Picture Perfect - Page 164

Before I can process, Chess is scooping me into his arms, holding me against his chest like I’m the only thing anchoring him to earth.

Tears sting my eyes, mingling with the dust and grime on my face. Chess’s embrace is the first gentle touch I’ve felt in what feels like an eternity. He’s solid and real, his warmth bleeding into the cold places inside me.

“Let’s go home,” Chess murmurs, his voice a low promise against the shell of my ear. And for the first time in too long, ‘home’ doesn’t sound like a foreign concept—it sounds like hope.

“Wait,” I mumble, my voice barely above a whisper. “My… something—”

“Shh, Addy, it’s okay,” Chess soothes, his arms a fortress around me. “You’re safe now. You won’t need anything from this place.”

But there’s a nagging tug in my consciousness, a whisper of something left behind. I try to protest, to articulate the urgency, but my words are slurred, tangled up in the labyrinth of my thoughts.

“Please, I need—”

“Addy, look at me.” Dre’s voice cuts through again, his bloodied hands holding my gaze. “Whatever it is, it’s not worth it. You’re never setting foot in that house again. We’ve got you.”

The finality in his tone seals the decision, and the shadows embrace us as we step across the threshold, leaving behind the echoes of a nightmare I’m desperate to forget.

Chapter seventy-two

Chess

The cool night air bites at my skin as I carefully guide Addy down the porch steps, her frail form leaning heavily against me. Dre’s presence is like a silent storm at my shoulder, his anxiety almost tangible.

“Addy, hey… look at me,” I plead, tilting her chin upward with gentle fingers. The moonlight catches in her green eyes, now dulled with pain and exhaustion. “I’m so sorry for all of this. I love you, more than anything. I swear I’ll make it right.”

She tries to mutter something, her voice a ghostly whisper, but consciousness is slipping away. My heart clenches seeing her like this—my Addy, the girl who fought through foster care and the Winthrops’ cruelty with a resilience that left us all in awe.

We reach the car, and I gently settle her into the back seat. That’s when Dre’s hands reach out urgently for her. His ice blue eyes are frosted with panic and regret, and without a word, I relinquish my hold.

“Snowflake, I—” Dre’s voice breaks, and he wraps himself around her protectively, his body trembling. “God, I should’ve been there. I should’ve climbed up to your room or something…anything…to keep you safe.”

He buries his face in her blonde hair, shaking with emotion or adrenaline or both. In this moment, his usual hard exterior is stripped away, revealing raw vulnerability.

“None of this—none of it—should’ve happened to you,” Dre continues, his words a fervent whisper against her ear. “I’ll never forgive myself.”

My own hands clench into fists, feeling the weight of our collective guilt. We were supposed to be her sanctuary. We promised to protect her from her twisted adoptive family, yet here we are, watching her broken and barely holding on.

“Chess,” Dre mutters, not looking up. His voice wobbles with a plea for absolution I don’t know how to give.

“Hey,” I say, trying to steady my own voice. “We’re going to get through this. Together, okay? She’s safe now. With us.”

Dre nods, but doesn’t reply, his gaze fixed on Addy as if she might vanish if he looks away. And honestly, I get it. None of us can afford to lose her—not again, not ever.

I slide my hand around the back of Dre’s neck, a silent message of solidarity. The fingers of my other hand drift through Addy’s hair, gently untangling the knots. Her hair is like spun gold, even now when it’s matted and dull. It feels like trying to smooth out the chaos, one strand at a time.

“Stay with us, Addy,” I murmur, although I’m not sure if she can hear me or not. The car’s engine hums—a lullaby on this nightmarish evening—as I continue to stroke her hair, hoping somehow it could weave strength back into her battered form.

Dre’s grip on her tightens imperceptibly. His body trembles still, but there’s a steely resolve in the set of his jaw, a promise of retribution and unwavering support.

The moment shatters as Saint rips the door open. We all freeze, the sudden intrusion pulling us back from the brink of our shared despair. Saint’s dark, curly hair is wild around his face, his eyes searching until they land on Addy. I swear the tension that’s been holding him together disintegrates right then and there.

“Jesus, Princess…” he breathes, and his hands cradle her face with a gentleness that belies his formidable presence. There’s a tremor in his touch, an unspoken apology for not being there sooner.

“Back off, Saint. She’s staying with me,” Dre snaps, the raw edge in his voice daring Saint to challenge him. But it’s not anger fueling his words—it’s fear, a terror that clings to each of us, knowing how close we came to losing her.

Saint doesn’t push, doesn’t try to take her from Dre’s arms. Instead, he settles for brushing a thumb over her cheekbone, tracing the lines of her face as if memorizing it, reassuring himself she’s real, she’s here, she’s alive.

“We’ll fix this,” Saint says, more to himself than to us. “We have to.”