Page 68 of Picture Perfect

"Hey, beautiful. Where've you been hiding?" The voice is slick, like oil on water, and a shiver runs up my spine despite the warmth of the room.

"Sorry, I'm just trying to get back to my friends," I say, attempting to sidestep him, but he mirrors my movements, effectively blocking my path.

"Come on, don't be like that." His smile doesn't reach his eyes. "I've been watching you all night. You're too pretty to be alone."

My stomach knots, and I force myself to meet his gaze. "I'm not interested, okay?"

"Aw, don’t play hard to get." He leans in closer, and I can smell the beer on his breath.

I try to keep my voice steady, to sound stronger than I feel. "Seriously, I need you to let go of me."

"Why rush?" He tugs me toward him, and panic flares inside my chest. "We could have some fun."

"I'm really not interested, thanks."

"So you let that Mexican and his two psychotic friends touch you but you can't even give it up to your own kind?"

My own kind? What the fuck does that even mean? I'm nothing like these people.

"He's Columbian."

"What the fuck does it matter? You gonna keep being a frigid bitch or you gonna give me what I fucking deserve?"

"Listen," I manage, my voice sharper now, "I’m not asking—I'm telling. Let. Me. Go."

But he only smirks, and I can see he has no intention of releasing me. My heart is pounding so loudly I'm sure he can hear it; a drumbeat of fear, anger, and the determination to not let my past define my present. Not again. Not ever.

His grip tightens, and a feral instinct surges within me. Something primal, something fierce unfurls in my chest, and I know fight is the only option left.

"Last chance," I hiss, my voice low and menacing in a way that surprises even me.

But he just chuckles, a sound that grates against my nerves. "Make me."

That's it. The last shred of my patience snaps like a worn-out rubber band. With a swift, upward motion, my knee connects with his vulnerable spot, and his breath hitches in a sharp gasp of pain. His grip slackens, and I don't hesitate.

"You frigid bitch—" He chokes on his words as he doubles over, and I wrench myself free, my heart thundering in my chest.

"It's Ice Princess."

"Get back here!" he growls, staggering after me, one hand clutching at himself.

I don't look back as I sprint, heading for the throng of bodies. My mind screams for an escape, for safety, for the boys. Where are they?

"Princess!" A familiar voice cuts through the cacophony of music and chatter. Saint.

"Here!" I call out, nearly tripping over someone's discarded drink.

"Saint, there!" Dre points to me, his voice a beacon in the chaos.

"Go, I've got her," Saint commands, already moving with predatory swiftness.

"Hey!" Dre shouts at my assailant, his ice-blue eyes flaring with a dangerous glint. "Back off!"

"Princess, come to us," Saint reaches out, his voice steady and calm—a stark contrast to the storm raging inside me.

My legs burn as I push through the crowd, but finally, I fall into Saint's open arms, his protective barrier instantly enveloping me. Dre is right behind him, his presence a silent promise of retribution.

"Are you hurt?" Saint's question is soft but urgent against the din.

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