Page 42 of Picture Perfect

Saint steps closer, his dark curls casting shadows over his furrowed brow. "We can't give her back to that scumbag," I tell him, voice low but firm. His gaze meets mine for a fleeting second, revealing a storm of conflict behind the bravado.

"Wasn't planning on it," Saint replies, arms crossed as he glances at Preston's unconscious form now sprawled across the driver's seat of his car. "He still owes us a pretty penny. And besides," he turns to me, a smirk curling his lips, "you've got more digging to do. Her secrets—"

"Are none of your business," I interject, but Saint's stare silences me.

"Everything about her is my business now," he says, his voice cold and possessive. "I want to own her, Chess. Every single part."

"Damn it, Saint," I mutter, running a hand through my dark hair. "This is messed up." But there's a resignation in my tone, a sense of inevitability that makes my stomach churn.

"Life's messed up, Chess. You of all people should know that," Saint retorts, his gaze never leaving mine.

"Fine," I concede with a sigh, and I feel a pang of guilt.

"Let's get out of here," Dre says, and I nod, following them to the car, my mind racing with questions and dread for what comes next.

I claim the back seat with the girls before Dre has the chance. Dre shoulders me as he passes, clearly unhappy with the seating arrangement. I don't care, I need to look at Addy's ribs.

"Hey sweetheart," I murmur, as I slide in. She's curled up against Gen, who holds her protectively. "Are you okay?"

She laughs, a hollow sound that grates against my skin. "Peachy," she says, but her voice carries an edge sharp enough to cut.

I wince inwardly. We did this.

"Addy, let me see," I murmur, reaching out with a hesitance that betrays my usual confidence. My fingers brush against the fabric of her shirt where it covers her ribs, and she stifles a gasp as pain flares from the contact.

"Sorry," I breathe, recoiling as if burned. But my gaze lingers on her side, darkening as she raises her shirt and displays the purple bruise blooming beneath her skin.

"Damn," Saint mutters, his jaw clenching so tight I fear it might shatter. It's the only reaction he allows himself, a flicker of something human beneath his stoic exterior.

"Fucking move," Dre demands, as he starts climbing over the center console to join the three of us in the back seat. Gen intercepts with a firm hand on his forehead.

"Not now, Dre," she chides, her tone brooking no argument. "Give them space."

Dre looks like he wants to protest, but one glance at Saint and he backs down, settling into the passenger seat instead.

"Addy," I start again, turning towards her. "I need to put some pressure on it, see if anything's broken, okay?"

Her nostrils flare as she watches me, but she nods. I'm as gentle as possible. It's still not gentle enough. She hisses before grinding her teeth down to silence the pain. It's a wonder she doesn't crack a molar.

Fuck, this girl is stronger than Saint gives her credit for. I don't think she's icy at all. I think it's a mask, one I am desperate to see beneath.

When I'm done, I roll her shirt back down and grip her thigh with a reassuring squeeze.

The car's interior is thick with tension, the silence punctuated only by the occasional rumble of the engine as we wind through the darkened streets. Addy hisses in pain with every jostle of the vehicle, a constant reminder of what we did to her. I lean my head against the cool window, watching the shadows dance across my reflection.

"Where are we going?" Addy asks abruptly.

"My place," Saint offers.

"I need to go home," she tells him matter-of-factly.

"Addy, are you sure?" Gen's worried eyes meet mine in the rearview mirror. She's always been the mother hen of our ragtag group, her concern as ever-present as the bands on her wrists. "We can have someone take a better look at your ribs at the house. Give you a moment to rest."

"I need to go home,” she repeats, her resolve hardening. "It's where I belong."

Saint doesn't argue this time, his gaze fixed on the road ahead. We pull up to the familiar facade of the Winthrop house, its windows dark and unwelcoming. The car comes to a stop, and I can feel my reluctance to let her go in.

I snatch her phone from her and put mine and Gen's numbers in. "Text us when you're safe," I tell her. "Me or Gen, okay?"

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