a/n: 

(1) dedicated to samiksha for the beautiful banners she made! 

(2) to all my wonderful rereaders: please, in the very rare case that someone here is actually a brand new reader -- please leave spoilers out of the comments. i will have to delete any comments that are major plot or character spoilers this round. thank you!

* * *

* * *

"Hey," I called out, "we're matching!"

Twenty minutes ago, Logan and I had been separated and placed into separate ambulances to be treated for our wounds. Now I emerged sporting quite the car-crash-chic look, with white gauze strips wrapped around my forehead, arms, shoulders, and legs. The paramedics had to cut off my black long-sleeve, so peeking out from under my blood-stained sweater was -- you guessed it -- more white gauze!

Logan rolled his eyes as he came to a stop at the corner of the open ambulance doors. The suit jacket was gone. His white dress shirt was completely unbuttoned to reveal thick layers of white cloth encasing his broad chest. His dark hair fluffed out from the white bandages on his head, the edges of the material coated with blood. 

"How is she?" Logan asked Lisa, my leading paramedic. Lisa and I went way back -- at this point, there was a designated "Park Sparrow Emergency Response Team" at the Riverport Hospital, and she was the head of it. 

"She's fine," Lisa answered, rolling up what was left of the gauze roll and packing it into her black duffle bag. "She does seem to have a mild concussion. I'm sure the royal physician will have a better diagnosis, but as of now, she has no severe injuries nor internal bleeding. She will experience soreness over the next week or two, so I highly recommend bed rest for the first few nights."

Who knew getting into a car crash could rough you up like that?

I must've made a face at the words "bed rest" because Lisa gave me a wry smile before gently patting my cheek "You should count your blessings. This is one of the more moderate assassination attempts the princess has been in -- most likely thanks to this gentleman by your side. Be glad it's just sleep and not a coma."

"Well, aren't you the optimist?" I said. 

"Wait." Logan held out a hand as Lisa started to leave. "Could you leave that?" He pointed at her emergency aid bag. Lisa slipped off the strap and passed it to Logan. 

Once she was out of sight, Logan assumed her position in front of me. From the bag, he pulled out a white tube of antibiotic gel. He then gently took my chin in between his fingers while he smoothed thin layers of the formula over the cuts on my face. His fingers traced my upper cheeks, my ears, and even my lips. There was a slight burn every time he applied the gel, followed by a comforting cooling sensation. 

Today's outcome was quite lucky. Our attackers had left civilians alone and gone after only us. The two of us survived with no major injuries. Nothing had been set on fire. 

I looked at Logan while he applied the gel over my knuckles. It's thanks to him. Logan was the reason we survived. All I did was drive the car. Had it not been for his reflexes, I wouldn't be sitting here. 

"How are you feeling?" Logan asked, capping the tube. When he looked at me, his hand came up to tuck a strand of my hair behind my ear. 

"Peachy keen," I said, wondering why his fingertips felt so hot. At the sound of my voice, his arm jolted back and he quickly averted his eyes. 

I cleared my throat and smiled. "Nothing like a high-speed chase and crash to get my morning started."

"A serious answer, please."

"That is her serious answer," a voice nearby snorted. 

I whipped my head towards the boy who approached us, and my lips broke apart into an uncontainable smile. I shot off the edge of the ambulance to stumble forward and pull my cousin into my arms. 

"P-Park!" Jasper choked. "I c-can't breathe!"

"I don't care!" 

My grip grew even tighter. Despite his complaints, Jasper's arms were just as unrelenting as mine around my back. 

When I finally stepped back, I cupped his face between my palms, taking in every angle that he grew into. Tortoise-shell frames sat on the bridge of his nose, unable to contain the thick lens threatening to pop out. Long, unkept strands of hair fell into his dark blue eyes, though the signature Bishop black locks were now noticeably closer to brown. The runt-sized twelve-year-old from three years ago had hit a growth spurt; now he stood a little taller than me, eye-level with my forehead than my collar bone. 

Still, I couldn't resist reaching up to pinch whatever baby fat remained in his cheeks. Jasper's hand shot up to bat my hand away. "Hey," he scowled, "I'm not a little kid anymore, you can't squeeze my cheeks like that."

"Sure thing, Jazz. As soon as you stop asking me to FaceTime you when you sneak out of the room at night for water because 'the hallways are too dark'!"

Jasper gave me a light shove. It felt like a gentle breeze. Laughing, I managed to wrap my arm around his neck and pulled him down closer to my level before turning to Logan to say, "This is Jasper Bishop, my cousin. He's Elijah's little brother. Jasper, this is Logan Cross, my bodyguard."

Logan clasped his fist over his heart and bowed. But as Jasper's eyes widened with recognition, his face turned beet-red and he looked at me, completely mortified. Stumbling backwards, he yanked on my arm, pulling me with him. 

"I can't believe you just told Logan Cross that I don't like the dark!" he half-whispered, half-shrieked. 

"Don't tell me you're embarrassed."

Jasper had a habit of puffing up his face when he was angry. "That you made me look like a loser in front of Cimeria's national hero? Yeah, it's embarrassing!"

"Oh, God, please don't tell me you call him that too." 

"Have you not heard of what he's done as an agent of CSD? You're honestly so lucky he decided to be your bodyguard, it's sooo beneath his pay grade."

Beneath???

"There was that fire in the Ashborough District where he saved the Court of Justice members. And then when he was in Switzerland, he single-handedly stopped a bank robbery despite being up against seven men!"

I crossed my arms, giving Jasper a pointed look. "What are you, a groupie?"

You know, I did remember reading some gushing blog posts about Logan after I first found out he was my bodyguard. I never finished a paragraph due to how inaccurate the descriptions were ("a modern knight of the kingdom," my ass). And Jasper did have a political blog he posted on from time to time, though he refused to ever share the link with me. 

Coincidence? Perhaps. 

Jasper refocused on Logan, beaming like a kid who met his favorite comic-book artist. But when Logan glanced our way, my cousin hurriedly ducked his head down 

"Do you think . . . he'll let me shake his hand?"

"Oh, yeah, Cross loves doing meet-and-greets with his stans."

Not even registering my teasing, Jasper rushed back over to where Logan stood and eagerly held out his palm. I had to give it to Logan -- he returned the handshake with complete respect, unlike all the other nobles who encountered Jasper with sneers. I searched Logan's face for any sign of condescension or ire, but his smile was only kind. 

"Thank you for protecting her," said Jasper. "I might've lost my cousin today if you hadn't been there to save her."

Gag. That was enough for me. Rolling my eyes, I turned and walked off, unable to handle the insufferably smug grin Logan tossed my way. 

Though I didn't get farther than a few steps beyond the ambulance. It was hard not to stop and stare at the tall and thin woman clad in a stunningly white dress as she stood out so starkly against the sea of black and navy uniforms. With a pair of her favorite Louboutins strapped to her feet, Giselle Sparrow towered over the agent in front of her. 

My mother's composure was nothing but collected, as always. Yet as I inched closer, I could hear the irritation through the weight of her words and see the fury brewing in her bottle-blue eyes. 

"I don't care," my mother stated. "I want a full escort back to the palace, regardless of how much work is left here. Do you understand, Robert? Or are you telling me you're willing to jeopardize the royal bloodline for less paperwork?"

"My apologies, Your Highness!" Robert squeaked, throwing himself into a 90-degree bow. "I will prepare the cars right away!" 

Giselle Sparrow rewarded his compliance with a slow nod and a placated smile, the anger fading from her eyes. With a bead of sweat on his head, Robert backed off, already barking instructions into his headset. She then tucked a loose strand of black hair behind her ears and turned on her heels in an effortless manner. But she stopped in her tracks, her handbag falling from her grasp. 

"Park!" my mother gasped. In seconds, all her poise vanished as she rushed forward to pull me into her arms. Despite her runway model proportions, my mother possessed a frightening degree of strength in her arms, and with them, she suffocated me against her chest. But, like Jasper, I held her just as tightly, remembering how it'd been three years since I'd seen my own mother. 

After she pulled back, the front of her dress was now stained with dirt and blood from my clothes, but she paid no thought to it. Her eyes were only focused on me.

"You're alright, yes? Do you need to go to the hospital?" She ran a manicured hand through my hair, grimacing when little bits of glass fell onto the ground. "What happened? Where's--"

As though summoned by the mere thought of his name, Logan reappeared by my side and gave my mother a deep bow with his hand clasped over his heart. Lingering near his elbow was Jasper, whom my mother reached out for to draw closer to her side. 

Still so protective even when he's fifteen.

"Your Highness." Gone was the self-satisfied smirk. Logan was all business now, with sharp eyes, hands behind his back, shirt properly buttoned, and a posture so straight it would put the queen to shame. I called this his "exam day" look.  

"Oh, thank the stars you were there to protect her!" my mother exclaimed. Was she straightening her back even more? That shouldn't even be possible. "Can you tell me what happened?"

"Unfortunately, I don't know much either," answered Logan. "Based on my observations, it appears that at least four of the assigned vehicles had been hijacked some time during the drive to the airport. According to the agents I've spoken to, the individuals recovered from the other SUVs don't match anyone in the CSD's employee database, except for Agent Koski."

Alarm flashed beneath my mother's dark lashes. I understood that look -- double-agents were a rare occurrence for the CSD. If there was one now, it could only spell trouble on the horizon. 

It was only when Jasper casually scratched at his head did my mother pull herself out of her thoughts. She shook her head and held out her hand to Logan. "I'm so glad you were there, Agent Cross. It relieves me to know that Park's life is in such integrable and capable hands."

I scoffed. "Give me some credit."

"For what?" My mother arched a brow. "Crashing the car?"

"I did it for survival purposes!"

"I thought it was because you don't know how to drive," snorted Jasper. 

"Hey, just because the government refuses to give me a driver's license does not mean I don't know how to drive."

I ignored the noise Logan made under his breath. 

 "Well," my mother sighed, glancing between our nearby surroundings and me, "at least you didn't set the forest on fire this time."

I held a hand to my chest. "How could you have such little faith in me, Mother?"

 Giselle Sparrow didn't like to roll her eyes. It went against the core of her finishing school teachings, and she always spoke about how there were more eloquent ways to express one's emotions. But she couldn't help it here. 

"Port fire," was all she said before turning on her heels and walking off. 

"Oh, don't forget the Dublin cruise ship!" 

The comment came from Jasper, who ducked out from under my reach to chase after the security of being around his aunt. 

"You hear that?" Logan asked as we followed them. "Integrable and capable."

"She's said that to every bodyguard I've had."

"Oh."

There were two black town cars parked in the distance, close to the yellow CAUTION tapes closing off the entrance to the bridge. Several officers were still fending off the persistent reporters. At the sight of my mother, the yelling swelled in volume as journalists thrust their microphones over the arms of the agents holding them back, begging my mother for a word. 

Luckily for me, the second car was angled in a way that allowed me to duck into the interior without being spotted by anyone. We waited a decent amount of time behind the safety of the heavily tinted windows. Are there too many reporters blocking the way? I thought, glancing outside. What was taking so long? 

My answer came in the form of the door jerking open and Jasper crawling in, sporting an expression of irritation I knew all too well. 

"Park, you have to talk to Aunt Giselle for me." He irritably yanked his seatbelt over his chest. "She's acting like I'll die if I ride in the car with you or something."

"I mean, I did just go through a kidnapping about an hour ago."

"Yeah, like that's going to happen twice." 

'Knock on wood' was the expression I aimed to say, but Jasper pulled out his phone, encased in pine wood with a sticker from his favorite anime slapped on the back, and he knocked it twice. 

I locked eyes with him before the two of us burst out into laughter, right as the cars started moving. 

It didn't take much longer after the cars exited the bridge for us to reach the outermost edges of the palace grounds. Down a flattened road path off the highway, rows of apple orchards aligned the sides, their blooming green branches tipping downwards in a polite greeting while the morning sunlight pierced through the foliage to grace the pathway with gold. 

At long last, the cars halted outside a seemingly never-ending iron gate. Royal guards were positioned at every fifty feet along the perimeter, with a row of security both in front and behind the gates. 

Clang! The gate unlocked and swung backwards, allowing the cars to move forward down a cobblestone road. I rolled down the window, allowing the intoxicating scent of the rose hedges in full bloom to drift into the car. Up ahead, centered in the middle of the circular driveway before the steps to the palace was a vast white marble fountain, its spouts gushing thin streams of crystalline water into its lily pad-filled basin. My mother almost had gates installed around the fountain because of how often we would push our father into the waters, but he convinced her not to. 

And just up ahead, situated at the top of an intimidating hill of gray stairway steps was the royal palace. It had been built three-hundred years in the past by one of my namesake ancestors, Alexandria Sparrow, right after she'd retaken the throne. The palace had been carefully designed to incorporate both Cimerian and French architectural styles, an homage to the French for their assistance in her rebellion. The walls were painted a creamy ivory white, allowing it to stand out from a birds-eye view like a precious pearl in a sea of emerald. Even from here, I could see how the arched windows reflected the brilliance of the sun on their spotless glass panes, almost illuminating the structure with a touch of the heavens. 

"Jasper!" my mother called out as he bounded up the steps at a speed comparable to Sonic the Hedgehog. "You cannot run up the steps, Jasper--"

Too late. He was already three-quarters up the steps with no indication of stopping. 

"Mother, it's just stairs. He's run up them countless of times," I said.

"Still--" 

Completely disregarding me, she marched on, moving up the stairs at a speed that should be impossible in those heels. 

He fell once, and it was on the last step (and Archer even caught him!), but to this day, it was like her heart seized up any time he went a speed faster than your average grandmother's. While Giselle was protective of her actual children too, her worrisome nature exploded tenfold when it came to her nephew. 

I called it "Special Treatment: Orphan Edition."

On the very top step, the palace courtyard loomed before us, the stone beneath our feet giving way to lusciously green grass. Through the open archways, the palace staff stood in the shadows, their heads bowed in respect as we passed them by. Right above the main entrance, the twelve flags of the noble clans were hung from the second-floor balconies, their colored fabric rustling in the faint breeze. Archer used to place bets with me, saying I was too small to touch the corners of the flags, only to lose his allowance as my father swooped me onto his shoulders and jumped as high as he could so my tiny fingers could squeeze the edges. 

Inside, the palace foyer smelled exactly like the front garden, due to the glass vases holding bouquets upon bouquets of my mother's favorite roses inside them. 

Jasper threw his arm around my shoulders, an uncontainable energy bouncing in his heels as he beamed at me. "I asked the chef to make your favorite for lunch today: cucumber sandwiches."

Oh. How disgusting. 

My mother held out an arm in front of us. "Actually, Park and Logan will not be joining us for lunch."    

"What?" Jasper's arm dropped. "I was only joking. I did ask him to make her actual favorite meal too, not just the sandwiches."

"Why . . . on God's green earth would you still request the sandwiches?" I hissed. 

"Jasper." My mother softened her tone. "Your cousin was just in a car crash. She needs her rest."

"It's not like it's her first car crash."

"Even so," she continued, "it's important she makes a solid recovery and for that to happen, she needs to sleep. She and Logan can join us for dinner when William comes home. The two of us can eat first!"

Jasper plastered on a wide smile, a gesture that satisfied my mother enough. Turning to me, she said, "I trust you know how to get to your room." 

"Not at all. It's not like I grew up here or something." I paused. "What about Logan's room?" 

It was my mother's turn to look like I had asked her the dumb question. "It's the guest room across from yours, obviously. Can't risk having you run off in the middle of the night without anybody knowing." 

She started down the hallway towards the dining hall, pausing only to beckon Jasper along, and then her thin figure quickly vanished from our sight once she turned a corner. 

"Alright," sighed Jasper, shoving his hands into his pockets, "Guess we won't be eating together right away."

"Hey," I said, trying to elbow him. "Just pick a restaurant and we'll go for brunch the moment I'm cleared to leave the palace. No Giselle."

"Whatever," he scoffed, avoiding my arm. He couldn't hide the gleam sparking in his eyes. "You look like you need your beauty sleep anyway."

Once again, he narrowly avoided my punch, then sprinted towards the dining hall before carefully braking his speed to avoid catching up to my mother. 

I reached to pick up my bag, but Logan beat me to it. With the duffel handles in either hand, Logan motioned towards the stairs with a tip of his head. "After you, princess."

Oh, boy, I thought, starting up the five flights up stairs it would take. How I missed the small three-floor walk-up complex back in Paradise. My calves were already burning. 

When we hit the third floor, I tensed up, feeling a childish temptation to wander down the hall. But Logan's presence quelled that urge (partly because I didn't want him to follow me there, but mostly because I got distracted realizing that he had barely said a word since we left the bridge). 

I tugged on the sleeve of his dress shirt. "You've been awfully quiet."

"What, you miss my voice or something?" he replied with a small grin. 

As if. "I'm worried you might have a concussion too. It's not like you to pass up a Park Sparrow roasting session."

Logan shook his head. "I'm a professional, Sparrow. I won't risk my reputation just to point out, in front of the royal family, that you did just crash the car and that I probably do have a concussion because of it."

"What, like you've never had an accident while on a chase?"

Logan smiled again. "You've read my file -- you tell me."

Lord, give me the confidence of Logan Cross at any given point during the day.

"Besides," he continued, nudging me with his arm, "I didn't want to intrude on the family reunion." 

"Please," I said, waving my hand dismissively. "I think Jasper would die of happiness if you talked to him about the weather."

At this point, we were making our way down the corridor to my room. Small pots of overflowing flowers were hung from the ceiling; some of the stems were long enough that the petals kissed my cheeks as we passed under them. On the walls were portraits of prior princesses, with one empty spot by my room reserved for my own portrait once I turned eighteen. 

Logan set our luggage down and there we stood, facing one another in front of our respective doors. 

"If you want," Logan offered, looking back down at my bag, "I can bring it into your room. I just . . . I didn't know if you'd be comfortable--"

"I can handle a bag, Cross," I grinned. Maybe, I thought on secondhand, feeling a soreness growing in my arms. 

He held his palms out in surrender before one of his hands folded its digits so that he could five me a lazy two-finger salute. 

"Rest well, princess," he said before stepping into his room and closing the door behind him. 

Stepping into my own room was like taking a step into a time machine. Everything was as I remembered. The white and powder blue sheets on my bed remained cleaned and folded, with one corner left flipped out the way I left it three years ago. Not one piece of furniture had been moved. Even the lilies adorning the white vases atop the fireplace were fresh, as though I hadn't left them to wither away. 

It was small differences here and there that showed a passage of time, lack the succinct lack of dust. The maids must've taken the liberty to open up all the doors to my balcony, so that the sheer white curtains could flutter as the breeze passed through them, carrying in the scent of flowers and freshly cut grass from the garden. The YA novels I used to read were swapped out for internationally renowned fashion magazines, no doubt a courtesy of my mother. And there was one pillow missing. Jasper probably took it. 

I collapsed into one of the cream armchairs by the fireplace and let my head lean back, my eyes drinking in the elaborate details carved into the molding of the ceiling. I searched long and hard until I found it -- two vines intertwined to form a sun in their center. 

And just like that, I felt it: that sensation of safety and comfort that came with being in a place you called home. 

It's good to be back, I thought before drifting off to sleep. 

* * *

Why? 

Why did I fall asleep in a chair of all places? 

There was a perfectly good queen bed just a few feet away and I chose the chair. 

Now I was suffering the consequences on my bathroom floor. 

My legs were sprawled out atop the white tile, my knees having buckled just a few seconds ago. I'd succeeded in pulling on a pair of black sweats and a tank top, but that had drained every bit of energy from my body. So, here I sat, my back against the tub, soreness oozing through every muscle in my body. 

Who knew getting into a car crash sucked this much? 

(I should. I've been in four.) 

It was now almost three in the morning. I guess I slept through dinner. No one had come to wake me, but I doubt my mother or the head butler Alfred let a single footstep be heard down this hallway.

At one point, my stomach gave another vicious grumble and I could no longer ignore the hunger pangs in my body. Mustering enough strength to get back on my feet, I stood up, stumbling over to the counter to steady myself. I spent a few minutes bracing my body, knowing I had a very short window of opportunity. 

If I got caught by Alfred, he would wake the chef and summon him to the palace to cook dinner for me. If I got caught by Giselle Sparrow, a woman who didn't believe in loungewear, and she saw me in this ensemble, I would never know comfort for the rest of the summer. 

Once I dragged myself to my door, I took a deep breath and tensed up my legs. Oh, ow, ow, let's not do that. 

Okay, Park. On the count of three . . . two . . . one -- run!

I didn't actually run. Hah, not on these legs. I more or so power-walked through the halls, down five flights of stairs, then another another array of corridors until I reached the kitchen quarters. By the last hundred feet or so, I was just limping. 

When I was five, the kitchen was kept under a traditional lock and key. It was a cool key, the kind you'd see pirates wear in movies, making it an obvious magnet for children. When I was eight, the palace upgraded to an electronic system that required a four-digit security code that was changed every two weeks. 

My jaw dropped just a bit when I saw the new biometric security measure in place that required a fingerprint scan. Jasper, what did you do?

But then I noticed that the door hadn't been fully locked into place. Someone had left the door ajar a few millimeters, preventing the lock from activating.

Was this a benevolent act from someone in the palace? Or had a serial killer broken in to the kitchen? 

Too hungry to consider there might actually be a security concern, I pushed the door open and meandered inside, slipping straight towards the fridge. 

Sitting on the third shelf, hastily tucked behind a jar of olives, was a little wooden bento box. A blue sticky-note taped to its side caught my eye, so I pulled it out. Scribbled on the slip of paper were the words: For Park -- J. 

Smiling, I held the box close to my chest then headed out of the kitchen. Everything was going smoothly. A mouthwatering aroma emitted from the box, and my senses were too depraved to pick out what it was. 

But then my feet touched the top of the step to the third floor and my entire body froze. Three years later and I still can't help myself, huh? 

With no Logan to distract me this time, I turned to face the long dark hallway to my left. Unlike the rest of the corridors in the palace, all of which were illuminated by dimmed candles after midnight, the third-floor hallways were kept black. 

Unable to stop myself, I started down the passage, my eyes fixated on the looming brown arched doorway ahead of me, wondering if it was finally locked. I stopped a few inches from the wood, my fingers outstretched and floating above the knob. 

It was unlocked. 

The door swung open to reveal Archer's room, a place stifled by old air and dust. If I didn't spot my mother's favorite tea set on his bedside table, I would've thought no one but me ever entered this space. 

Like my room, nothing had changed. The dark blue accents of his furniture and bedding remained the same as he had left it some seven years ago. Flanking his balcony door were window seats nestled between levels and levels of leather-covered books, organized meticulously by word count.

Yes, Archer was a bit of a psycho. 

I took a seat by the balcony doors, soaking myself in the pale patch of moonlight as I unpacked the bento box and helped myself to the top layer of appetizers. 

"You gonna share?" a voice asked. I squeaked, my fork nearly falling onto my shirt. 

"Can you turn off the whole 'super spy' shtick for two minutes and make noise when you walk or something?" I said as Logan walked around the corners of the bed.

"Maybe if you didn't listen to your music at 90% volume, you could hear me for once." He sat down, facing me while his back pressed against the wooden frame of the bed.

I asked, "Why are you awake anyway?"

"I heard you stomping around. I'm surprised the whole castle isn't awake by now with the amount of noise you made just leaving your room."

"Oh, sorry. I haven't quite mastered walking like a ballerina after nearly shattering my body. I'll work on that," I snorted, stabbing my fork into the caprese salad.

When the scent of tomato juice mixed with balsamic glaze filled the space between us, Logan inhaled involuntarily, sharply turning his gaze elsewhere. He must've slept through dinner too.

Inching closer, I held the fork out to him, careful to angle it so that the dressing didn't drip onto the floor. Logan's eyes flickered down to the food, hesitating for a second before he took the utensil from my fingers.  

As he chewed, his gaze swept the room, drinking in the shadow-covered details with a pensive glint. There was nothing here that could be tied to Archer: no photos, no portraits, no figurines, or posters. Not a single personal touch. There'd been one photo framed by his bed, the only picture he ever displayed. I searched everywhere for it once he left, but that bastard must've thrown it away on his way out. 

I braced myself for Logan's eventual question on whose room this was, or why I was even in here at three in the morning. Instead, Logan swallowed, then only said, "Put some pillows under your legs when you sleep. It'll help with any swelling that might occur."

Logan stretched his fingers out to gently squeeze my bandaged arms and I couldn't help but wince. 

"I'll ask the royal physician if he can leave extra pain relief gel for you tomorrow." 

"Thanks," I said. "And . . . thank you for saving my life today."

"It's my job, Sparrow. No need to thank me." 

"Even so, it would be rude not to considering it's our literal lives you saved." I pulled my knees up to my chest. "Besides, it feels like because you were there that we made it out in one piece. I don't think things would've ended well had it been another bodyguard with me."  

Thanks to the moonlight, I could see a hint of pink stain his cheeks. Logan instantly cleared his throat and focused his stare straight ahead. "Don't make me out to be some elite agent," he said, his voice still somewhat gargled. "I just know how to do my job well. The chamber does its best to train their agents, and I'm only one among a dozen of --"

"Just take the compliment, Logan." 

His cheeks flared once more. "Thanks," Logan eventually mumbled. For a moment, he ducked his head behind his arms. When he finally rested them back down on his knees, he'd gotten the color on his cheeks under control. Then, he leaned back, his hazel eyes shining a little brighter than usual as they settled on me. "You're pretty good too, you know."

"Good at crashing cars, you mean?"

"That," he chuckled, "as well as your survival instinct." 

I guess the blank stare I gave him prompted him to explain. 

"During orientation, one of the most crucial characteristics a trainee must display is a strong survival instinct. It's all well and good if you know how to throw a punch and hold a gun, but it means nothing if you can't move your body in a dangerous situation. I've had to let go of trainees who could perform technical moves down to a 'T,' but could never think on their feet."

His eyes turned curious, and he sat back up, hunching over his knees. "You've never had any training?" 

A derisive snort fell from my mouth before I could help it. Logan's look was invasively discerning. I quickly said, "No, no training at all. There was just no time for it in the etiquette lessons."

Somehow (gee, I wonder why), Logan could tell I was keeping something to myself. There was an odd tension between us, gathering in the air as his steady gaze remained locked with mine. That's alright -- I was pretty good at staring contests. I was told I inherited my mother's ability to hide my emotions pretty well, but a voice in my brain told me that Logan would see right through me. 

Finally, Logan gave up on silently pressuring me into talking. He relaxed against the bed again, a familiar smirk on his lips. 

"I guess I should count my blessings," Logan said. "I can't imagine the nightmare you'd be if you actually knew how to fight." 

I frowned. "Be honest: wouldn't I be more helpful if I did?"

"The way you handle things now is good enough." His tone was firm, resolutely cutting down any notion that I should try and do more in the future. "Clients like you who at least know how to keep their heads on their shoulders are a lot easier to protect than the ones who charge headfirst into situations -- even if they're good with their fists."

"But if I knew how to fight, I could've helped you today." I slumped over my legs. "It would've been two against four. you wouldn't have had to try and buy me time." 

"Park, your job isn't to keep me safe. As long as you're keeping yourself alive, that's all that matters--"

Logan launched into a spiel, doing his best to convince me that it wasn't my job to help him, but I wasn't really listening to a word he said.

Because I didn't just care about protecting myself. I wanted to hold my ground. I was tired of being told to run, of being dragged to safe rooms while I listened as people put their lives on the line for me. I wanted to be someone that could protect others too. 

If only Archer hadn't gone and disappeared into the night, I might've been more capable now. Who knows -- even if he hadn't left, the queen could've still implemented that stupid rule anyway. 

But my brother wouldn't have cared. Royal decree or not, if I asked him to train me, he would've gotten up in a heartbeat. Now, I had no one. Trainers at CSD weren't even allowed to look me in the eye, and my name was blacklisted from every martial artist in the country. 

Yes, I've checked. 

So, that left a sum total of zero persons willing to stand up to the queen for me--

"What?" Logan's eyes narrowed. "Why are you looking at me like that?"

I mean, he was supposedly the best CSD had to offer -- he had to be, in order for his file to have been up for royal consideration. I saw him in action. And what was that lame thing people called him? National hero or something?

Plus, if I recalled correctly, Logan Cross did swear loyalty to me at the beginning of our contract,

"Seriously, Park, what?"

I sat up straighter and scooted over to close the distance between us. Maybe he was too curious to move, but he stayed still as I leaned forward, our arms brushing.

"Teach me how to fight, Cross."