Page 62 of Picture Perfect

"Watch the door," I murmur to Saint, my breath a hot whisper against the shell of my snowflake's ear. The room feels too small, the air charged with something feral, something desperate. I lean in closer, her scent—vanilla and defiance—making my head swim.

"Draven, what are you—" she starts, but I silence her with a nip to her earlobe, feeling her body tense against mine. Behind her, Chess's hands tighten on her hips.

"Shh, just... let me." My voice is a low growl as Chess lets out a stifled sound, an acknowledgment of the tension coiling tight within him. Heat radiates from my snowflake's skin as my lips trace the elegant line of her neck, each kiss a promise and a provocation.

Saint shifts by the door, his dark eyes flickering with an emotion he's too guarded to reveal. "This isn't right, Dre," he says, though his voice lacks conviction.

"Nothing about this is right," I shoot back, not breaking contact with my snowflake's flushed skin. My fingers dance up her side, ghosting over the fabric of her shirt until I find the curve of her breast. The world narrows to her quickened pulse beneath my touch, the sharp intake of her breath a melody that drowns out Saint's protests.

"Please," she whispers, a word that could be a plea or a command—I don't care which. Her vulnerability, wrapped in steel and thorns, draws me in like gravity. She's fire and ice and everything that threatens to burn me alive.

"Snowflake..." I say her name like a prayer or a curse, tasting the power she holds over me, over all of us. My hand rests over her heart, feeling it beat wildly against my palm. It's a rhythm that matches my own—a drumbeat of longing, of danger, of things left unsaid.

The pulse in her throat hammers against my mouth, a silent scream as my lips trail fire down my neck.

"Stop," she gasps, shoving against my chest with hands that tremble from anger or fear—I can't tell anymore. But I'm relentless, my grip firm, my mouth insistent as I bite her bottom lip and kiss her hard enough to steal the breath from her lungs.

My hand slides lower, seeking, finding, and I know what's coming before it happens. I can feel the hardness of Chess's body pressed tight against my snowflake's back. I rub my fingers along his erection before turning my hand and squeezing. Chess lets out a pained groan that vibrates through the both of us.

"Dammit, Dre..." Chess's voice is a hoarse whisper against her hair, his breath hot and desperate.

She shoves harder at my chest. "Stop it," she spits, pushing back with all the force she has. I hold tight, but she doesn't stop shoving at me. "You held a knife to me as a threat to the little prick who thinks he owns me."

For a moment, my eyes flicker with something like remorse, or maybe it's just surprise. "He doesn't, though. Does he?"

"No. You do," She shoves me back and this time I go. Her eyes turn to Saint over my shoulder. "Fantastic negotiation skills. Bought me fair and square."

"That's not—"

"No? Then what is it? Because that's exactly what it feels like. A pig purchased for slaughter by a different butcher is still a pig."

"Snowflake," I wrap my hands around her waist and step back into her body.

"Kissing you is the last thing I want." Her words are barbed wire, meant to wound, to keep me at bay.

"Snowflake."

"No, you don't get to 'Snowflake' me after that." My heart thrashes against my ribs, caged and desperate for escape. "Not after everything."

But, she's wrong. She's mine. Mine. Mine. And, I'll show her.

"Easy, Snowflake," I murmur against her skin, the edge of my voice dulled into something akin to tenderness. I don't stop; my lips trail a path of feigned contrition along her jawline, brushing whispers that don't match the firm insistence of my touch.

She wants to recoil, to reclaim the space between us, but there's Chess at her back, a solid presence trapping her. "Dre, please," she gasps, her voice quivering with a cocktail of fear and an inexplicable thrill.

"Shh," I soothe, my hand traveling up to cup her face, thumb caressing her cheek as though we're merely lovers locked in a sweet exchange. My blue eyes lock onto her green, glacial and burning all at once. "You need to relax. Let us show you how good this can be."

"Chess," I says, the command low and unyielding, "kiss her."

The hesitation behind her is palpable; even Chess, with his usual easy charm, seems uncertain now. But he wants this. When his lips tentatively press against the exposed curve of her neck, it's a spark to dry tinder. She shudders, caught in the crossfire of dread and desire.

"Isn't it better when you stop fighting?" My voice is a velvet darkness, seductive and menacing.

I know she wants to push away, scream, do anything but melt between the two of us. But she stops fighting and gives herself over to us.

"Addy," Chess's breath is warm, his hesitation giving way to a more assertive exploration as if inspired by my boldness, or perhaps just lost in the moment as much as I am.

"Stop thinking," I instruct, my lips finding hers again, insistent, demanding surrender.

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