Page 147 of Picture Perfect

"Neither did they." I relish the thought. "But everyone underestimates us, don't they?"

"Until it's too late." Dre's agreement is grim, a dark promise.

"Too late for them," I correct, eyes glittering with anticipation. "Just in time for us."

"Chess," Dre places a hand on my shoulder, grounding me. "You really think this'll work? Taking down the Winthrops?"

"Without a doubt." I turn to him, letting the mask of confidence slip enough to show the steel underneath. "They've been playing God for too long. It's time they learn they're just mortals."

"Then let's make sure they fall hard." Dre's grin mirrors my own, a reflection of the shared hunger for justice—or is it vengeance?

"Like Icarus." My gaze drifts back to Addy, the reason we started all this, the reason we can't stop until it's finished. "They won't know what hit them."

"Here's to watching the flames," Dre raises an imaginary glass, a toast to the chaos we're about to unleash.

"May they burn bright and relentless." I raise my own, clinking it against his.

We stand there a moment longer, caught in the eye of our brewing tempest, before turning back to the dance floor. The pieces are set, the players unwitting pawns in a game they never saw coming. And when the fire starts, I'll savor every second of the inferno.

Chapter sixty-four

Addy

The moon hangs like a silver pendant in the sky. The air is cool and crisp against my skin as we all shuffle towards the idling limo parked at the curb. My feet ache in these heels, but I can't help feeling a flutter of contentment. Tucking a loose strand of blonde hair behind my ear, I glance at Saint, Dre, and Chess, their silhouettes defined by the streetlights' glow.

"Home stretch, guys," Chess says with a grin, his dark hair and hazel eyes catching the light as he opens the limo door.

"Finally," I sigh, allowing myself to be the first to slide into the leather seats. The soft hum of the engine is comforting—a lullaby promising rest and refuge.

Saint follows, his presence filling up the space next to me. His dark curls are slightly disheveled from the evening's events, and there's a look in his eye that speaks without words. He's a fortress, tall and unyielding, yet somehow, he's become my safe place. They all have.

"You good, Snowflake?" Dre asks, his ice-blue gaze locking onto mine as he settles across from us. His voice is gentle, but I know better than to mistake it for weakness.

"More than good," I reply, smiling at him.

"Let's go home," Chess chimes in, his expression thoughtful as he closes the door behind him and the vehicle starts to move.

I nod, leaning back into the seat. It feels weird calling the Whitman house home. But then I remember it’s not the house—it’s the people. And, these people? They're starting to feel like home to me.

I meet Saint's intense stare, and something warm unfurls inside me. Despite everything, this strange configuration of misfits makes the Whitman's house feel like a home. Maybe for the first time, I have somewhere I belong—with people who understand shadows and scars because they have their own.

"Couldn't agree more," Saint says in his deep voice that reverberates through my bones. He reaches over, taking my hand in his, and I squeeze back, silently acknowledging our unspoken pact of protection and understanding.

The limo door shuts with a soft thud, and in that sealed bubble of leather and tinted windows, the night's energy pulses around us, electric and alive. Saint turns to me, his eyes dark pools of intensity in the dim light, and before I can catch my breath, his lips are on mine. Warm, insistent, they coax away the remnants of the evening’s chaos.

"Fuck, Princess," he breathes out between kisses, "you were incredible tonight." His words feather against my skin, igniting a flame deep within. I had stood up for myself, faced down demons dressed in designer suits, and he had seen it all. Saint's pride wraps around me like a protective shroud, soothing the raw edges left by the world outside.

"Saint," I whisper back, getting lost in the rhythm of our connection. His fingers thread through my hair, anchoring me to the here and now, to this moment where nothing else matters but the two of us. I can feel every line of his body as he pulls me closer, every beat of his heart syncing with mine.

His kiss deepens, and a low murmur vibrates from his chest into mine. "God, Princess, I need to get you out of that dress." The words send a shiver down my spine, laden with promise and desire. But it's Chess's groan that pulls me back to reality, reminding me that we're not alone in this cocoon of darkness.

I peel my gaze away from Saint just long enough to see Dre and Chess tangled in their own heated embrace. Chess, with that impish glint in his hazel eyes, is lost in the moment, completely absorbed by Dre's presence. And Dre—his ice-blue eyes are closed, lashes casting shadows down his cheeks, as completely given over to sensation as Chess is.

Turning back to Saint, I’m met with his smoldering gaze. My mind flickers with images of us, together, away from prying eyes, and a thrill races through me. We are a tangled mess of need and want, and right now, I wouldn't have it any other way.

Saint's hands roam over my body with a possessiveness that sends ripples of heat cascading through me. His touch is deliberate, tracing the contours of my curves until I'm writhing against him, lost in the intoxication of his presence. He pulls me onto his lap, our lips never parting as we continue to kiss with an urgency that tells tales of restrained longing.

"Can't wait to see these pretty lips of yours wrapped around my cock," he breathes against my mouth, his words laden with raw desire.

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