Page 71 of Picture Perfect

My pulse is a stampede, a wild thing trapped in the too-tight confines of my chest as I stumble up the stairs behind Gen. It's like I'm moving through water—every sound muffled, every motion resisted by unseen currents. The party, the dizzying mix of alcohol and laughter, the confrontation outside the bathroom, feels like a lifetime ago. But the car ride... Dre's hand on my thigh and... other places, Chess's lips on mine—those moments still burn hot on my skin.

"Come on," Gen encourages, her voice breaking through the haze.

The boys trail behind us, their presence a tangible weight that makes the air in the hallway seem thicker. We reach Gen's room, a sanctuary of pastels and plush. She flips on the light and I blink, adjusting to the soft glow.

"Here we are," she announces, ushering me inside before turning to the guys with a stern look. "No funny business."

"Wouldn't dream of it," Chess replies, his grin all charm and trouble.

I reach into my bag, searching for something to change into, and my fingers brush against my pajamas, silky, impractical things. Cheryl and William always purchase things with more regard for aesthetics than comfort. The fabric whispers luxury, but they also leave me exposed.

Gen, sensing my hesitation, peers over, her gaze landing on the silky set, and her eyebrows shoot up. Her laugh is abrupt, causing me to jump. "Yeah, no." She laughs, but her eyes are kind. "You can borrow some of my clothes."

"Nah, I've got her."

The room hums with a tension I can't quite name as Dre's hand moves to the hem of his shirt, a smirk playing on his lips. The fabric lifts in one fluid motion, revealing a canvas of skin etched in ink and scars. My breath hitches at the sight, as my eyes trace over the dark tattoos that seem to dance across his muscular chest. He's all hard edges and defiance, a stark contrast to the sheltered world I've been thrust into.

He tosses the shirt at me, the cotton still holding the warmth from his body.

"Thanks," I manage, voice barely above a whisper. My eyes are locked onto his, and in them, I see the wildness that sets Dre apart from anyone else I've ever met. Heat washes over my skin and I press my thighs together.

His grin widens, predatory and playful all at once, as he takes a step closer. I'm frozen, caught in the intensity of his gaze, but then Gen is there, her hand raised like a shield between us.

"Oh, no," she chides with a wave of her hand. "Out! Let the girl change in peace."

"Your hospitality knows no bounds," Chess quips, leaning against the doorframe with an amused smirk.

"Shut up, Ortega," Gen retorts without heat, pushing him out before he can say another word. The door clicks shut behind them, leaving us in a bubble of calm.

"Go change, Addy." Gen nods toward the bathroom, her voice gentle but firm.

I clutch the shirt and the bottoms from my pajama set and escape to the safety of the bathroom. The door clicks shut behind me, granting a precious moment of solitude. Leaning against the sink, I let out a shaky breath, trying to shake off the electric charge Dre's proximity always seems to stir within me.

"Get a grip, Adelaide," I mutter to my reflection. The girl staring back at me looks lost, out of place in this new world teeming with desire and danger.

With trembling hands, I peel off the remnants of tonight's carefully constructed facade and slip into Dre's shirt. It hangs loose and long on my frame, smelling faintly of pine and leather. It's comforting and disconcerting all at once.

"Okay, you can do this," I whisper to myself, stepping out of the bathroom to face whatever comes next.

I shouldn't be surprised to find the boys have returned when I step out of the bathroom. Chess is sitting on the edge of Gen's bed, an easy smile on his face that disappears as his eyes turn to me. The air in Gen's room seems to shift, thick with tension that wasn't there before.

"Wow," Chess breathes out, his hazel eyes raking over me in a way that turns my cheeks rosy with heat. "You look—"

"Fuck," Dre growls, standing up from the edge of the bed. His ice blue eyes burn into me as he crosses the distance between us in three long strides. "You look good in my shirt, Snowflake."

I swallow hard, the compliment wrapping around me tighter than the fabric of the shirt. A nervous laugh tumbles from my lips, unsure what else to do with it. "Thanks."

My gaze can't help but flicker to Saint, whose presence looms large even from across the room. His jaw is set, his dark curls falling into his face as he focuses on some invisible spot on the floor. The muscle ticking in his jaw is so tight I'm surprised we can't hear his molars cracking in the silence. He's a storm barely held in check. And all of his thunder is aimed at me.

I just wish I knew what I did to upset him.

I've never been good at this—never had a sleepover, never navigated the treacherous waters of teenage social rituals. I glance between the four of them, each so different, yet all looking at me like they're happy I'm here. Well, three out of four anyway. I'm pretty sure I would ignite on the spot if Saint had his way.

"What do we, uh, do now?" My question hangs awkwardly in the air. In foster homes, 'sleepovers' meant hunkering down in corners, trying to become invisible. Here, in this world with its own rules and chaos, I might as well be stumbling through a foreign land without a map.

Chess shrugs, the glint of mischief back in his eyes. "Usually we'd raid the fridge or play games, but honestly, I'm too wired to sit still."

"I can think of a few games we could play," Dre rasps, his heated eyes still raking over my skin. His shoulder brushes mine as he passes. The contact sends a shiver down my spine.

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