27. Addy
Chapter twenty-seven
Addy
T he morning air bites at my skin as I step out of the car, a reminder that despite the sun hanging low and bright in the sky, warmth can be deceptive. My fingers curl tighter around the straps of my backpack, the leather cracked and comfortable, much like the mask I wear daily. It's Monday, a fresh start for some, but for me, it's just another round in the ring.
I can still feel the weight of Saint's gaze from Friday night, the way he blindsided me at dinner with his perfectly timed revelation, a move calculated to tip the scales in his favor. I hate that he's good at this game, at manipulating the board without even lifting a finger. The weekend had been an odd reprieve; my family treating me with kid gloves, their eyes glossing over with gratitude because of the business partnership with Mason I orchestrated. It's sickening how money changes everything.
"Addy." His voice is like gravel, harsh and scraping. Preston.
I halt, mid-step, my eyes catching sight of him as he steps into my path. He's a mess. Bruises paint his skin in shades of violet and sickly yellow. There's a limp in his stride, each step must be agony, yet there’s a fury burning behind his swollen eyes that tells me he doesn't care about the pain.
"Look at you," he sneers, pointing an accusatory finger at my face. "Walking around like you're untouchable now. Like you didn't cause all of this."
His words are meant to cut, but they're just noise. I've been sliced by sharper tongues than his. Still, the accusation stings more than I want to admit. The bruising grasp of his hand on my life, always trying to claim what isn't his. It's exhausting.
Maybe I should be thanking Saint. He has helped me escape from Preston Montgomery III after all.
"Did you enjoy your cozy little weekend? Feeling like the queen bee while we all suffered?" Preston's voice slices through the morning hum of students, a jagged edge in the mundane buzz.
"Did you enjoy your fall from grace?" I counter, unable to keep the venom from my tone. It's unlike me to engage, to spar with him when avoidance has always been my shield. But something about today, about his battered form accusing me of his misfortunes, it ignites a fire within me.
"Careful, Addy. You're not as safe as you think," he warns, his voice dropping to a dangerous timbre. The threat, veiled as it might be, sends a shiver down my spine, but I will not let it show. I'm made of sterner stuff than that.
"Are you threatening me on school grounds, Preston?" I tilt my head, feigning curiosity. "Because that sounds like a pretty bad idea."
He laughs, a hollow sound that doesn't reach his eyes. "You think you have protectors, huh? Saint and his little band of misfits?"
"I don't need protection," I retort, stepping to the side, trying to bypass him. His laughter follows me, but I don’t look back. I press forward, toward another day of survival in a world where trust is a currency too expensive to afford.
The clamor of the high school corridors becomes a distant hum as Preston's voice slices through the air, sharp and insistent. "You think you can just ignore me, Addy?"
My silence fuels his anger, and I feel the eyes of passing students on us, their whispers like the fluttering of moth wings against old lampshades. They know better than to intervene; this is a scene they've witnessed before, in different iterations but always with the same players.
"Look at me when I'm talking to you!" His hand latches onto my arm, a vise of bruising pressure. Instinctively, I wince, turning my gaze to meet his—his eyes are wild, a stormy sea crashing against the rocks of his battered ego.
I swallow the knot in my throat, refusing to give him the satisfaction of seeing me flinch. Today, like every other day, I'll walk the tightrope of high school politics and personal demons. And I won't fall—not to Preston, not to Saint, not to anyone.
"Let go," I command, my voice colder than the icy princess they claim I am, though inside, my heart gallops like a frightened doe.
"Or what?" he sneers, dragging me away from the prying eyes, toward the empty alcove by the unused lockers.
His grip is iron, but my spirit is steel. He shoves me against the cool metal of the lockers, the echo of our isolated confrontation bouncing off the walls.
"Are you going to hit me, Preston? Because that would be the biggest mistake of your life." My words are steady, but my pulse throbs at my temples—a drumbeat of adrenaline and fear.
"Shut up," he hisses, looming over me. His breath reeks of desperation and something darker, an unhinged need to regain control.
I keep my face impassive, the mask I've perfected over years of turmoil. But beneath the surface, my calculations race. If I twist now, could I use his injuries against him? He's hurt, limping, and if there's any chance, I have to take it.
I have always been able to talk my way out of his insanity. But it's been getting harder and harder. He has nothing left to lose now. Words won't cut it. He is going to take what he wants unless I'm able to stop him.
"Feeling brave because no one else is around?" I taunt, the edge of defiance sharpening my tone. "You're pathetic."
"You fucking slut," Preston snarls, his words sharp as glass. "You think you're so smart, aligning with them? They're using you just like everyone else."
His eyes flash with rage, but before he can retort or raise a hand, I prepare to fight back, tensing every muscle for the struggle I know is coming. My mind whirls with strategies, escape routes, and contingencies.
The echo of my heartbeat fills the silence like a warning siren. I brace for impact, ready to unleash hell if I must. I am clinging to the hope that his own battered state might give me the upper hand.
I'm about to snap back, but a sudden clatter at the door cuts through the tension. Saint strides in first, his dark curls a stark contrast against his furrowed brow. Dre follows, the tattoos on his arms seeming to coil with his every movement. Chess comes last, his hazel eyes scanning the scene before him, alert and calculating before they soften as he turns them on me.
"Step away, Preston." Saint's voice is a low growl, commanding the room.
Preston's grip falters, and Chess takes advantage of the moment. He slides in, swift and protective, his hand gently pushing me behind him. My heart lurches to my throat, relief and surprise mingling in a bitter cocktail.
"Didn't we tell you? She's ours now," Dre steps up beside Saint, his blue eyes hard as ice chips.
"Your debt isn't settled," Saint continues, locking eyes with Preston. I watch, an unwilling spectator caught between fear and fascination. "And since you were so eager to trade the princess here like some bargaining chip, I'm sure you won't mind us taking...custody."
Preston's face contorts, his lips curling into a sneer. "She's. Mine."
"Not. Anymore."
"You think they're better than me, you stupid slut?”
"Better? No." Saint's reply is cool and calm. "But smarter? Definitely. And unlike you, we don't need to use force to get what we want."
I shiver as their words slice through the air, a verbal duel where I am the prize—or perhaps the pawn. My mind races, wondering if this is freedom or a new cage. But for now, I stand shielded by Chess's frame.
Preston growls, his fingers tightening into fists as he makes the stupidest decision I've seen yet—he steps toward Saint. Dre is quick. His ever present knife is at the bastard's throat before he can even blink.
His body slams back into the empty bay of lockers with a loud clang. The anger doesn't dissipate, but there's a hint of fear in his eyes that can't be hidden.
"Repeat after me," Dre growls. "Adelaide Winthrop is off limits. She belongs to us now."
Preston sneers up at Dre, somehow holding strong against the glint of malice in Dre's eye and the feral snarl on his lips. Preston shoves at Dre until he steps back. Then he's storming off down the hallway, leaving me behind.
"Remember, Adelaide," he calls over his shoulder, using my full name like a curse, "everyone has a breaking point."
"Hey," Chess murmurs, his tone laced with an unspoken promise of safety. He turns toward me and cups my face in his hands while the other two form a barrier between me and Preston.
Chess's thumbs trace the lines of my cheekbones as he watches me, waits. But I can't look at him right now. I can't look at any of them.
My heart is still trapped in the rhythm of fear, each beat a reminder that I am not my own. Saint's words echo in the hollows of my mind, reverberating against the stark reality that dawns on me. The thought slices through my insides like shards of ice—I really am just a pawn in their schemes.
My stomach bottoms out and I feel the unfamiliar burn of tears at the back of my eyes. I don't know why I thought they might be different. Hope is dangerous. But, I'd let it spread like a virus.
"Princess," Saint's voice breaks through my spiraling thoughts. Though his tone carries its usual authority, there's an edge to it I can't quite place. "We were looking for you."
I look up at him, really look, and see something unsettlingly soft in his normally stoic eyes. He extends his hand, not with another command, but offering something instead—a vibrant green smoothie crowned with a frothy swirl, accompanied by a small yogurt parfait.
"Here," he says simply, the word lingering between us like a promise or a plea. "Eat."
For a moment, I'm lost in the juxtaposition of Saint—the boy who deals in threats and power plays—standing before me, concern etched in the furrow of his brow as he presents a peace offering made of fruit and dairy. It's confusing, this tender act from someone I had pegged as ruthless. But then, life with the Winthrops taught me that kindness often comes with strings attached.
I take the offerings, my fingers brushing against his. The contact is brief, but it sparks a connection that makes my breath catch. I nod, unable to find my voice, unable to reconcile the dissonance between the Saint who stood against Preston and the one who now looks at me as if I’m more than just a pawn.
But I'm not. And I won't let hope sink its claws into me once more. I can't. I just can't.
"Thanks," I manage, the word feeling insignificant as it tumbles from my lips.
He watches me for a second longer, his gaze intense, searching for something I'm not sure I want him to find. Then, without another word, he turns on his heel, leaving me to grapple with the unexpected fragility of the moment we just shared.
Chess strokes my hair out of my face and places a kiss on my forehead. My heart stutters in my chest. He pulls away, his eyes searching mine, for what I don't know, and then he's following Saint down the hall.
Dre doesn't move.
I shuffle through the crowded hallway, the weight of Dre's gaze still pressing on my back. I hug the green smoothie and yogurt parfait to my chest like a shield, confused by this unexpected act of... what? Kindness? Manipulation? My mind can't untangle the motives behind the gesture.
It's not like I can eat it. This is far too much food. Cheryl will need to lop off limbs to help me maintain the unrealistic weight goals she's set for me if I eat this.
The first bell rings, piercing through my thoughts. I quicken my pace towards my locker, eager to escape the thrumming energy of the corridor. As I spin the combination lock, I sense a presence looming behind me.
"Can I help you with something?" I ask without turning around, knowing full well who it is.
He doesn't respond.
My hands pause, the metal of the locker cold against my fingertips. I turn to face him. Dre is a silent sentinel, his posture relaxed yet somehow screaming protectiveness. His ice blue eyes scan the area, and for a moment, I wonder if he’s looking for threats or just keeping them away from me.
"Didn't realize I needed a bodyguard," I say, trying to keep my tone light despite the hammering in my chest.
There's a shadow of something in his eyes. It's fleeting, replaced quickly by the usual hardened glint.
"Right." I force a laugh as I retrieve my books.
We move in tandem down the hall, Dre a step behind me. I can feel every student's eyes on us, the whispers bubbling up like a toxic brew. But with Dre there, they keep their distance, their words becoming nothing more than a buzzing annoyance. Buzz away little bees.
"Shouldn't you be somewhere else?" I ask, desperate to break the silence that's grown heavy between us.
The corner of his mouth twitches in what could almost pass for a smirk. His silence is bothering me. I don't know why, but I need him to speak to me.
I push open the door to my first class. Inside, the sterile light washes over rows of empty desks. I'm about to step inside when Dre grabs my arm, his touch firm but infinitely softer than Preston's.
He taps a finger to the parfait I'm still clutching. "Eat." It's not a request, it's a demand.
"I'll see you at lunch?" Dre's comment is casual, but nothing about our exchange feels nonchalant.
"Maybe," I respond, holding his gaze. "If you're lucky."
"Then I'll be counting on my luck," he says. A beat passes, and then he nods once, sharply, as if coming to a decision. "Take care, Snowflake."
"Always do," I reply, watching as he turns on his heel and disappears down the hall. Only when he's gone do I let out the breath I didn't realize I was holding. I sink into my seat, the chill of the plastic seeping through my clothes as I set the parfait and smoothie on my desk. I'm still a pawn, but now I have a shadow—whether for my protection or my eventual checkmate, only time will tell.