Page 60 of Picture Perfect

My pulse pounds at my temples as we reach her window, its latch barely a challenge. With a careful nudge, it gives way, and we slip inside.

The curtain of blonde hair hides her face, but I catch the briefest glimpse of green eyes wide with something that might be fear, might be surprise. But it's gone before I can read it, hidden behind her ever-present mask of indifference.

"Saint?" she says, her voice steady despite the intrusion. "What are you doing here?"

"Looking for answers," I reply, my gaze drifting away from her, scanning the room for clues. Something about this doesn't sit right with me, and I intend to find out what it is.

The room is steeped in shadows, and for a heartbeat, the three of us are nothing more than statues—trespassers caught in the silver of moonlight that sneaks through Addy's curtains. She's on her feet now, the furrow between her brows deepening as she takes us in.

The panic flickers again in her verdant eyes, a wild thing caged behind her cool exterior. "You shouldn't be here."

"Couldn't stay away," I admit, my voice low, feeling the weight of something unspoken heavy in the air between us.

Her gaze darts to Dre, then Chess, who remain silent sentinels by the window. She steps forward, her movements graceful yet tense, like a dancer anticipating a difficult routine. Her hand lands flat against my chest, and I'm aware of every point of contact where her palm presses into me.

"Please, you all need to leave." There's an urgency in her tone that wasn't there before; it's subtle but enough to make me question the facade she projects.

"Can't do that, princess," I murmur, catching her wrist as she tries to push me back. The contact sends a jolt through me, and my fingers move instinctively to her waist, holding her steady. She's as delicate as a bird in my grip, the feel of her bones beneath the thin fabric of her shirt sharper than I expected.

I suck in a breath, suddenly aware of how fragile she really is. It's like I'm seeing her clearly for the first time, beyond the icy walls she's built around herself. "You're not okay, are you?"

Her eyes flash with something fierce, a blaze that contradicts her frosty nickname. "I said go!"

"Princess..." The word is a half plea, half growl, torn from somewhere deep inside me. I can't seem to shake the way her vulnerability claws at the edges of my self-control. My grip loosens, but my hands don't leave her entirely. "Talk to us. What's going on?"

"Nothing I can't handle myself," she insists, pulling away, but there's a tremble in her voice that betrays her words. I'm left grappling with the desire to protect her and the knowledge that she's likely to reject any offer of help.

"Doesn't look like it," I counter, frustration simmering beneath my skin. I know what it's like to keep secrets, to live with ghosts nipping at your heels. I recognize the shadows lurking in her gaze because they're kin to my own.

"Trust is earned, Saint." Addy's whisper cuts through the tension. "You're in my room, uninvited. That's not how you earn it."

"Maybe not," I concede, backing off a step, but my eyes never leave hers. "But something tells me you need people willing to break a few rules for you."

"What I need is for you to leave."

I roll my eyes and let the silence settle between us, untouched and heavy with secrets. My gaze drifts from her to the room behind her. It’s sparsely decorated with most of the little knick knacks and things held in a built-in beside her bed. The closet is slightly ajar and I see walls lined with mirrors, each reflecting a different angle of this girl who's become an enigma I can't unravel. The pedestal in the center draws my attention—it's out of place, almost sacred in its isolation.

"Saint?" Her voice is a whisper, but it cuts through the stillness, sharp as ice.

I release her waist, slowly, feeling the ghost of her frame beneath my fingers. Dre steps up to take my place immediately. Chess is frozen by the window, his eyes on the mirrors.

Dre's arm snakes around her waist, pulling her protectively against him. His touch isn't hesitant or questioning—it's possessive, a claim that speaks volumes of his intentions.

What the fuck have we gotten ourselves into? Chess I'm not surprised at, but Dre? Demons don't feel.

I watch him press his lips to the space between her neck and shoulder before turning my attention back to the mirrors.

"What's with the mirrors?" I ask, stepping toward the pedestal, eyebrows knit together.

"Nothing. They're just—decorative." The word feels hollow, even to her, I can sense it.

"Decorative," I echo, not convinced, as I approach the object that seems to be more than mere decor. There's something about it that makes the air feel charged, like the moments before a storm breaks.

"Please don't," she pleads. "You can't be here. Someone could walk in at any minute."

"There's an easy solution for that," Dre smiles mischievously as he lets go of the princess and heads toward her door.

He stops short, drawing my attention. "What the fuck?"

---