57. Addy
Chapter fifty-seven
Addy
T he sun hasn't even climbed halfway up the sky, but my room is already drenched in a soft glow that seems to wrap around me like a warm embrace. I'm twisting my blonde hair into a complicated braid when I catch Saint's reflection in the mirror. His dark curls are a stark contrast against the white pillowcase, and his eyes, usually so guarded and calculating, rest on me with an intensity that sends a shiver down my spine.
"Morning," I murmur, not quite meeting his gaze as I fumble with a few stray strands. The air between us is thick with something unspoken, a tension that's both unnerving and electric.
"Morning," he echoes, and there's a rasp in his voice that suggests he's not just sleepy. He props himself up on one elbow, the sheets slipping to reveal the defined lines of his chest. It's a sight that would have made the old Addy blush, but I've learned to steel myself against such distractions.
"School's gonna be the same circus it always is," I say, trying to sound casual as I grab an outfit from my closet. "We should get going soon."
He doesn't respond immediately, and I'm about to turn away when I finally catch his eye in the mirror. There's something different about him this morning—something vulnerable. It catches me off guard, makes my heart skip a beat in a way I'm not ready to analyze just yet.
He's sitting on the edge of my bed now, fiddling with something in his hands. His muscular frame was on full display as he sits there in nothing but black boxer briefs that are enough to make me drool. It's unfair how hot he is. How hot all three of them are.
I can't resist tracing the intricate designs of his tattoos with my eyes.
"Princess." Saint's voice breaks the silence, and his eyes lock onto mine in the mirror. His voice is low, almost reverent, and I freeze. "I have something for you."
Puzzled, I pivot to face him fully. "For me?" My voice sounds skeptical even to my own ears. We're not some lovey-dovey couple; we're two people who understand each other's shadows better than anyone else could.
"Yeah." Saint pushes off the bed and pads over to where I'm standing. I'm hit with the faint scent of his cologne, a mix of wood and spice that somehow always seems to linger in the air long after he's gone.
He looks down at whatever he's been fiddling with in his hands, and I find myself holding my breath. Saint isn't the type to do things by halves—if he's decided to give me something, it won't be insignificant. The fact that he seems hesitant only makes me more nervous.
His hand comes up, closed around something small, and my pulse races.
"Saint, what is this about?" I ask, trying to keep my voice steady.
"Just... hold out your hand, Princess," he says, and there's an edge of something like excitement in his tone.
Hesitantly, I extend my hand toward him, palm up, and watch as he gently places a small object in the center of it. His fingers brush against mine, and I'm acutely aware of the warmth of his skin, the roughness of his touch. Whatever he's given me remains hidden in the curl of my fingers, a secret waiting to be revealed.
I unfurl my fingers, the cool metal weight resting against my skin. My breath hitches as I glimpse the ring—a delicate band of white gold, intricately designed with a subtle elegance that speaks volumes. The metal is warm against my skin, a stark contrast to the icy anticipation coursing through my veins. The centerpiece is a stone of such clarity it could be a fragment of the sky itself, held aloft by a crown of intricate filigree.
"Saint..." I begin, but words fail me. Even the air feels thicker, charged with an energy that wasn't present before this small, impossibly beautiful object made its appearance.
"Princess," he says, his voice low and steady, "my uncle... He's finalized things with your father. You know what this means?"
My gaze tears away from the ring to meet his dark eyes. They hold a gravity I've never seen in him before, a solemnity that roots me to the spot. "It means we're betrothed, doesn't it?" My throat tightens around the words, making them sound more like a confession than a question.
"Officially announced." There's no mistaking the pride in his tone, even as it sends a tremor of apprehension through me. This is real, happening, and every choice leading up to this moment settles around my shoulders like a mantle.
"Officially..." I echo faintly, rolling the word around in my mouth, tasting its finality.
"Look, I know this isn't how you dreamed it would go down. This isn't exactly a traditional courtship and it's not like you chose me, not really." He steps closer, reaches out to tilt my chin up so I'm looking at him again. "But I want you to have everything you deserve, Princess. Starting with this ring."
The simple act of eye contact breaks the spell the ring has cast over me. Saint's presence, his warmth, becomes the anchor in a suddenly shifting world. I slip the ring onto my finger, where it belongs—where he believes it belongs—and something akin to resolve steadies my heart.
Saint leans against the doorframe, watching me as I try to make sense of this new reality.
"Saint, you didn't have to get me a ring," I say, turning to face him fully. The diamond sparkles on my finger, a beacon of commitment and unexpected affection.
He pushes away from the frame, stepping into the light. "I did," he insists, his voice carrying the firmness I've come to associate with his brand of care. "This might not be a traditional courtship, Princess, but you're still getting the best. That's non-negotiable." His eyes hold mine, unyielding yet vulnerable in a way that only I get to see.
"Thank you..." I trail off, unsure how to express the complexities of gratitude mixed with apprehension. He nods, as if he understands every unsaid word lurking beneath the surface.
"Get ready for more surprises," he says after a pause, a hint of something like excitement lacing his tone. "We're going out after school."
"Out?" I echo, puzzled. My mind races—what could he possibly mean?
"Shopping," he clarifies, watching me closely for a reaction. "My future wife deserves a wardrobe that fits her perfectly. Clothes that make her feel comfortable, confident." The corners of his mouth twitch upward in a rare, soft smile.
"Saint, that's... it's too much," I protest, even as warmth blooms in my chest at the thought of such indulgence.
"Nothing's too much for you," he counters without hesitation, his fingers reaching out to trace the edge of my jaw. "You'll need to get used to it."
His declaration settles around us, a promise woven from the threads of new beginnings and a shared future. But that's not what this is.
"Saint, I—I don't have the money for new clothes," I stammer, my cheeks flushing with a mix of embarrassment and lingering disbelief. The idea of a shopping spree feels like another world—one that's always been beyond my grasp. "The Winthrops don't—"
He laughs, a rich, deep sound that echoes around the sparse bedroom. "Princess, you really think I'd let you pay?" he asks, his eyes alight with something fierce yet tender. "This is on me, okay? You don't need to worry about money again."
A knot forms in my throat as I process his words. "But that's not—I don't want—"
"Listen," Saint cuts in, his voice low but firm. "Mason is setting you up with an allowance. A card too, tied to an account just for you." His hand reaches out, fingertips grazing my arm in a rare display of open affection. "You deserve financial freedom, Princess. It's yours. Nonnegotiable."
The gravity of what he's offering—the security, the care—it's overwhelming. My heart thrums with a confusing cocktail of emotions. Gratitude swells within me, potent and raw. Before I can second-guess myself, I close the distance between us, pressing my lips to his in a kiss that tastes of promises and uncharted futures.
It's gentler than with Chess, less intense than with Dre, but it's undeniably real. As I pull back, our breaths mingling, I search Saint's eyes. "Thank you," I whisper, meaning every syllable.
His arms encircle me, strong and sure. "Anything for you," he murmurs into my hair. And in that moment, wrapped in the safety of his embrace, I allow myself the luxury of believing him.
??????
The moment Saint and I step through the school doors, the air feels charged, electric with whispers and pointed stares. I tighten my grip on his hand, trying not to let the nerves show. A flash of silver on my finger catches the fluorescent light, and a murmur ripples through the crowd like wildfire.
"Is that—" someone begins.
"Did they just—"
"Hey, Addy, let me see the rock!"
Saint's arm is an unyielding band around my waist, steering me through the throng of bodies and buzzing speculation. I can almost feel the weight of their eyes, heavy with curiosity and envy.
"Congrats, Addy," a girl from my English class says, her smile a little too wide as she cranes her neck for a better look at the ring. "You're one lucky girl."
"Thanks, Kelsey," I manage, the word feeling foreign on my tongue. Lucky. Is that what this is?
We finally reach my locker, and Saint leans against the one next to it, watching the hallway traffic with a hawk's gaze. He's a sentinel amidst the chaos, dark curls framing his face like a shadow.
"Try to ignore them," he murmurs, his voice a low timbre only I can hear. "It's just noise."
But it's hard to ignore when you're the center of attention. Every time the locker door clicks shut, another classmate appears, each interaction a variation of the last.
"Wow, Addy, so it's true then?" a guy from my history class asks, leaning against the locker row. "You and Saint?"
"Seems like it," I reply, keeping my response neutral.
"Can I see the ring?" another chimes in, and I offer a brief glimpse before tucking my hand away, self-conscious.
"Saint's a catch, Winthrop," a voice from the back calls out, followed by a chorus of agreement.
"Enough," Saint growls, his protective nature slipping out. The crowd dissipates, but their words linger like an echo in my ears.
By the time I take my seat in Mrs. Larkin's biology class, the buzz hasn't died down. Even now, heads turn, eyes glancing at my hand resting on the desk. The ring feels heavier than before, a symbol of something I'm still trying to comprehend.
"Addy, everyone's talking about it," whispers Sarah, who sits beside me, her intrigue barely contained. "You and Saint? That's huge."
"Is it?" I mutter, more to myself than to her. Huge, terrifying, unexpected—all of it.
"Let me see the ring!" Another classmate leans over from the row behind us, eager eyes sparkling.
"Sure," I say, and there it is again—a flash of admiration, a touch of jealousy, and a whole lot of questions I'm not ready to answer.
"Saint sure knows how to pick 'em," Sarah continues, her gaze fixed on the diamond. "That's a serious rock, Addy."
"Guess so," I reply, feeling a strange mix of pride and discomfort.
"Are you excited? Nervous?" she presses, but I don't have the answers she wants.
"Both," I admit, because it's the truth. Excited for a future that promises stability and maybe even love. Nervous because it's all happening so fast, and under the scrutiny of an entire school.
"Alright, class, settle down," Mrs. Larkin announces, and I've never been more grateful for the beginning of a lecture. As I pretend to focus on the notes projected on the board, I can't help but feel the weight of dozens of eyes flicking toward me, still hungry for more.
I know one thing for certain—as much as the attention unnerves me, I can't deny the small thrill that comes from wearing Saint's ring. Despite the unease, it's a reminder that I'm not alone anymore—and maybe, just maybe, that's worth the whispers.
But, it's also overwhelming.
By midmorning, I can't take one more second of the whispers and the burning stares. My hand shoots up, trembling slightly. "Mrs. Larkin, may I have the hall pass?"
"Of course, Addy," she says, a hint of sympathy in her voice as she hands it over.
"Thank you," I mumble, practically bolting from my seat. The chatter follows me like a shadow as I escape into the hallway, clasping the cold metal ring around my finger for some semblance of comfort.
The bathroom is mercifully empty when I push through the door. I lean over the sink, splashing cool water onto my heated cheeks, watching the ripples distort my reflection—a girl caught between worlds. Each droplet feels like a tiny shock, grounding me back to reality.
"Get it together, Addy," I whisper to myself, reaching for a paper towel.
The door creaks open behind me, but before I can turn around, I hear the click of the lock snapping into place. My heart stops for a beat, then races.
"Isn't this a surprise?" Wesley's snide tone cuts through the silence.
Panic grips me as I see him reflected in the mirror, Preston looming just behind. I yank my phone from my pocket, fingers flying over the screen to the SOS app—Chess's creation, our silent alarm.
"Ah-ah, Adelaide," Wesley chides, slapping the phone out of my hand. It clatters against the tile floor, skidding into the corner.
"Leave me alone," I say, trying to keep my voice steady. But inside, the fear is a living thing, clawing its way up my throat.
Preston's face is a twisted mask, his pupils swallowing the color in his eyes until they're just two dark holes staring back at me. He rocks on his heels, jittery energy radiating from him like heat from a fire. It's clear he's riding the high of something stronger than his usual vices.
"Look at her," he slurs, his voice barely coherent. "Sitting pretty with your name. Like she deserves it."
Wesley leans against the door, arms folded across his chest, the picture of disdain. "You've got some nerve, Adelaide. My family, they took you in out of pity, and this is how you repay us? Parading around with that ring, as if you belong."
His words are like knives, but they don't quite connect. They're too absurd, too surreal. But fear has made my thoughts sluggish, hard to grasp.
"Belong?" I manage to say, though my voice shakes. "I never asked for any of this."
"Didn't you?" Wesley sneers, pushing off from the door. "You strut around, playing the part. You think you're so special. Just another prime cut of beef, really. If you even make it to your eighteenth birthday... Well, let's just say we might find a better use for you."
A chill runs down my spine at his cryptic threat. I'm trapped in here with them, the walls closing in, their intentions as murky as the look in Preston's wild eyes.
"Better use?" I repeat, trying to buy time, to keep them talking. Anything to delay what feels inevitable.
"Shut up," Preston growls, taking an unsteady step toward me. His movements are erratic, unpredictable. I back away, but there's nowhere to go. The hard edge of the sink digs into my back, and I realize I'm cornered.
The door shudders suddenly, a loud bang echoing through the small space. My heart leaps. Someone's outside. Another bang, and then another, persistent, demanding.
"Who's that?" Wesley barks, irritation creasing his brow. But he doesn't move to open the door, instead joining Preston in edging closer to me. "I told you to make sure we weren't followed!"
"Maybe someone wants to watch," Preston jeers, his words slurred and vile.
"Shut up, Preston," Wesley snaps, but his own gaze is predatory, assessing.
The banging on the door continues, growing more frenzied by the second. Each heavy thud is a pulse of hope, a lifeline thrown to me in this sea of panic.
"Help!" I scream, not caring about anything other than being heard, than being saved from the madness closing in on me. Wesley's hand clamps over my mouth, silencing me, his fingers digging into my cheek.
"Quiet," he hisses. But the banging doesn't stop. It's relentless, a promise that I won't be left alone with these monsters.
"Let...me...go," I manage to mumble against his hand, my voice muffled but fierce.
"Make us," Preston taunts, a twisted smirk on his lips as he moves closer still, the stench of whatever he's on invading my senses.
My mind races, desperate for an escape, for any advantage. But with Wesley's grip firm and Preston's advancing figure, all I can do is hope that the person on the other side of the door gets through in time.
The door erupts from its hinges, wood splintering with the force of salvation. Saint and Dre stand framed in the doorway, their fury radiating like a storm's front line. I don't wait, don't think; I lunge forward, slipping past Wesley's slackened grip, propelled by pure instinct straight into Chess's waiting arms.
"Addy!" Chess's voice is a sharp contrast to the chaos behind me, his embrace a fortress as he wraps me up, shielding me from the world.
Behind us, the sounds of scuffle echo off the tile—grunts and threats merging into one continuous roar. Saint and Dre are an unstoppable force, two sides of the same coin, meting out their own brand of retribution to Wesley and Preston.
"Are you okay?" Chess whispers into my hair, his breath warm against my scalp.
"Y-yeah," I stutter, still trembling with adrenaline and fear.
I peek over Chess's shoulder just in time to see Saint re-emerge, his dark curls disheveled and eyes scanning for any sign of harm. He steps closer, his large hands gentle yet firm as they trace over my arms, down my sides, seeking out injury.
"Did they hurt you?" His voice is low, wrought with barely restrained anger.
I shake my head, unable to form words just yet, but the gratitude in my eyes speaks volumes. Dre follows, his presence like a shield, blood smears his face but I don't think it belongs to him. He doesn't say a word, just presses his forehead to mine, a silent exchange that conveys more than speech ever could.
"Don't scare me like that again," Dre murmurs, the command softened by concern that flickers in his ice blue eyes.
"Sorry," I breathe out, meaning it. The vulnerability in his gaze reminds me how much they've put on the line for me.
Around us, a crowd has gathered, faces blurring into a sea of curiosity and shock. Murmurs ripple through them, but here, in the eye of the storm with Chess, Saint, and Dre, I find an odd sense of peace.
"Let's get you out of here," Chess says, tugging me gently. Saint nods, flanking my other side, while Dre takes up the rear.
"Come on, Princess," Saint adds quietly, and together we move through the throng of our peers.