16. Rory Preston

✫✫✫

HER HAIR WAS BURNISHED GOLD, RINGLETS THAT LAY unbound atop her slender shoulders. Her eyes were framed by thick, dark lashes, deepening the colour of her cinnamon eyes. And her skin—like honey and bronze, glowing with molten sunlight. Her laughter lit up the world and her smile looked like . . .

Rory's pencil struck the paper. Her smile looked like a lopsided cucumber.

She wasn't doing the piece justice.

Earlier, when Paris had come into Rory's room, she had quickly buried her sketchbook beneath the covers.

Drawing was something Rory loved.

And it was something she had never told anyone about.

Even when Paris and Rory had been together in boarding school, she had kept her sketchbook a secret. It might have been one of the only possessions she cared about.

Inside were the faces of people she had seen.

People sitting cross-legged on the train. People at restaurants, faces bright by the light of the crystal lighting. People at the ski lodge, buckled tight into a helmet and a suit. People at the palace, with stern faces and simpering smiles.

Each face was a glimpse of someone's life.

Each face told a story.

And above all, buried between pages and tucked into the sheets and sketched in the moments when her mind wandered, Rory drew Paris most of all.

She had been drawing Paris for ten years, and it still wasn't enough.

Rory could never capture it just right.

There was something about the beauty in the angle of her jaw, the soft sprinkle of freckles on her brown skin . . . something about her.

Rory might never deserve her, but she would damn well spend the rest of her life trying.

✫✫✫

"WHAT PRANK DO YOU NEED HELP WITH TODAY?"

Trying to distract herself from what she had seen earlier—Paris answering the phone, the blood draining from her face, and disappearing in a blur—Rory leaned forward.

Dhonielle and Cat were sitting with their heads together.

"No, we don't need help today," said Cat, snickering.

"Unless you pay us three million dollars," Dhonielle said.

Rory needed something—a distraction.

A thrill. A high.

Her fingers clenched into a fist. There was no way she would be able to find liquor anywhere in the hospital—it was no use trying.

"Fine," Rory said. "But I'm sure you'll regret saying that. I happen to be a very useful person, just so you know. With a great variety of skills. And . . ."

And they weren't even listening.

Rory rolled her wheelchair away from Dhonielle's room, leaving the two girls alone to scheme. But if they were there alone, where was the third—Gloria?

Tasha's room was empty, so Rory wheeled herself towards the rec room. The sound of the piano echoed into the corridor, lovely and sweet.

Not Christmas music, not quite classical, but something in between.

In the doorway of the rec room, Rory paused.

Tasha and Gloria were sitting side by side, their hands brushing as their fingers danced across the glossy keys.

Making music—weaving a song together.

Something achingly sweet.

Something that tugged at Rory's heartstrings. Making her chest cave in. Memories of her mother flooded through.

Her seventh birthday.

I love you, Rory.

She hadn't known it would be a goodbye.

Her nineteenth birthday.

It's just another stunt—skydiving is the biggest rush.

Neither of them had known it would be a goodbye.

Rory didn't linger in the doorway—she rolled herself backwards until she was in the corridor again. There was barely a breath between Tasha and Gloria, and the air between them hummed with music and something . . . something lovely.

"Princess!" said Simon, as she pushed herself towards the front of the hospital. "Where have you been?"

"In my room," Rory scoffed. "Where else?"

"There's been a breach of security. Amanda—"

Rory froze. Bad news. Bad news.

"Amanda is reportedly on her way here," said Simon.

"But the storm . . . the storm will stop her, won't it?"

"It'll delay her. We have at most a week."

"A week?" Rory said, paling. "That's not enough to time to—"

To what?  whispered that voice. To get Paris back?

Yes, she answered. It's not enough time to prove myself.

Great—she was having a conversation with herself. It must have been the withdrawal, the shaking that was slowly rippling along her arms.

She needed to stay still. Stay calm.

"We'll call backup," Simon said. "For now, I'll be able to defend you. But . . ."

"But?"

"But be ready to leave at the first sign of danger."

✫✫✫

"IF I MEET YOU AT MIDNIGHT THIS TIME, you're not going to stand me up, are you?"

Rory laughed. "I promise. Even if the pope himself is dying, I won't leave you waiting."

Paris raised an eyebrow. "I feel like that's slightly morally unethical."

"When it comes to you, I'm willing to do a lot more than slightly."

"Rory!"

"I love it when you say my name like that. Have I mentioned it's insanely hot?"

"You might have mentioned it once or twice, and I still think you're insufferable."

"You're so fucking sexy when you use words like that."

"Then let me introduce you to the Encyclopedia."

Wickedly, Rory said, "If you're the one reading it, I'd love to get down on my knees."

"I never knew you were religious, Rory."

"When it comes to you, I'll be worshipping with my tongue."

"You know what? I'm pretty sure we've had this conversation before," Paris said, narrowing her eyes.

In that moment, she looked so kissable—so fucking gorgeous—that Rory wished she could ruin the surprise and get up right then.

But then Paris moved forward suddenly, bending down to press a soft, featherlight kiss against the corner of Rory's mouth.

"A thank you," she said, and the blush that warmed her skin was pure blasphemy. "For giving Tasha a reason to smile. That's all."

"You already thanked me."

"Are you going to complain?"

Rory shut her mouth.

The waiting until tonight would be torturous, knowing that Paris's mouth looked like that. Knowing that her lips still tasted like cinnamon and sugar and sin.

But Rory was nothing if not patient.

And by the end of tonight, she was ready to have eaten her fill.

✫✫✫

This one is for my lover, cottageles.

Please tell me I'm not the only sucker for bickering. I literally love when characters go back and forth arguing. Something about that just screams sexual tension.

From the moon and back,

Sarai