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                "I CAN'T FUCKING DO THIS."

                Helpless—Rory felt stupidly, utterly helpless as she tried to stand. The cast covering her entire right leg felt like deadweight. She was uncoordinated, graceless, and she hadn't felt like that since her mother had left. When it seemed like the world had been swept out from underneath her.

               And it felt like that now. Like she was balancing on seawater and tightropes and the edge of a fucking cliff.

               "You can do this," Paris said encouragingly.

               "Shut up," Rory scowled. "I look like a damn idiot."

               "It's okay to look like an idiot once in a while."

               "I pride in myself in never looking like an idiot, thanks."

              Paris made a thoughtful sound. "I think that's the problem here, then. Pride."

              "What about it?" Rory growled, clutching the sides of her wheelchair with white knuckles. Why couldn't she just walk? 

              "You're arrogant," Paris stated.

              "I prefer to think of it as being hot and knowing it."

              "That's not what I'm talking about. You're afraid of looking like an idiot—you have too much pride to just let yourself fall."

              "I don't want to fall!" Rory snapped. "I want to walk." 

              Paris moved closer to Rory. They were in the physical therapy room, with various machinery and obstacles and bars around the room. Next to them, a thick glass window spanned the entire wall, revealing the heavy snowfall.

              "You can't always be perfect, you know," said Paris quietly. "You don't always have to put on a show."

              Don't I? 

             That was how Rory survived growing up in the palace. How she survived the media attention and the publicity. 

             If nobody who the real Rory was, then nothing could hurt her. 

             The princess they wrote about—the playboy who appeared in headlines—that wasn't her. So when they talked about her, when they mentioned her in the news as irresponsible and reckless, she didn't have to let it touch her.

             "I can't do it," Rory repeated.

             But right now . . . in this room with Paris . . . it was real. 

             Everything was real.

             And if she couldn't get up, if she couldn't walk, then that was real, too. The accident, the helplessness, the falling.

            She didn't want any of it to be real.

            But Paris was still standing there, her cinnamon-gold eyes glittering bright under the fluorescent lights. 

            Rory didn't mind looking like an idiot sometimes.

            She just didn't want to look like an idiot in front of Paris.

            And maybe that was stupid, too. Because it was clear Paris was over her, had moved on. That in itself was a sting, but there was still some ridiculous, prideful part of Rory that didn't want to let her guard down in front of a pretty girl.

            And Paris? She was the prettiest girl Rory had met, even in all the forty-two countries she had traveled to.

            And if Rory was being honest?

           Pretty didn't even begin to cover it.

            "You know, you have stop looking at me like that," said Paris.

            Rory let a cocky grin sweep over her mouth. "Like you're the hottest fucking thing around?"

            That blush . . . Rory loved the rose blush that danced over her warm brown skin.

            "I was going to say like you're ready to devour me."

            "I could do that, too," Rory said. "I still remember the way you taste—"

             Before Rory could say eating Paris out was like dessert, there was a knock on the door. 

            Paris glanced to the other side of the room.

            "Come in," she called out.

            "Doctor Young," said a woman with blonde hair. 

            "What is it, Anna?" 

            "You have an urgent call."

             Rory recognized the flicker of Paris's jaw. Worry, etched into her soft features. An urgent call? 

             After the talk Rory had witnessed between Paris and the businessman, Matt Donovan, there was no way this could be good.

            "Who is it from?"

            Anna's eyes slid to Rory—almost appreciative—and back. "The king."

           The king? 

            It took a heartbeat to sink in.

            Her father was requesting an urgent call with Paris. 

            "Don't go," Rory said, before she could stop herself.

            Paris's eyes flashed. She had never liked being told what to do—neither of them did. But now, there was sheer determination in the set of her mouth as she said, "This isn't something I can just ignore. You're one of my patients—and if this concerns you, then it's my obligation to hear him out."

            "Damn obligations to hell," Rory whispered fiercely.

            "I'll be fine," said Paris. 

            And before she could protest any more, Paris tucked her hands into her pockets and swept out of the room.

            "Can you escort Miss Preston back to her room?" she asked.

            Anna nodded quickly. "Of course, Paris."

            Once she was gone, Anna made her way across the room towards Rory. The white of the brilliant snow was reflected in her glossy eyes, and it made Rory think of that Disney movie about the ice queen and the snowman and the moose. What was it called again?

            "Princess," Anna said, and then she did something that made Rory bark out a laugh. 

            She bowed. 

            "There's really no need for that," Rory said.

            "Of course, Your Highness," Anna said demurely. "But surely someone as beautiful and powerful as you deserves a little respect every now and then."

            Laying it on a little thick, aren't we? 

            "I get enough respect, but thank you."

            "If you ever need a little respect, you can let me know. I'd be happy to . . . oblige."

            Had this woman just made the word respect into something synonymous to fucking? Rory had to be impressed with that, even as her eyes widened.

            "Maybe I'll take you up on that offer," Rory said. She was fluent in the language of flirtation—and she had never been one to turn down a good fuck.

             But then Anna said, "So . . . the deal between you and Paris."

             Rory stiffened.

             "Why do you hate her so much? What did she do? Because if she has been unsatisfactory as a doctor, I'd be happy to file an anonymous complaint to the—"

            "I don't hate Paris," Rory said sharply. "I don't hate her at all."

            Anna took a step back, as though surprised by that vehemence.

           Frozen—that was the name of the movie.

            "I thought you—"

            "You thought wrong," Rory said darkly. "Don't talk about Doctor Young that way."

            Anna laughed, then—nervously. 

            "I just wanted to ask . . . you know, if you ever wanted to hook up, I'd be . . ."

            "After the way you just talked about my doctor? Absolutely fucking not."

            "I didn't think you'd . . . I thought you might agree . . ."

            "If there's one thing I know about Paris, it's that she would never talk about someone she called a friend behind their back. How about this? Get out of my sight."

             "Your Majesty," Anna said, turning beet-red. "I only wanted to . . ."

             "What did I just say? Get out of my sight before I report you." Rory began rolling her wheelchair towards the door, leaving Anna standing shocked behind her.

             "Princess—"

             Rory shoved the doors open, wheeling her chair through. "Don't you have better things to do, Anna? How about you go find Elsa?"

             And before she could reply to that, Rory was gone.

            What does the king want with Paris? 

            Whatever it was, it couldn't be anything good. Rory knew her father—he was probably threatening Paris right at this very moment. Was it about Tasha? Had they mentioned that Paris had taken an unauthorized patient under her wing?

            But before Rory could mysteriously, unexplainably, strangely end up right outside of Paris's office and listen in to the conversation, she heard Simon calling her name.

           "Rory," he said darkly. "There's news about Amanda."

           "What about her?"

           "I think there's been a leak—apparently she knows your location."

           "What? She's coming here?"

           "We don't know," Simon said in a low voice. "But she might."

           From behind, someone knocked into Simon.

           A man with blue eyes and strawberry-blonde hair, carrying something metal and round.

           Before Rory could even blink, Simon moved so fast he was a blur of brown skin and hard muscle, yanking the figure behind him over his shoulder and onto the ground. Incapacitating him with a strong forearm against his slender white neck.

           "Whoa!" said the man on the ground. Crystal eyes bright and amused. "Relax. If I had known you hated Christmas cookies so much, I wouldn't have walked past you."

           Was Rory hallucinating, or was that a blush turning Simon's dark skin warm?

          "I might be a little wound up," Simon admitted.

          "A little?" Rory said under her breath.

          He looked back at her—shooting her a glare.

          On the floor, the round metal tray was upended. There were white sugar cookies coated with red-and-green icing, crumbled in the chaos.

          Christmas cookies. 

          Simon had just attacked a man carrying Christmas cookies.

          Rory cut him a sideways glance, but although she wanted to laugh, she knew the reason he was being so paranoid. Amanda. 

          If Amanda was coming here, they were in trouble.

          "I'm really sorry about this," Simon said, his deep voice rumbling in his chest.

          Simon held out a hand, offering to the blue-eyed boy, and he helped him to his feet. 

          "I'm Alec. Maybe you can repay me sometime."

          Simon had absolutely no idea what to say to that. Rory had a whole host of answers waiting to respond to that, but it was clear Simon didn't have experience in the dating apartment.

         "He'd love to," Rory cut in smoothly. "How can he help?"

         "If he could help me bake enough Christmas cookies to make up for this, I think that might be enough." 

         "Perfect," Rory said. "He'd be happy to. When can he come over?"

         Alec grinned, a dimple piercing his cheek. "Tomorrow. Seven o'clock. My place."

        "He'll be there," Rory said, and she couldn't help the smile when she glanced towards Simon, who seemed too flustered to speak.

         Once Alec had sauntered off, making his way towards the janitor's office, Rory turned to Simon and rolled her eyes.

         "I changed my mind," she said. "You could never be a Victoria's Secret model. You're too shy for that."

         Simon scowled. "I'm not shy."

         "What do you call what just happened, then?"

         "I was worrying about your safety."

         "God, you're so right. If I was murdered by cute little Christmas cookies with Santa icing, it'd be really humiliating. Thank you."

         "You're welcome," Simon grumbled.

         But Rory's attention snapped away from him when she saw Paris open a door at the end of the corridor. Pale and shaking.

         An urgent call from the king. 

         What had he just said to her?

         "Doc!" Rory called out, wheeling her chair towards Paris. "Doctor Young! Paris!"

         But she was walking too fast, and if she could hear Rory, she didn't turn back. Eventually, Rory slowed until she was at the window near the end of the hall.

         Her father. What had her father said to Paris?

         A small hand tapped her shoulder.

         Purple beads. A grin ripe with mischief.

        "Dhonielle," said Rory, eyes widening. "What are you doing here?"

        "I'll tell you what I heard the king say to Paris," she said, licking her lips. "If you give me one million dollars."

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Even though I'm the one writing Dhonielle, she really kills me.

This reminds me of that song. If I had a million dollars...

But hey, I respect the kid. Snatch that bag, girl.

From the moon and back,
Sarai