Page 11 of Glass Rose (Where Roses Rot #1)

“Sir, return to your home immediately,” the lead soldier orders. “This area is under containment protocols. ”

Mr. Reyes doesn’t budge. “Containment for what? Where’s your warrant? This is private property!”

“Sir,” the lead soldier tries again, “we have authorization to use lethal force against infected individuals and those impeding containment efforts.”

“Infected? What are you talking about?” Mr. Reyes steps down from his porch, bat still raised. “Nobody here is sick! You can’t just?—”

The soldier raises his hand, signaling to the others. “Check him.”

Two soldiers approach Mr. Reyes, while the third keeps his weapon trained on me. My pulse pounds in my ears as I grip the steering wheel, knuckles white.

“Fuck this.” I hit the gas, and the tires screech against the pavement as I back out of the driveway.

“Stop the vehicle! Stop now!”

I don’t, foot jamming the accelerator harder. The truck lurches backward, smashing into something solid—the Humvee.

“Shit, shit, shit!” I throw the truck into drive, yanking the wheel hard left. “Sorry!”

My father’s prized vehicle fishtails across the street, narrowly missing Mr. Reyes and the soldiers.

“Dr. Cruz!” The lead soldier’s voice carries over the engine’s roar. “We need you to come with us! Stop immediately!”

They know my name?!

I floor it, heart hammering against my ribs. The rearview mirror shows chaos—Mr. Reyes wrestling with one soldier while another aims at my retreating truck. The third sprints back toward the Humvee.

Around the corner, I spot Gavin in the van, engine running. I come to a halt alongside him.

He rolls down his window. “They ID you? ”

“They knew my name.”

“Get in.” He throws open the passenger door. “Now.”

I hesitate, glancing at my dad’s truck. “But?—”

“They know the car.”

“How do you?—”

“Sofia,” he growls. “Move!”

I abandon the truck, diving into the passenger seat as bullets ping against the metal, missing me, and I’m not sure if it was on purpose.

Gavin slams the gas, taking the next left hard. My body collides with the door frame, shoulder taking the brunt of the impact.

“Seatbelt,” he says, voice calm despite the speedometer climbing past sixty in a residential zone.

I fumble with the buckle. “They knew my name. How did they?—”

“You were there.” His eyes flick to the rearview mirror, jaw tightening. “Makes you valuable.”

“So we’re what—fugitives now? On top of everything else?”

“Yes.” He takes a hard right, throwing me into the middle console despite the seatbelt. “Sorry.”

“For what? The driving or accusing me of?—”

“Both. And for this.”

The van swerves sharply into an alleyway, tires screeching as Gavin cuts the engine. My body catapults forward against the seatbelt, breath catching in my throat.

“Ou—”

He clamps his hand over my mouth, eyes locked on mine. I want to bite him, but the intensity in his gaze stops me. He shakes his head once, a barely perceptible movement.

The rumble of the Humvee grows louder, then passes the alley entrance without slowing. One heartbeat. Two. Three. His hand remains firm against my lips, his skin warm and calloused.

When he finally releases me, I smack his arm. “A little warning next time?”

“Would’ve taken too long to explain.” He peers through the windshield. “They’re looking for both vehicles now.”

“So what’s the plan? Ditch the van and walk?”

“No.” He shifts back into drive, easing forward. “We drive. And hope they’re too stupid to follow.”

“You could have just told me to be quiet.”

His eyes flick to mine, something dangerous lurking in their depths. “You talk when you’re nervous.”

“I do not—” I start, then catch myself. “Fine. Whatever.”

Gavin checks his watch. “We’re late.”

“Alex won’t leave without us.”

“He will.”

“You don’t know him like I do.”

His expression hardens. “I know his type.”

“Oh really? And what type is that?”

“The type who fucks his sources for better footage.”

My face burns. “That’s not—we were—” I stop, hating the defensive note in my voice. “What the hell do you care anyway?” And what do I care? Alex is an asshole.

“I don’t.”

“Add it to my list of fuck-ups.” I toy with my mother’s necklace, fingers trembling. “Right below ‘caused apocalypse.’”

Gavin says nothing as he navigates through side streets, avoiding main roads. The silence between us pulses like an open wound, and he is right. I do need to talk when I’m nervous.

“So that’s it?” I ask. “You’re just going to drive in judgy silence now?”

He keeps his eyes on the road. “Not judging. ”

“Your face says otherwise.”

“This is just my face.”

I turn to face him fully. “You’ve been different since I mentioned Alex.”

“We’re being hunted by the military and zombies. Forgive me if I’m not chatty.”

“You were fine until?—”

“Does it matter? Your boyfriend’s waiting.”

“He’s not my—” I stop, the realization hitting me. “Wait. Are you… jealous?”

His eyes flick to mine for a split second before returning to the road. “Of what?”

“Oh my god, you are.”

“Focus on surviving, Dr. Cruz.” His voice drops, almost a growl. “Not everything’s about your love life.”

“First of all, fuck you.” I cross my arms. “Second, there is no love life. It was sex. Convenient, meaningless sex.”

“With the guy who’s supposed to expose the facility.” He takes a sharp turn. “Smart.”

“Yeah. I know. We already established that.” A silent tear escapes my eye, and I wipe it away with the back of my hand.

Fucking men and their egos. The world’s ending, we just escaped a military squad that somehow knows my name, I had to kill my infected father less than an hour ago, and this guy’s pissed about who I’ve slept with?

It was stupid, I know.

It was stupid to let him convince me to bring him to the facility instead of just handing over my documentation.

“I’m sorry,” he says.

The emotional whiplash makes me dizzy. “Don’t.”

“Don’t what?”

“Don’t be nice to me right now.” My throat tightens. “I can’t handle it.”

Something in his posture softens. “Okay. ”

I stare out the window at the suburban landscape—so normal looking, but it’s more like any Sunday morning when people are still in bed instead of a Thursday morning when people get ready for work.

Except for the occasional abandoned car, the random splatter of blood on a mailbox, and the eerie absence of birdsong.

It’s spreading.

The van’s digital clock flips to 7:00 as we arrive at the supermarket parking lot.

No sign of Alex or Dr. Cho.

“Told you,” Gavin mutters.

My stomach drops. “They wouldn’t just?—”