Page 109 of Picture Perfect

"More like negative one," Dre mutters, his fingers tapping an impatient rhythm on the desk. "I miss my snowflake, man. This silence..." He trails off, shaking his head, the lines of his face tight with frustration.

"Then we break it," I declare, my resolve hardening. "We've got to do something. We can't just sit here and watch her disappear into herself."

"Chess is right," Saint agrees, standing up. "We find a crack in that ice wall of hers and we chip away until it shatters. We've come too far with her to let her retreat now."

"Agreed," Dre says, but there's a haunted look in his eyes that tells me he fears the silence might already have done irreparable damage.

Chapter forty-nine

Dre

There must be something fucking wrong with me. I'm perched outside the Winthrop’s overbloated excuse for a house like some twisted gargoyle. My eyes are locked onto the second-floor window where Snowflake's supposed to be sleeping.

Is she? Or is sleep as much a stranger to her as it has been to me lately?

"Come on, Snowflake," I mutter under my breath, willing her shadow to dance across the curtains. It's been days—too many damn days—since I heard her voice. It was like a melody over a discordant track, and now there's just silence, heavy and suffocating.

I ache for the sound of her laughter, the soft lilt of her voice, those pretty green eyes on mine. What kind of lovesick pussy has this girl turned me into? I want to hate it, hate her. But I’m a slave to her. The absence of her gaze is a void, a starless night sky that mirrors the darkness gnawing at the edges of my own sanity.

I run a hand through my shoulder-length hair, the strands catching on the rough calluses of my fingers.

"Shit," I hiss, leaning forward to rest my forehead against the cool handlebars of my bike. The image of Snowflake's face haunts me—the way her green eyes cut through the bullshit, seeing me for who I am. Or maybe who I could be. It's unnerving and addictive, and I'm jonesing for another hit.

She's so close, just beyond that pane of glass, yet she's a fucking world away from me. Her resilience is what got me hooked; it's like looking in a mirror and seeing not what I am, but what I wish I could be. Smart, strong, unbreakable. But even steel can bend under enough pressure.

Has she broken? Did something happen that she’s hiding from us? I’d drag her through the shadows to the darkness I live in if I thought it would help. But, I don’t think it will.

She likes her autonomy. And, I know she doesn’t get enough of that here. So, she’ll fucking get it with me. But, this is fucking torture.

A sudden ache grips my chest, sharp and demanding attention. It's more than just missing her. It's a gnawing, desperate hunger to be near her again, to know she's okay. I've never been the type to yearn, to need, but Snowflake... she's rewritten the script without even trying.

"Dammit," I say, pushing off the handlebars and standing up straight. I shake my head, trying to dislodge the restless thoughts that are spiraling out of control. I need to see her, to assure myself she's still fighting, still defying the hand she's been dealt.

Whatever it takes, I'll tear down the walls around her, brick by brick. Because when you've lived in darkness as long as I have, you recognize the light when you see it. And Snowflake... she's blinding.

I'm across the lawn before I've even realized I've moved. Slinking through the yard, following the same path as last time.

The window yields to my touch, familiar in its silence as I push it open and slip inside. My boots are silent on the plush carpet as I move closer to where she lies motionless, a ghostly figure enveloped in moonlight.

"Snowflake," I breathe her name like a prayer, but she doesn't stir.

The room is cold, the kind of cold that seeps into your bones, and I know no amount of warmth will chase it away. It's not the chill in the air that's freezing her; it's something much deeper. Snowflake lies there, a fragile statue carved from ice and sorrow, and I'm powerless to melt it away with words.

Her breathing is even, the rise and fall of her chest the only indication she's not a porcelain doll broken by careless hands. I know she's awake. But it's too quiet, the kind of hush that screams wrongness into my veins. I scan the room, every nerve ending on alert. The air feels thick with something unsaid, an undercurrent of dread that makes my skin crawl.

"Snowflake," I try again, louder this time, hoping to wake her from whatever nightmare holds her captive. But she remains still, lost in a place I can't reach.

I crouch beside her bed, taking in the fragile slope of her cheek, the way her eyelashes cast long shadows against her skin. She's here, but she's gone, tucked away behind walls thicker than stone. It's those two—her so-called parents—that have locked her away in this tower of pain, thinking they can keep her subdued, manageable.

I've always been rough around the edges, a creature of anger and impulse, but something about her silence slices through my armor. I slide into the bed behind her, cautious as if she's made of glass, one wrong touch away from shattering. My arms encircle her, tentative at first, until I pull her tight against my chest. She trembles, a leaf in a storm, and I tighten my hold. Her pain laces through me, a mirror of my own twisted insides.

"Shh, I've got you," I murmur against her hair, tasting the salty dampness of her tears. I don't have soothing words or gentle promises, just this raw need to shield her from the monsters that haunt her.

Her body shakes with silent sobs, and I feel every jolt as if they're my own. The sounds of her grief are a language I understand too well. We're both shards of broken things, trying to find a way to fit together without cutting ourselves open further.

"Who did this to you?" I ask the empty room, voice barely above a whisper.

There's no reply, but I don't need one. I can feel the truth wrapped around us, a serpent coiled in the dark, ready to strike. They've tried to erase her spirit, to mold her into their perfect little puppet. But they don't know Snowflake like I do. They don't see the fire that burns beneath her skin, a flame they'll never snuff out.

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