Chapter 9
NINE
PARIS
The wine flows down my throat, warm and honeyed, loosening everything.
My limbs, my tongue, and the tight bundle of nerves I’ve been carrying in my chest since Knox almost kissed me in the kitchen.
I curl my bare feet against the leather of the couch, toes brushing against his thigh as I take another sip, watching him over the rim of my glass.
“You look like you belong in a magazine.” His eyes travel over my dress, then back to my face. His hand rests on my ankle, thumb tracing slow circles that send heat spiraling up my leg. “Unreal.”
“Vogue: Apocalypse Edition?” I stretch languidly, the wine making me bold. “What I wouldn’t give for a camera. Proof that Paris cleaned up nice at the end of the world.”
He chuckles, the sound vibrating through me and settling low in my belly.
“What did you want?” I ask, desperate for conversation to distract my body. “Before all this.”
“Happiness.” He takes another sip of wine, eyes never leaving mine. “Married. Kids eventually. Nothing fancy.”
“What about your career? No ‘when I grow up’ fantasies? Except for blowing shit up?”
“Not really.” His hand glides to my knee, resting there like a promise. “What about you, princess? What dreams got interrupted?”
I drain my glass, liquid courage for what I’m about to say. “Normal stuff. College. Travel. Finding someone who wouldn’t leave.”
“That’s not small.”
“Maybe a jewelry line.” I stare at my empty glass. “Blue, like my nail polish. Or maybe designing clothes. I sketch sometimes.”
“You’d be good at it.”
“Based on what? My fantastic apocalypse wardrobe?”
“Your eye.” His fingers wander higher. “The way you notice details. The glitter. The nails. Even now, when it shouldn’t matter.”
“It matters more now.” I reach for the wine bottle, refilling our glasses. “When everything’s ugly, beauty becomes rebellion.”
He nods like he understands, and maybe he does. “What else?”
“I wanted…” I’ve kept that even from Telly. “God, it’s stupid.”
“Tell me.”
“A Tiffany engagement ring.” Heat floods my cheeks. “Not the diamond part necessarily, just… the blue box. That little blue box. I used to see them on Vibegrid all the time. Girls my age getting proposed to at landmarks, opening that perfect blue box.” I laugh at myself. “Told you. Stupid.”
His eyes soften. “Not stupid.”
“No?” I take another gulp of wine. “Just shallow, then.”
“Wanting symbols of love isn’t shallow. It’s human.” His hand moves higher, fingertips brushing the bare skin of my thigh below my dress. “The rituals matter. The symbols matter.”
“Even now?”
“Especially now.” His eyes lock with mine, something raw and honest in them that makes my chest ache. “The world’s gone to shit. What else is there but finding meaning where we can?”
A howl rips through the night, closer than usual, and the fine hairs on my arms stand at attention. Another howl answers the first, then another. Stupid Wolf-zombies, always hunting in packs.
I shiver despite the wine’s warmth. “I hate when they do that.”
He sets his glass on the coffee table, settling both hands on my legs. “They can’t get you up here.”
“I know that.” I place my glass beside his, crossing my arms over my chest, suddenly aware of how exposed I feel in this dress. “It’s… the sound. Like they’re calling to each other. Planning.”
“They’re not planning anything.” He moves closer, one arm sliding around my shoulders. “They’re just making noise.”
“You don’t know that.” I lean into him despite myself, my body betraying my need for contact. “Maybe they’re evolving. Getting smarter.”
“You’re safe here.”
The wine, the warmth of his body, the gentle pressure of his hand on my thigh… it all blurs together, making me dizzy with want.
I raise my face toward his, our mouths inches apart. “Am I?”
His eyes darken, pupils expanding until only a thin ring of gray remains. My fingers find the short hair at the nape of his neck, threading through it. He doesn’t turn away. Instead, his fingers dig deeper into the flesh on my thigh while his breath fans across my lips, warm and wine-scented
This is happening. It’s actually happening.
I press my lips to his, softly at first, then with growing hunger as his arm tightens around me. The kiss is everything I’ve been imagining since he first crashed into my life. His lips are firm against mine, demanding yet somehow gentle.
I make a small sound in the back of my throat, something needy that would embarrass me if I weren’t so far gone. He tugs me closer, my body half-sprawled across his lap, the dress riding higher on my thighs. His hand slides up my back, tangling in my hair and tilting my head to deepen the kiss.
I gasp against his mouth when his tongue traces the seam of my lips, seeking entrance. It’s like he can’t get enough, like he wants to memorize the taste of me. I open for him, meeting his tongue with mine, and he rewards me with a deep groan that rumbles through his chest.
I arch against him, desperate for more contact. His stubble scrapes deliciously against my skin as his mouth leaves mine to trace a burning path down my neck.
“Knox.”
He freezes.
His hands grip my waist, but now they’re pushing instead of pulling. He lifts his head, eyes closed, jaw tight.
“What’s wrong?” I whisper, my lips still tingling.
“Paris.” He eases me off his lap like I’m made of glass. Or explosives. “We can’t.”
My stomach drops like I’ve missed a step on the stairs. “What?”
“This isn’t…” He releases me, shifting away. “I shouldn’t have let it get this far.”
Heat floods my face, different from before. Humiliation. Pure embarrassment burns through the wine haze, sharp and sobering. “Oh.”
“It’s not that I don’t want—” He runs a hand through his hair, frustration evident in every line of his body. “Fuck, Paris, you’re—”
“No, it’s fine.” I stand too quickly, swaying slightly. “I totally misread the situation. God, I’m so stupid.”
“You’re not stupid.” He reaches for me, but I step back.
“You just told me about your fiancée, and I’m throwing myself at you.” My voice rises, words tumbling out. “What’s wrong with me? First man I see in a year and I’m acting like a horny bitch. I’m sorry.”
“Paris, please—”
“I need to…” I gesture vaguely toward my bedroom, backing away. “Goodnight.”
I flee before he can respond, bare feet silent on the Persian rug as I escape. The door closes behind me with a soft click that feels too final.
Footsteps approach. I hold my breath, pressing my forehead against the cool wood, waiting for a knock, for my name, for anything.
The footsteps pause, then retreat.
Stupid, Paris.
A single tear slides down my cheek, hot and unwelcome. I wipe it away angrily, hating the weakness, hating myself for destroying whatever tentative friendship we’d built.
“I’m lucky if he’s still here tomorrow,” I whisper to the empty room, the words tasting like ash and expensive wine.
Morning light slices through the gap in my curtains, harsh and unforgiving. I’ve been awake for hours, staring at the ceiling, rehearsing casual lines that don’t sound pathetic.
Hey Knox, coffee? No. Morning, sleep well? Definitely not. I just settle on saying nothing at all, and I dress in my most loungy clothes, no hint of last night’s attempt at seduction.
What was I thinking?
I hammer my fists against the mattress before taking a deep breath and making myself ready for the day.
In the kitchen, the porridge bubbles on the portable stove, thick and gloopy. I stir it, focusing on the hypnotic swirls rather than the footsteps approaching from behind.
“Morning.” Knox’s voice, gravelly with sleep, sends a shiver down my spine that I ruthlessly suppress.
“Breakfast’s almost ready.” I don’t turn around, my attention fixed on measuring honey into the porridge. “Hope you like it boring. No cinnamon left.”
“Boring’s fine.” He moves to the cabinet, retrieving bowls.
The domestic familiarity of it twists my heart. I ladle the porridge into the bowls he sets beside me. I can do this. I can be normal. The worst thing would be for him to pity me.
“Sleep okay?” he asks, and I nearly drop the ladle.
“Fine. You?”
“Not really.”
I risk a glance at him. He looks tired, with dark circles shadowing his eyes and his hair sticking up at odd angles. Still unfairly attractive. Damn him.
“Well, eat up.” I scoot a bowl toward him. “Doctor’s orders.”
We eat in silence, the clink of spoons against bowls the only sound.
I finish first, eager to escape. “I’m going to check the plants. The tomatoes need attention.”
He nods, not meeting my eyes, and something in me deflates further.
The greenhouse welcomes me with humid warmth, the familiar scent of soil and growing things wrapping around me like a hug. I move between the containers, checking moisture levels and pinching off dead leaves, my hands finding comfort in the routine.
“Oh, Freddie.” I address my faithful strawberry plant. “I really fucked up.”
His leaves rustle sympathetically in the breeze.
“I mean, who tries to seduce a guy who told you about his dead fiancée?” I trim a yellowing leaf. “Paris, that’s who. Social skills of a zombie.”
I check the strawberries, finding a handful ripe enough to pick. Their sweet scent fills my nose as I drop them into my harvest basket.
“And now he’s going to leave, because why would he stay? I’ll be alone again, which is fine. Totally fine. I was fine before.”
The back of my neck prickles. I turn, catching movement through the glass. Knox stands in the living room, watching me, and our eyes meet before he looks away, pretending to be interested in something on the bookshelf.
Feels like deja vu.
He… can’t hear the conversation inside, right? I mean, I never tried.
“Great,” I mutter to the tomato plant. I don’t know why I never gave her a name. She feels like a she, but Tomtom would be the first name that comes to mind. “How do you feel, tomato?”
No answer. Rude.
I grab my binoculars from their hook by the door and get back out to the open side of the balcony, needing distraction. And what better distraction than the theater of the apocalypse?
The city spreads below me, silent and dead in the midday light. I scan the streets, checking for changes, for threats, for those stupid Wolf-zombies who made me cuddle up to him yesterday.
If it weren’t for them, I’d—
Movement. Two figures walk along Main Street, three blocks over. I adjust the focus, zeroing in.
A man and a woman, both armed. The man is compact and wiry with reddish-brown hair, checking corners and covering the woman as she advances. The woman in question has platinum blonde hair gathered in a tight braid, a rifle held at the ready.
They’re not random. They’re trained. Organized. Searching.
Are they… looking for Knox?
The thought slams into me with unexpected force.
I stalk them, checking buildings, moving in perfect sync, as if they’ve done this a thousand times.
I should tell him.
Right?
Even if it means he’ll go.
If these are his people… he needs to know. I won’t be the reason he’s separated from them, no matter how much I want him to stay.
I lower the binoculars, steeling myself.
Be normal. The best normal you can. Tell him and don’t make it weird.
I slide the balcony door open and step inside. Knox sits on the couch, leafing through one of the Batman comics, which he must have read a hundred times by now.
“There are people three blocks over.” Good start. I offer him the binoculars. “Two of them. Armed, checking buildings systematically.”
He grabs Bino and is on his feet, all traces of awkwardness gone. “Show me.”
I lead him to the balcony and point in the direction.
He scans the street, body tense, then relaxes. “I don’t know them.”
“You sure? They look like they’re searching for someone or something.”
“I’m sure.” He lowers the binoculars, handing them back. “Let’s keep quiet, avoid drawing attention.”
“But if they’re from your group—”
“They’re not.” His tone brooks no argument. “Trust me on this.”
“So you do have a group?”
He freezes, muscles tensing like I’ve caught him in a lie.
“You do, don’t you? A whole community somewhere.”
He rubs his jaw. “It’s complicated.”
I snatch the binoculars. “Either you have people or you don’t.”
“And what if I do?” His voice hardens. “You planning to tag along?”
The words sting more than they should. “I wasn’t asking for an invitation.” No. I would have wanted to. But not if he asks like that. “Were you ever going to tell me? Or just disappear one day?”
“I was going to tell you. We’re about thirty miles north of here.”
“And you need to get back.”
“Yes.” He opens the balcony door, holding it with one arm extended. “After you, princess.”
Is he trying to push me away? Or pull me closer? I don’t get him. Is that now the end of our conversation?
Whatever.
I duck under his arm, careful not to brush against him as I pass. “Don’t call me princess.”
“Right. Sorry.” He doesn’t sound sorry at all.
Back in the living room, I curl up on the far end of the couch, as far from Knox as possible, and grab the romance novel I abandoned yesterday. He’s already back to his comic, and we sit in what feels like the world’s most uncomfortable silence.
I flip through my book mindlessly until…
His tongue traced a path down her quivering stomach, hands pinning her hips to the mattress as he tasted her most—
I slam the book shut. My traitorous brain immediately supplies an image of Knox between my thighs, his hands holding me down, his mouth—
“Problem?” Amusement laces his tone.
“Nope. No problem.”
“You sure? You look a little flushed.” His lips quirk up at the corners, the first real smile I’ve seen since last night.
“It’s hot in here.” I fan myself with the book, trying for nonchalance and failing miserably.
“Uh-huh. Interesting reading material?”
“Not really. Just… descriptions of… landscapes.” A body can be a landscape, right?
His smile widens. “Landscapes.”
“Yep.”
His eyes flick to the cover, a shirtless man embracing a swooning woman.
“Very… boring landscapes,” I say.
He sets the comic down. “About last night—”
“Don’t.” The word comes out sharper than intended. “Seriously, it’s fine. I get it. Sarah and all.”
“That’s not—”
“I was drunk. You were… whatever. Moment of apocalypse weakness.” I shrug, aiming for casual. “No big deal.”
“Paris.”
“And it’s not like we’ll see each other after you leave, so—”
“Would you stop talking for two seconds?” He rubs his hand over his face. “I wasn’t rejecting you. And I didn’t mean to make you feel…”
“Rejected? Embarrassed? Like I misread every signal?”
“I’m sorry.” His voice drops lower, rougher. “The community I’m from—it’s complicated. I’m not sure which is the right thing to do.”
“Then get your head straight.” I escape to my bedroom without another word, the romance novel still clutched in my hand like evidence of a crime I can’t quite bring myself to regret.