Picture Perfect - Page 165

“Yeah,” I echo, still combing through Addy’s hair, grounding myself in the task. “We will.”

Our pact is silent but solid; none of us will rest until Addy knows just how fiercely she is loved, how fiercely she will always be protected.

Saint’s eyes hold a storm as he looks down at Addy, still cradled in Dre’s protective embrace. His voice, when it finally breaks the heavy silence, is as steady as the resolve etched into his features. “I’ve got the papers,” he says, and there’s a triumph in his tone that doesn’t quite chase away the shadows in his gaze. “Everything we need to pull her out of this hell for good. She’s never going back to that house.”

“Thank god,” I breathe out, relief washing over me like the first rain after a drought. It’s almost enough to wash away the acrid taste of guilt that lingers on my tongue.

We move as one organism, a tangle of limbs and urgent need, funneling into the back seat of Saint’s car. Dre holds Addy close, unwilling to loosen his grip even an inch, and I don’t blame him. There’s something about the way she’s nestled against him, so fragile yet unyielding, that speaks to the part of me that wants to shield her from every shadow in the world.

“Easy, man,” I murmur to Dre, my hand finding its place on the nape of his neck again, offering a silent solidarity. “We’re all here now. She’s safe.”

“Is she?” Dre’s question is a whisper, barely audible over the sound of the car door slamming shut. But it resonates deeply, and I can feel the weight of his doubt, the fear that safety might be a fleeting luxury.

“Absolutely,” Saint interjects, his voice a low rumble. “She will be.”

We’re all but sitting on top of each other, knees knocking, elbows jostling for space, but not one of us would have it any other way. Addy’s presence, her soft, uneven breaths, they tether us—three satellites caught in her gravity, unable to drift too far. Not that I’m surprised. We’ve been orbiting her since the day she walked into our lives, fierce and quietly defiant.

The car door shuts with a soft click, and Mason’s presence fills the space behind the wheel. He doesn’t seem surprised to find us all back here. The engine hums, a quiet backdrop to the thick silence that envelops us as we leave the Winthrop estate behind. With every mile, shadows from the house recede, but darkness clings to me, heavy and suffocating.

“Chess?” Dre’s voice is hesitant, barely a whisper against the steady rhythm of tires on asphalt.

I don’t answer, just keep my gaze locked on Addy’s pale face, her skin marred with bruises that stand testament to her ordeal. Guilt surges up like bile, hot and acidic—I should have protected her. I should have…

“Chess,” Saint says now, his tone sharper, snapping me back to the present. “We’re doing everything we can.”

“Should’ve done it sooner,” I mumble, my throat tight, words thick with emotion. I feel Dre’s hand on my arm, grounding, but it’s not enough to stop the spiral.

“Enough,” Mason’s voice cuts through from the front seat, firm and unyielding. “We focus on what’s next.”

“Next is making sure she’s okay,” I say, the fight seeping out of me as I watch her chest rise and fall, too faint, too fragile.

“Already on it,” Mason replies, and pulls out his phone with practiced ease. He talks in low, urgent tones, arranging for care, pulling strings only he can pull. We drive in silence, waiting, watching over Addy like guardian angels stripped of their wings.

The car comes to a gentle stop outside Mason’s house, a place that feels more like home with each passing second. As if sensing the shift, Addy stirs slightly, a small frown creasing her forehead, and my heart clenches. She doesn’t wake, though, and the helplessness claws at me.

Mason’s off the phone now, his expression unreadable. “Doctor will be here within the hour. Let’s get her comfortable.”

We move as one, a careful dance of limbs and whispered instructions, carrying Addy inside with a tenderness that belies our usual rough edges. The couch becomes her makeshift sanctuary, pillows propped, blankets drawn.

“Keep an eye on her,” Mason instructs, “and call me if there’s any change.”

Saint nods, his eyes never leaving Addy’s face. Dre sits close, his fingers ghosting over her hand, while I kneel beside her, willing her to feel the safety we failed to give before.

Gen drifts in at some point. She says nothing, just joins us as we stand guard over Addy’s prone form.

The doctor arrives, a silent specter with a black bag and a solemn nod. We hover. Addy’s injuries are tended to, her wounds cleaned, her body checked for signs of deeper trauma. Dehydration, they say. Cuts and bruises, yes. But it’s the concussion that has us holding our breaths.

“Monitor her,” the doctor advises before slipping away as quietly as he came.

So we do. Saint takes the chair by her head, his dark curls falling into his eyes as he watches her, a silent sentinel. Dre huddles close, murmuring apologies into the still air. Gen stands at the doorway, arms crossed, eyes stormy with unsaid vows.

And I stay by her side, chasing away the demons of guilt with every stroke of her hair, every whispered promise. Because when Addy wakes, we’ll be here—all of us—ready to rebuild the world she deserves.

I lean forward, elbows on my knees, and rake a hand through my hair. The room is dim, the only light coming from the lamp beside Addy’s bed, casting gentle shadows over her peaceful face. It’s a stark contrast to the turmoil churning within each of us.

“Guys,” I start, voice barely above a whisper, afraid to disturb the fragile silence. “We can’t let this happen again. We need a plan.”

Saint’s eyes meet mine, dark and resolute. “She’s never going back there,” he says with finality. “Not to that house, not to them. We’ll make sure of it.”