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               RORY KNELT BEFORE THE ASH, LAYING her fingertips against the snow.

               A good brother—Declan had been a good brother, even if he hadn't been a good prince . . . or a good person.

               She remembered the week after she had turned twelve. Her father's birthday present to her had been a one-way ticket to an all-girls boarding school in Switzerland. He might as well have been saying, I don't need you here. 

                In return, she had gifted him a present. She had said to him, for the first time in her life, I hate you. 

                Her mother had been gone since her seventh birthday. And ever since, Rory had approached her father the same way she would if she were barefoot, creeping over shattered glass. Scared of cutting flesh—scared to bleed.

               But she had hated him that day—she had hated him so much it hurt.

               Rory hadn't wanted to go to Vega's Boarding Academy for Ladies. A punishment for her wild, reckless behaviour—skiing on the Black Hole in Vermont, whitewater rafting in the DMZ. Just last week, she had biked down Death Road.

               She would always think it was funny, later—this punishment. 

               She had only ever been imitating her older brother.

               And if she was wild, then he was worse.

               Declan had done too many dangerous things to keep track of. He had been seventeen when their mother left. But not even a year later, he was unrecognizable.

               Rory heard the whispers about him in the castle walls.

               Womanizer. Attention-seeker. Thrill-chaser. 

               She had idolized him—the way he could grab the attention of any woman. The way he laughed so easily, so charming, and with so much life it made people cling to him.

               And the other things—the dangerous stunts and the fifty-foot list of women he had slept with—could be thrown away. He was a prince, and if he had a little bit of fun—as a man should—then it could be excused.

               Now, Rory shook her head. The sprinkle of ash she had laid over the snow looked like a fine dusting of silver-grey. 

               Her locket trembled in her hand. Declan's remains.

               The priest had given them to her—the cremation.

               Declan had wanted the ashes to be spread around the world, in all the places he had been. And if Vancouver was good for one thing, it was this.

               Her brother had once went skydiving here. Landed somewhere among these trees.

               What would he say to her now? If he were alive?

               Don't think about it, Rory told herself. Because he was dead—and for a good reason.

               Shivering, she scraped her fingertips back from the snow and the ashes. Leaning back into her wheelchair.

               The locket was half-empty now. The list was almost done.

               And she missed Declan. 

               Even if he didn't deserve it.

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               "WHERE WERE YOU?" SIMON DEMANDED.

               RORY DREW her jacket tighter against herself. Jaw rattling. The cold had seeped into her bones, almost unbearable for her summer coat.

               "And what are you wearing?" he growled.

               Standing in the doorway of the hospital, he cut a striking figure against the glass of Mount Sinai General. Tall, broad and corded with muscle, Simon looked every inch the terrifying bodyguard.

                But Rory couldn't take him seriously, not when she knew him so well.

                It didn't help that he was beautiful, too, in a way—those ridiculously long lashes, his high cheekbones, his glowing dark brown skin. And what was it called? A smoldering stare. 

                "You know it's risky to go anywhere," Simon snapped, crossing his arms.

                Rory didn't miss the gun in his belt. The way he seemed almost concerned for her, scanning the winter woods behind her as she rolled her wheelchair towards him. 

                She grit her teeth together. Was that guilt crawling into her?

                With one hand, Rory tucked the locket beneath her shirt. Nobody knew about Declan's ashes, or the reason she went traveling so often.

                "Have you ever tried modelling?" she said helpfully.

                "You know Benson is looking for you," Simon said, opening the door for her.

                Rory decided to ignore that. The reminder that she was in constant, ever-looming danger. She was so sick of it—the hiding.

                "I hear Victoria's Secret is looking for new talent," Rory continued.

                 The air inside the hospital was surprisingly warm. She shrugged off her jacket, handing it to Simon, who raised a single brow.

                "Come on, Simon, can't you picture it?" Out of the corner of her eye, Rory could see a doctor talking to a businessman. Arguing. "You in some pink, lacy lingerie, strutting down the runway—"

                Rory took a second look at the doctor.

                A halo of russet curls. Light brown skin. A strong jaw.

                The doctor arguing with the businessman was Paris, and her voice had risen to a shout.

                "Treating the kids here isn't political! As a doctor, my first and foremost duty is to saving lives, not catering to your stupid, nonsensical parade to the committee!"

                Rory stopped in her tracks.

                Down the hall, Paris and the businessman had drawn the attention of the interns and the nurses and the other doctors.

                "Our first oath is do no harm," Paris bit out. "And maybe to you that means ignoring the very people that need us most, but to me, it means helping these children!"

                It didn't take a genius to realize she was passionate. Rory had always loved that about Paris—the spark.

                And even as Rory's eyes lingered on the ferocity of her stance, the way her beautiful mouth twisted, she knew Paris was burying herself in trouble.

                But if there was one thing Rory was good at, it was trouble. 

                She let out a wolf's whistle. The attention of everyone within fifty feet snapped to her. Including Paris and the businessman.

                 Rory wasn't afraid to make a scene.

                 For her entire life, she had been the spotlight. The princess. The playboy. The sister of a prince who had reveled in scandal.

                 Rory had even grown to like a little bit of chaos.

                 But she knew she had to handle this fast—and handle it well.

                 Paris's job was at stake, from what Rory could tell. And even if Paris wasn't hers, even if Paris hated Rory's guts and every bone in her body, Rory owed it to her to protect her.

                 And maybe it wasn't just about owing it. Maybe it was something else.

                 Something Rory didn't think she was ready to admit.

                 Even to herself.

                  "Hey, Doc," she called out easily.

                  Paris's eyes narrowed. God, she was so beautiful it hurt.

                  "You promised me some action," Rory said, angling her wheelchair. "You know, because I can't possibly get into a bath myself. I think I'm going to need you to come and lather me down. A really nice, soapy scrub. And then I'm going to need you to rinse—" 

                   A few interns were snickering by now.

                   "Do you like making a fool of yourself?" Simon said under his breath.

                   As Paris bid goodbye to the doctor, now flushed with heat, Rory mumbled back, "For a pretty girl? Anything."

                   And then she was in front of Rory. Glaring down at her with all the fire of hell.

                   "Are you trying to get me to lose my job?" she hissed, a furious pink smudging her soft brown skin.

                    Without thinking, Rory said, "It seemed like you were doing that all by yourself."

                    As the interns and nurses slowly lost interest in their too-quiet conversation, Paris took her place behind Rory's wheelchair and began to roll her down the hall.

                   Rory didn't think she had ever made someone so mad in her entire life.

                   And that was saying something, considering the amount of stupid things that had come out of her mouth.

                  "I'm not giving you a bath, by the way," Paris said in a low voice.

                  A middle-aged doctor flew past them, almost running.

                  "Really? Because I read the chart, and one of your responsibilities is to—"

                  Before she could finish, she heard a female voice on the speaker. "Code yellow—Room 316. Code yellow." 

                  Rory had no idea whose room that was, but when she glanced back, it was obvious Paris did.

                  "Tasha," she breathed.

                  Rory could only vaguely recall the girl with the pink beanie. The new patient—the one that had arrived yesterday.

                  "What's code yellow?" Rory asked.

                  "Assault," Paris whispered. "It means someone got into a fight."

                  And before Rory could ask anything else, before something stupid could come out of her mouth, Paris had backed away from her wheelchair, saying I'm sorry in the moment before she took off towards Room 316.

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Oops, I might have left you on a little bit of a cliffhanger.

What do you think happened in Tasha's room?

From the moon and back,
Sarai