Page 77 of Picture Perfect

"Eat," Saint urges, nudging the plate closer to me with a smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes. He turns his gaze over my shoulder again and presses his lips into a thin line.

As I raise the fork to my lips, Cheryl's piercing blue eyes bore into me like shards of broken glass, making my skin crawl. But I refuse to let her intimidate me as I savor the first mouthful of real food I've had in this dreary house.

I'll pay for it later. But, that's nothing new.

Chapter thirty-six

Chess

Ilean back in my chair, trying to appear nonchalant as I watch Addy beside me. They're wrong about her. She's not ice. She's made of glass, too fragile and too perfect, with an air of tension that wraps around her like a second skin.

Or, maybe it's plastic. Aside from the few moments of weakness she's given into me and Dre, she's shown us nothing real.

I've been observing her for weeks now. I've hacked into her devices. I've analyzed her life. What I expected to find were secrets, threads leading to the person behind the icy facade. But all I found was evidence of someone else's search for the same thing. Spyware. Advanced and anonymous. I hadn't been able to trace its origin yet.

But maybe I needed to make that a priority.

Because something is definitely off here. There's a puzzle here, and I'm missing vital pieces. She's not what they say she is. She's not even what she pretends to be.

The fact that she barely touches her tech, which is unheard of for our generation, is enough of a giveaway. When she does use it, it's like she's performing for some unseen audience—every message curated, every photo staged. Nothing personal, nothing real. It's all a façade.

I watch as Addy picks at her dinner with limited interest. The dim light plays off her blonde hair but her eyes are full gems. She's like a riddle, and damn if I don't want to unravel every layer.

Beyond her Saint proves that he's just as intrigued by our little princess. His eyes are glued to Addy's hands as they move the food around her plate. When she brings a bite to her lips, Saint follows it.

He blinks, his focus shifting so slowly it's clear his thoughts were miles away—or rather, right beside him—when he realizes I'm watching him. He clenches his jaw, his cheek ticking with the force.

But his eyes don't leave her for long, tracking every bite she takes as if each one matters more than it should. Maybe it does. She's filled out some since he's taken it upon himself to feed her every day.

I'm about to snicker when Addy tenses even further. Her muscles are so tight it's a wonder she can even move. And, it doesn't take a genius to figure out why.

Her family, those supposed to be her sanctuary, gaze at her with eyes that hold no warmth, only a cold scrutiny that makes my blood simmer. I can practically feel the air crackling with an unspoken threat.

Yeah. There is definitely something we're missing.

There's more going on here than meets the eye. Saint's protective instincts are flaring, and I'm beginning to understand that Addy isn't just under surveillance by whoever planted that spyware.

The conversation shifts, but my mind stays on Addy. I need to find the spyware's origin. It's the key to understanding who's really pulling the strings in Addy's life. I have a feeling I know who, but we need to be sure.

"Are you going to make sure I chew properly too, or is that a special service I need to reserve?" Addy challenges out of nowhere.

I can't help the bark of laughter that leaves my lips. Unfortunately it also draws the attention of her family who look less than pleased we actually seem to be enjoying ourselves.

"I'm taking reservations now," he shoots back, the corner of his mouth lifting ever so slightly.

"Hm," she hums.

I shake my head, amused. Between my desire to peel back Addy's layers and Saint's quiet guardianship, this has become a game in its own right. And I'm all too eager to play.

I want to unravel her secrets. But I want another taste even more.

I slide my hand onto Addy's thigh under the cover of the tablecloth. I can almost hear the thrum of her pulse against my fingertips.

She stiffens beside me, a statue in the flesh, yet to anyone else, she's the picture of poise. No flinches, no gasps—nothing to betray the contact we share beneath the surface.

"Everything good?" I murmur, voice low enough for only her ears.

"Fine," she replies, clipped and cool as the ice clinking against the crystal stemware. She doesn't look at me, but I feel the tension rolling off her in waves, crashing against my resolve.

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