Page 32 of Picture Perfect

With that, the little slug slithers away, shooting us dirty looks over his shoulder as he goes. Good riddance.

My snowflake is officially ours.

Chapter fourteen

Addy

The fluorescent lights of the study hall cast a sterile glow over the desks, and I hunch over my textbook in an attempt to become invisible. It's a useless effort. I'm a Winthrop whether I want to be or not.

My emotionless facade keeps me protected. But it also makes them hate me. The girl who came from nothing and was handed everything. Their assumptions are so far from the truth it's almost painful.

It's safer to keep them at a distance, though. So I never make any effort to correct those assumptions. Letting people in was dangerous. It gave them a chance to figure out the truth. It also gave the Winthrops something to hold over me and threaten me with. No, being alone is safer for everyone.

The air shifts, charged with an energy that pulls my attention away from the worn pages I'm meant to be studying. Dre is coming toward me—his ice-blue eyes fixed, his stride predatory beneath the weight of whatever darkness has settled into his soul.

I feel the prickle of unease, the familiar urge to bolt. Almost as strong as the urge to run straight into his arms. I don't want this—not today, not any day. With a quick glance at the oblivious teacher, I slip out of my chair, ready to blend into the silence of the hallway. Just as I think I've made a clean escape, a shadow looms, and before I know it, a firm grip encircles my arm. Saint. His touch is iron; his curly hair framing a face that doesn't know how to smile.

No, that's more of a sneer.

Chess is here too, refusing to look at me. His hands are shoved deep into his pockets, his brow furrowed and his jaw tight. Dre joins us, slipping out the door I just came through with a glint of something in his eye.

"Let's go, Princess," Saint says, his voice a low rumble that seems to vibrate straight to my core.

"Saint, what—?" I stumble over my words as he propels me forward, my feet barely keeping pace.

"Quiet. You're coming with us."

His tone brooks no argument, but panic flutters in my chest like a trapped bird. "You don’t have to manhandle me," I protest, trying to inject some steel into my voice. "I'll come willingly."

But they ignore me, their silence as cold as the linoleum beneath my heels. I can feel the eyes of other students on us, whispers trailing in our wake like smoke. What are they thinking? Do they see me as a victim or just another scene in the drama of high school?

"Where are we going?" I ask, but none of them answer, their faces set in emotionless masks—except Chess who still looks disturbed. Saints' hand tightens around my arm, not enough to hurt, but enough to let me know there will be no escape.

I bite back the fear that starts to bubble up and focus on matching his long stride. I'm not about to let them see the tremble in my legs or the confusion swirling inside me.

I may find them intriguing but I don't know them. I don't know how to placate them, to give them just enough of what they want to keep myself safe, whole. And that's dangerous.

"Addy," Chess finally speaks, his voice soft. "Trust us. Okay?"

"Trust" isn't a currency I trade in often, or ever really, but as I look into his dark eyes, I glimpse something that has me hesitating. So, despite everything, I find myself nodding—just once—because part of me needs to see this through.

The chill of the autumn air bites at my exposed skin as we burst through the double doors, stepping outside of the school. Saint's grip on my arm loosens, only for his hand to be replaced by Dre's—a transfer of custody, goodie.

"Hey," I gasp as Dre's fingers dig into my shoulder, steering me a few steps away from the exit. He leans in close, his breath ghosting over the curve of my neck. An unexpected shiver raced down my spine when he inhales deeply, like he's savoring my scent.

"What are you—?" The words die on my lips. There's something deeply unsettling about being sniffed, and yet, the tingle it sends through me feels all too similar to arousal. I reprimand myself internally. This is Dre—the same guy who intimidated half the school with just a look. The same guy who stole something from me at the gala.

Hasn't stopped me from wanting him though, has it?

"Relax, Snowflake," Dre murmurs, the rasp in his voice somehow darker, more intimate than before. "Just making sure you're still you."

"Still... me?" My pulse thrums in my ears, a mix of alarm and something else—something wilder. I try to step back, to break the strange spell, but his grip is firm.

"Always so skittish," he teases, or maybe there's a shade of accusation in his tone. It's hard to tell with Dre. His presence is like a storm cloud—you never know if you're in for a drizzle or a deluge.

"Is this necessary?" I try to keep the quiver out of my voice, to sound indignant rather than intrigued.

"Completely," he replies without further explanation.

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