✫✫✫
DECLAN'S FIRST VICTIM HAD BEEN BILLIE. BILLIE LARSON.
(No, not Billie Eilish, although Rory had once fucked her in the palace throne room, while she had been wearing nothing but a crown.)
Billie Larson was the first girl to tell the world that the crown prince of Valeria had raped her—and the world had laughed in her face.
But she hadn't been the last girl.
There were seven in total, and one of them . . .
Rory should have believed Paris.
She should have believed her, and she hadn't, and she had fucked up. There was no way to make this right, but she could make it better.
Declan Preston had been Rory's idol.
He had been the one to bike with her down Devil's Road.
He had been the one to teach her to snowboard.
And he . . . he had been everything a little sister could want in a brother. He had never pushed her away.
There had always been a drink in his hand and a woman on his arm.
She had grown up to be him, in a way.
Rory knew what she was—a player, a heartbreaker. An addict.
It had taken a long time for her to admit that.
Even to herself.
But if there was a way to heal . . . if there was a way for her to put herself back together, she was going to find it.
Helping Tasha had been a start.
But there was so, so much more she could do with her life, and Rory saw that now. Thanks to Paris, she saw what she could do.
Rory had made a real impact on someone.
Someone had smiled because of her.
And that . . . that had been such a thrilling feeling.
Better than a high.
Better than a drink.
Rory knew, now, what she would spend the rest of her life doing. It might be fucking hard, it might want to make her want to give up, but with Paris . . .
She had made a promise.
She was a fighter.
And for the first time in her life, she wanted to be more than a playboy princess. She wanted to be more than a spoiled, arrogant, conceited heartbreaker.
For the first time in her life, Rory wanted to be worthy of Paris.
Rory wanted to be someone who deserved love.
✫✫✫
"WHAT ARE YOU GOING TO DO WHEN THE POWER OUTAGE IS OVER?"
Paris hesitated, her teeth catching her lower lip.
That move—that soft caress—drove Rory wild.
And judging from the way Paris was looking at her, she knew it.
"I'm going to go home for the weekend and visit my mom," Paris admitted. "Ever since my . . . now that it's just me, I think my mom is happy to have her daughter visiting her."
Rory thought of that pause. My . . .
No, Rory couldn't make what she had done right.
But this could be a start. A chance.
"Your sister," Rory said quietly. "Do you miss her?"
Paris startled, her cinnamon eyes flickering.
"My sister," she said. "I . . . yes. I do miss her."
"I know I never said I'm sorry, but . . ."
"No," Paris said abruptly. "It's fine. Really, Rory."
But Rory wasn't done—wasn't ready to let this go.
"Why do you always do that?" she said.
"Do what?"
"Close off," Rory continued. "Whenever I get too close, whenever you're hurt, you shut off. You stop talking. You cut me off."
"I don't cut you off."
"Really? Like when I missed our date, and you didn't let me tell you why? Or how about when I've tried to apologize for how things ended?"
"I don't want to hear it!" Paris snapped. "There's nothing you can do to change the past!"
"No, you know what? You're right," said Rory. "I can't change the past. But I can apologize for it. I can tell you my reasons."
"I don't want to hear excuses."
"Maybe, but they're an explanation. And don't you want to know? Don't you want to understand? You're sealed up tight, Paris. You're not letting anyone in. And I think . . . I think it's because you're afraid."
Paris set down her chart and stood up.
But Rory pushed her wheelchair closer.
"I'm not afraid," Paris said sharply.
"You're afraid," Rory continued, "that I'm going to hurt you again. You're afraid of getting your heart broken. And most of all? You're afraid of loving me again."
"And why shouldn't I be?" Paris cried out suddenly. "After what you did to me? After how things ended? I loved you, and you—"
Fiercely, Rory said, "Tell me what I did, Paris. Tell me. Put it in the open."
But Paris shook her head, and the anger drained out of her all at once. A breath exhaled. Her eyes fluttered shut, and in the shadow of the cold light, she seemed cold. Her face betrayed nothing.
Rory's fingers bit into her palms.
Not again.
How could she do this?
How could she fight for someone who didn't even want to talk to her?
If they never talked about that day, if they never talked about what had gone wrong, Rory had no chance of fixing it.
But Paris only said stiffly, "I think we should return the skates to the basement."
Was that . . . was that it, then?
Were they over?
Was that what this was?
Even as Rory burned from the inside out, she said, "Fine."
She rolled her chair towards her bed and slung the bag of shoes behind her wheelchair. Paris was already waiting for her out in the hall, and she seemed so . . . so contained. So professional.
Maybe Rory had been imagining everything between them.
Once they were on the elevator, the silence was so tight, so unbearable, that Rory's chest constricted.
The lights on the elevator flickered.
"What was that?"
"Probably just low energy from the backup generator," Paris said.
Rory ignored the growing feeling of dread in her chest.
The elevator glided down to the bottom floor.
✫✫✫
"I THINK WE FOUND THEM RIGHT HERE," PARIS SAID COLDLY.
In the dust and clutter of the storage, Rory unslung the skates from her wheelchair and tossed them onto the pile.
The low hum of the generator stuttered.
"Are you sure that's normal?"
"No," Paris snapped.
"Well, that was helpful," Rory muttered.
From the corner of her eye, she saw the faintest twitch of Paris's lips.
Then the sound of a spark jolted through the hum in the air, the sound of a crash. And—silence.
The lights were off.
All the lights were off.
Rory said, "So what exactly do you know about that backup generator?"
"It has three levels," Paris said. "One, they keep everything on, including non-essentials. Two, they leave useful things on, like dim lights to help people walk, elevators and machinery, and power sources."
"What's the third level?" Rory whispered.
"They turn off everything that's not necessary, like lights and non-essential machinery. All that's left is what keeps people alive—what the doctors need to keep working."
"And when does that happen?"
In the cold light through the small basement windows, Rory saw the pure white of snow. At least twenty feet tall.
"In extreme circumstances," Paris said softly.
Rory hesitated. "Does this count as an extreme circumstance?"
Paris didn't answer. Her eyes had flickered towards the direction they had come from—back to the shiny metal doors of the elevator.
Non-essential machinery.
It hit them at the same moment.
The realization.
The colour from Paris's warm brown skin drained. Her lips parted soundlessly, and if she was saying something, Rory couldn't hear.
There was a tidal wave in her ears.
Non-essential machinery—like the elevator.
They were trapped in the hospital basement, and there were twenty-four hours until the power came back on.
✫✫✫
Scenes like this are literally the reason I exist. I just love them so much. That's all. Bye.
Also, did you see what I did there with Billie Eilish?
I hope you're ready to buckle up for the next chapter.
From the moon and back,
Sarai