Page 56 of Picture Perfect

"Princess," Saint's voice breaks through my spiraling thoughts. Though his tone carries its usual authority, there's an edge to it I can't quite place. "We were looking for you."

I look up at him, really look, and see something unsettlingly soft in his normally stoic eyes. He extends his hand, not with another command, but offering something instead—a vibrant green smoothie crowned with a frothy swirl, accompanied by a small yogurt parfait.

"Here," he says simply, the word lingering between us like a promise or a plea. "Eat."

For a moment, I'm lost in the juxtaposition of Saint—the boy who deals in threats and power plays—standing before me, concern etched in the furrow of his brow as he presents a peace offering made of fruit and dairy. It's confusing, this tender act from someone I had pegged as ruthless. But then, life with the Winthrops taught me that kindness often comes with strings attached.

I take the offerings, my fingers brushing against his. The contact is brief, but it sparks a connection that makes my breath catch. I nod, unable to find my voice, unable to reconcile the dissonance between the Saint who stood against Preston and the one who now looks at me as if I’m more than just a pawn.

But I'm not. And I won't let hope sink its claws into me once more. I can't. I just can't.

"Thanks," I manage, the word feeling insignificant as it tumbles from my lips.

He watches me for a second longer, his gaze intense, searching for something I'm not sure I want him to find. Then, without another word, he turns on his heel, leaving me to grapple with the unexpected fragility of the moment we just shared.

Chess strokes my hair out of my face and places a kiss on my forehead. My heart stutters in my chest. He pulls away, his eyes searching mine, for what I don't know, and then he's following Saint down the hall.

Dre doesn't move.

I shuffle through the crowded hallway, the weight of Dre's gaze still pressing on my back. I hug the green smoothie and yogurt parfait to my chest like a shield, confused by this unexpected act of... what? Kindness? Manipulation? My mind can't untangle the motives behind the gesture.

It's not like I can eat it. This is far too much food. Cheryl will need to lop off limbs to help me maintain the unrealistic weight goals she's set for me if I eat this.

The first bell rings, piercing through my thoughts. I quicken my pace towards my locker, eager to escape the thrumming energy of the corridor. As I spin the combination lock, I sense a presence looming behind me.

"Can I help you with something?" I ask without turning around, knowing full well who it is.

He doesn't respond.

My hands pause, the metal of the locker cold against my fingertips. I turn to face him. Dre is a silent sentinel, his posture relaxed yet somehow screaming protectiveness. His ice blue eyes scan the area, and for a moment, I wonder if he’s looking for threats or just keeping them away from me.

"Didn't realize I needed a bodyguard," I say, trying to keep my tone light despite the hammering in my chest.

There's a shadow of something in his eyes. It's fleeting, replaced quickly by the usual hardened glint.

"Right." I force a laugh as I retrieve my books.

We move in tandem down the hall, Dre a step behind me. I can feel every student's eyes on us, the whispers bubbling up like a toxic brew. But with Dre there, they keep their distance, their words becoming nothing more than a buzzing annoyance. Buzz away little bees.

"Shouldn't you be somewhere else?" I ask, desperate to break the silence that's grown heavy between us.

The corner of his mouth twitches in what could almost pass for a smirk. His silence is bothering me. I don't know why, but I need him to speak to me.

I push open the door to my first class. Inside, the sterile light washes over rows of empty desks. I'm about to step inside when Dre grabs my arm, his touch firm but infinitely softer than Preston's.

He taps a finger to the parfait I'm still clutching. "Eat." It's not a request, it's a demand.

"I'll see you at lunch?" Dre's comment is casual, but nothing about our exchange feels nonchalant.

"Maybe," I respond, holding his gaze. "If you're lucky."

"Then I'll be counting on my luck," he says. A beat passes, and then he nods once, sharply, as if coming to a decision. "Take care, Snowflake."

"Always do," I reply, watching as he turns on his heel and disappears down the hall. Only when he's gone do I let out the breath I didn't realize I was holding. I sink into my seat, the chill of the plastic seeping through my clothes as I set the parfait and smoothie on my desk. I'm still a pawn, but now I have a shadow—whether for my protection or my eventual checkmate, only time will tell.

Chapter twenty-eight

Addy

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