Page 50 of Picture Perfect

"Think she's the damsel in distress, do we?" Saint raises an eyebrow, sipping his drink.

"Something like that." I've seen enough caged creatures to recognize one. And my snowflake... she's a bird with clipped wings, yearning to fly.

"Let's hope you're her prince charming then," Gen says with a smirk.

"Or maybe just another rogue," Chess adds, raising his glass in a mock toast. There's a challenge in his gaze. I know he wants her too. But, he should know by now I'm more than happy to share with him.

"Perhaps." My lips curve into a half-smile. I don't fit into fairytales—never have, never will. But tonight, I am the hunter, and my snowflake is the mystery I intend to chase until dawn's first light reveals all our secrets.

The grand hall is a sea of glitter and shadows, but Adelaide is the north star I can't help but fixate on. I want another taste. A real one this time.

"Dre," she greets me; even her voice is wrapped in ice, but it melts just a touch too quickly. It's like watching a frosted windowpane surrender to the sun's insistence.

"Snowflake," I reply, my name on her lips feels like a dare. The rest of the room fades into a blur as we stand there, two celestial bodies locked in a momentary eclipse. "You look... breathtaking."

"Thank you," she manages, her poise impeccable despite the slight tremor in her voice. And then—our eyes meet. It’s a collision, a silent thunderclap that sends ripples through the air between us.

For an instant, her mask slips, revealing a glimpse of the tempest behind her calm. I taste fear mingling with something fiercer, a thirst for more than what this life has poured into her crystal glass.

"Enjoying yourself?" My question comes out a low purr, baiting her to reveal more of the storm beneath her serene exterior.

"It's... interesting," she answers, but I catch the lie dancing in her emerald gaze. She's a masterpiece of control, yet now there's a crack, and I'm all too eager to pry it open.

"Is it now?" I lean in closer, my presence an unspoken challenge. There's a flicker of something wild in the depths of her eyes, a bird caged far too long. I can't help the wolfish grin that claims my lips. "What dark dreams stir in that golden head of yours, little bird?"

She stiffens slightly, and I know I've caught her off guard. Good. Her chest rises and falls in a rhythm that betrays her composure. "Dreams are dangerous things to indulge in," she whispers back, almost defiantly.

"Perhaps," I concede, my grin never waning. "But some of us prefer the danger." I watch as her slender hand tightens around the stem of her glass, knuckles whitening. She’s poised on the edge of something, and I want to push her over.

"Sometimes," she says slowly, regaining a fraction of her earlier confidence, "the danger prefers us."

It's a dance, a game of words and glances. And I'm more than willing to play if it means discovering the secrets she guards so fiercely. Tonight, the hunter and the songbird circle each other, each waiting for the other to take wing.

"Then let's not disappoint it," I murmur, leaning back but keeping my blue ice gaze fixed on hers. There's an understanding that passes between us, a mutual recognition of the masks we wear.

"Let's not," she echoes, her voice barely above a sigh.

I watch her drift away, back into her role, and I'm left with the echo of our exchange. The chase has only just begun, and I intend to savor every step.

Chapter twenty-four

Addy

The chandelier's crystals cast fragmented rainbows across the silk tablecloth, a shimmering stage set for the evening's performance. I slide into my seat, the fabric of my dress whispering secrets only the upholstery will keep. Dre is to my right, a living contrast of light and dark, his presence as undeniable as the knee that presses subtly against mine beneath the shield of the table.

"Comfortable, Snowflake?" His voice is a low thrum, a vibration I feel in my bones rather than hear.

"Perfectly," I lie, offering him a ghost of a smile, my gaze drifting across the table to meet Saint's scrutiny. His stare pierces me, a lance of ice and judgment, and I fight to maintain composure under the weight of his attention.

"Try not to look so enthralled," he says, his words edged with frost.

"Your concern is touching," I retort, the words tasting like vinegar on my tongue. I shift my focus to the parade of servers who glide between us, their movements rehearsed, each bearing a platter that holds more than just food—they carry promises of decadence, of indulgence. The scent of rosemary and garlic wafts through the air, teasing my senses with the reminder of what others take for granted.

"Looks delicious," Gen observes, eyeing the succulent meats and roasted vegetables being placed before her. I nod, pretending the sight doesn't claw at my insides. It's a lavish feast. Platters of roasted meats, bowls of rich sauces, loaves of fresh bread...

My plate arrives last, a strategic move Cheryl enjoys enforcing. My shoulders slump, my eyes glued to my plate lest they see the disappointment I can't hide in my eyes.

It’s arranged prettily on a fine china plate, giving the illusion of an appetizing meal. Crisp leaves of lettuce create a foundation. Paper-thin apple slices are fanned artistically on top, their edges browning. A few scrapings of carrot shavings and translucent wisps of red cabbage add timid pops of color. Slivers of almond are scattered about like toppings on a cupcake.

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