Page 39 of Picture Perfect

“Then you can think of it as protection.”

"Your idea of protection is twisted, Roberts," I manage to choke out, the rise and fall of my chest quickening as I struggle for composure.

"Pot calling the kettle black, Snowflake," Dre retorts, a hint of mockery in his tone. "We're all a little twisted here, aren't we?"

And as much as I wanted to refute his claim, to break free from the complicated web we're all tangled in, I know he isn't entirely wrong. We are products of our pain, each of us marked by the scars we carry, visible or not.

No one becomes like Dre without enduring a little darkness.

Preston's shadow looms over the cracked pavement as he unfolds himself from the driver's seat. The air chills as he blows in like a cold front. He stalks toward us with the smugness of a cat eyeing a cornered mouse. "Well, well, look what we have here," he sneers, and I feel his gaze scorch across my skin.

"Keep walking, Preston," Dre's voice is a low growl, vibrating against my spine.

"Or what?" The challenge hangs in the air, and Preston smirks, stepping closer. That's when the blade glints in the fading light—a flash of silver that dances menacingly along the surface of my arm as Dre's hand shifts.

I suck in a breath, my body going rigid. This isn't just some high school spat; the knife's cool edge grazes my skin, a stark reminder of the razor-thin line between control and chaos. "Dre..." My whisper is a mix of warning and plea, but it dies on my lips.

"Shh, Snowflake," he murmurs, and a shiver courses through me as his tongue traces a path from the base of my neck to my ear. His other hand, the one wielding the weapon, never wavers, steady as a metronome tapping out a silent rhythm against my flesh.

"Put the knife away, Roberts," Preston taunts with a roll of his eyes.

"Scared?" Dre's voice is a dark ribbon of sound, wrapping around us both.

"Should I be?" Preston's eyes narrow, but his posturing can't hide the flicker of uncertainty.

"Maybe." The word rolls off Dre's tongue like a threat.

My heart is hammering so loudly I'm sure they can hear it. My thoughts are a tangled mess—fear, anger, and something else, something dangerous that warms my blood even as my mind screams at me to run. Dre's body presses closer, insistent, demanding, and I feel him, hard and unyielding against me.

He's getting off on this.

"Let her go," Preston demands, but his voice holds less conviction.

"Make me," Dre counters, and I know this dance of theirs, this push and pull of male bravado, is about more than just me—it's about power, about pain.

"Keep her then," he shrugs. At the furrow in my brow, he sneers. "Sweet Addy," Preston coos, but his tone drips with poison, "you're in deep, girl. And it's your own choices that got you here."

"Choice?" I spit out, trying to summon defiance but feeling it falter.

He chuckles darkly, throwing a look over his shoulder at Saint, who watches like a storm about to break. "You play with fire, sweetheart. You get burned."

The air feels electric, pulsing with a tension that grips my lungs and refuses to let go. My heart thunders against my ribs, betraying the fear I've worked so hard to conceal.

Saint doesn't move, doesn't flinch, but I see the muscle twitch in his jaw, the only sign of the rage he keeps shackled tight. Preston reaches into his jacket, producing a thick roll of cash with a flourish, and tosses it at Saint's feet where it unravels like the petals of a dark bloom.

"Consider my debts paid," Preston says, his eyes never leaving mine. He turns to leave, but Chess steps out to block him.

"Don't fucking move, you little prick. You're late on your payment and you have the fucking gall to come here and disrespect me?" Saint's voice is a low, dangerous hiss. "I don't trust you one little bit, Preston. You don't go anywhere until I've counted my money."

Dre's arm—his unyielding restraint across me—tightens for a split second before slackening. That's all I need. With adrenaline singing in my veins, I twist against him, pushing back with every ounce of pent-up ferocity I learned from years of having to fight for myself.

"Addy, don't," Chess murmurs, but his voice is a distant echo as my limbs come alive, thrashing against the confinement.

"Let go!" I hiss, my nails clawing at the vice of his forearm. "I'm not your damn hostage!"

"Shit, Snowflake, calm down!" Dre's grip shifts, becoming desperate rather than controlling, as he tries to keep me tethered to him in the midst of the chaos.

"Never!" My breath is ragged, my movements erratic. Every second in Dre's hold is another moment too long, another piece of myself I refuse to surrender.

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