. “Fuck!” She bumps against the counter. “Make some noise, would you? Bells, maybe? A warning cough?”
“Sorry.” I’m not. I like seeing her startled. It breaks through that princess armor she wears.
Her eyes dart away. “How long… were you standing there?”
“Long enough to know Telly’s a good listener.”
“You spying on me now?” She grips the knife tighter, eyes narrowing.
“Hard not to overhear.” My gaze drops to the blade in her hand. “Planning to stab me?”
She glances down like she’s forgotten she’s armed. “Oh.” The knife clatters onto the counter. “Sorry.”
“Don’t worry.” I move closer, her body tensing with each step I take. “So, I’m leaving soon, huh?”
Her cheeks flush that perfect shade of pink I’ve come to expect. “Your ankle’s better. You said two days or three.”
“And you’re counting down the minutes?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“Didn’t have to.” I reach past her for an apple from the bowl, my arm brushing hers. She doesn’t step back. Interesting. “How about you let me help with dinner tonight? As compensation for you going out alone.”
She shifts her weight, hip jutting out, a half-step away from me. “Compensation?”
“For giving me a heart attack.” I take a bite of the apple, watching her over the crisp flesh. Tart sweetness explodes on my tongue. Not the dried shit we ration at Iron Gate. Another reason she should come with me. “You could’ve died out there.”
“What do you want?”
What do I want? To get back to Iron Gate. To report to Gavin. To forget the way her skin feels under my fingers. To stop thinking about what her lips would taste like.
“Dinner.” I finish the apple. “Like I said.”
Relief and something like disappointment cross her face. “You’re still healing.”
“And you’re still bossy.” I grab a cutting board. “What needs chopping?”
She hesitates, then points to a pile of zucchini. “Those. For the stir fry.”
We fall into rhythm, moving around each other in the kitchen like we’ve done it a hundred times. She stirs something that smells incredible while I finish slicing. When I’m done, I slide the cutting board toward her.
“Perfect. Now, we need…” She whips around, reaching for a jar on a high shelf, stretching on tiptoes. Her fingers brush the bottom of it, not quite reaching.
Without thinking, I step behind her, my chest against her back, and easily grab the jar.
But I don’t shy away.
For one suspended moment, we’re frozen like that—her back against my chest, my arm extended above hers. I can feel her breathing, the slight catch when she realizes I’m not moving.
“Here,” I say, my voice rough even to my own ears.
She turns within the cage of my arms, her face tilted up to mine. This close, I can make out flecks of gold in her green eyes, the smudge of flour on her cheekbone, the perfect bow of her upper lip.
“Thanks,” she whispers, not taking the jar.
My gaze drops to her mouth. Her lips part slightly. Would she taste like the strawberries outside? Like the apple? Or something sweeter? I could kiss her. Lower my head those few tempting inches and find out.
She sways toward me, almost imperceptibly, and something in me snaps to attention. This is dangerous territory. Caring about people in this world is a liability.
A weakness.
I set the jar on the counter. “You missed a spot.” I tap my own cheekbone, indicating a small leaf on hers.
She blinks and swipes at her face with the back of her hand. “Did I get it?”
“No.” I reach out, thumb brushing her skin. So soft. “There.”
She stares at me, then abruptly retreats to the stove. “I should, um, I should wash up before dinner. Do you mind finishing?”
“Go ahead.” I keep my voice neutral. “I got it.”
She nods, not looking at me, and flees the kitchen. I watch her go, then turn my attention to the simmering pan. The zucchini pieces need stirring. A simple task to focus on instead of the lingering sensation of her skin under my thumb.
I turn the jar over in my other hand. Honey. Expensive shit, amber-gold and thick like molten sunshine. The one she adds to the porridge.
“Imported from Italy,” I read off the label.
Some fancy vineyard in Tuscany, probably run by bees with their own trust funds. I set the jar down, running my finger around its rim.
This penthouse is a perfect bubble, preserved like an insect in amber. Paris has created her own universe up here, complete with imaginary friends and real food and soft beds.
And I’m about to shatter it.
The stir fry sizzles. I give it a quick toss, adding salt from a crystal shaker.
I should tell her about Iron Gate. About Gavin, Sofia, Walsh, Liv, and our community. About the fact that we have doctors, gardens, and security. That she doesn’t have to be alone anymore.
But what if she says no?
Or worse—what if she says yes, and Gabriel’s people find her because I took her out in the open? They’ve been hunting anyone with immunity. And Paris, with her weird zombie invisibility…
It’s only a matter of time until they find her here.
The spoon bends in my grip. I set it down before I snap it in half.
What’s the best option?
I move through the kitchen, finishing dinner preparations, trying not to think.
Everything’s ready, but Paris hasn’t returned. I check the pan again.
And then I hear her footsteps.
I look up, and the wooden spoon nearly slips from my fingers.
She stands in the doorway wearing a black dress that dips low between her breasts and clings to every curve I’ve been trying not to notice.
It rides high on her thighs—Fuck, those legs.
My hands twitch at my sides, wanting to trace the path from her ankles to where the hemline teases, and to grab her wet hair that falls in loose waves around her shoulders, catching the candlelight like the dark honey I was holding.
“Why don’t we get wasted today?” She holds a bottle of wine in one hand.
Gorgeous.
She’s fucking beautiful—but it’s more than that. It’s the life in her eyes, her smile, and the way she moves like the world never ended. Like we’re just a man and woman about to have dinner.
I’m fucked. Completely, utterly fucked.