Page 55 of Picture Perfect

"Let go," I command, my voice colder than the icy princess they claim I am, though inside, my heart gallops like a frightened doe.

"Or what?" he sneers, dragging me away from the prying eyes, toward the empty alcove by the unused lockers.

His grip is iron, but my spirit is steel. He shoves me against the cool metal of the lockers, the echo of our isolated confrontation bouncing off the walls.

"Are you going to hit me, Preston? Because that would be the biggest mistake of your life." My words are steady, but my pulse throbs at my temples—a drumbeat of adrenaline and fear.

"Shut up," he hisses, looming over me. His breath reeks of desperation and something darker, an unhinged need to regain control.

I keep my face impassive, the mask I've perfected over years of turmoil. But beneath the surface, my calculations race. If I twist now, could I use his injuries against him? He's hurt, limping, and if there's any chance, I have to take it.

I have always been able to talk my way out of his insanity. But it's been getting harder and harder. He has nothing left to lose now. Words won't cut it. He is going to take what he wants unless I'm able to stop him.

"Feeling brave because no one else is around?" I taunt, the edge of defiance sharpening my tone. "You're pathetic."

"You fucking slut," Preston snarls, his words sharp as glass. "You think you're so smart, aligning with them? They're using you just like everyone else."

His eyes flash with rage, but before he can retort or raise a hand, I prepare to fight back, tensing every muscle for the struggle I know is coming. My mind whirls with strategies, escape routes, and contingencies.

The echo of my heartbeat fills the silence like a warning siren. I brace for impact, ready to unleash hell if I must. I am clinging to the hope that his own battered state might give me the upper hand.

I'm about to snap back, but a sudden clatter at the door cuts through the tension. Saint strides in first, his dark curls a stark contrast against his furrowed brow. Dre follows, the tattoos on his arms seeming to coil with his every movement. Chess comes last, his hazel eyes scanning the scene before him, alert and calculating before they soften as he turns them on me.

"Step away, Preston." Saint's voice is a low growl, commanding the room.

Preston's grip falters, and Chess takes advantage of the moment. He slides in, swift and protective, his hand gently pushing me behind him. My heart lurches to my throat, relief and surprise mingling in a bitter cocktail.

"Didn't we tell you? She's ours now," Dre steps up beside Saint, his blue eyes hard as ice chips.

"Your debt isn't settled," Saint continues, locking eyes with Preston. I watch, an unwilling spectator caught between fear and fascination. "And since you were so eager to trade the princess here like some bargaining chip, I'm sure you won't mind us taking...custody."

Preston's face contorts, his lips curling into a sneer. "She's. Mine."

"Not. Anymore."

"You think they're better than me, you stupid slut?”

"Better? No." Saint's reply is cool and calm. "But smarter? Definitely. And unlike you, we don't need to use force to get what we want."

I shiver as their words slice through the air, a verbal duel where I am the prize—or perhaps the pawn. My mind races, wondering if this is freedom or a new cage. But for now, I stand shielded by Chess's frame.

Preston growls, his fingers tightening into fists as he makes the stupidest decision I've seen yet—he steps toward Saint. Dre is quick. His ever present knife is at the bastard's throat before he can even blink.

His body slams back into the empty bay of lockers with a loud clang. The anger doesn't dissipate, but there's a hint of fear in his eyes that can't be hidden.

"Repeat after me," Dre growls. "Adelaide Winthrop is off limits. She belongs to us now."

Preston sneers up at Dre, somehow holding strong against the glint of malice in Dre's eye and the feral snarl on his lips. Preston shoves at Dre until he steps back. Then he's storming off down the hallway, leaving me behind.

"Remember, Adelaide," he calls over his shoulder, using my full name like a curse, "everyone has a breaking point."

"Hey," Chess murmurs, his tone laced with an unspoken promise of safety. He turns toward me and cups my face in his hands while the other two form a barrier between me and Preston.

Chess's thumbs trace the lines of my cheekbones as he watches me, waits. But I can't look at him right now. I can't look at any of them.

My heart is still trapped in the rhythm of fear, each beat a reminder that I am not my own. Saint's words echo in the hollows of my mind, reverberating against the stark reality that dawns on me. The thought slices through my insides like shards of ice—I really am just a pawn in their schemes.

My stomach bottoms out and I feel the unfamiliar burn of tears at the back of my eyes. I don't know why I thought they might be different. Hope is dangerous. But, I'd let it spread like a virus.

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