72. Chess
Chapter seventy-two
Chess
T he 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."
"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."
Dre's hand tightens around Addy's, his ice blue eyes glittering with unshed tears. "She needs to know she's not alone anymore," he adds softly. "That she's got us, always."
I nod, feeling the weight of our shared resolve. "We need to surround her with love, drown out the past with it. Show her a new life—one where she's treasured."
"Every damn day," Saint agrees. He reaches out, brushes a strand of hair off Addy's forehead. "We'll start by making her world safe, giving her the space to heal. And then we rebuild, piece by piece."
"Every nightmare she's ever had, we replace it with a dream," Dre murmurs, leaning in so close I can see the tremble in his shoulders.
"Anything she wants, anything she dreams of, we make it happen," I say, thinking of how small her wishes might have been amidst the Winthrops' towering expectations.
"School, travel, a home," Saint lists, his voice growing stronger with each word. "Freedom to be herself, without fear."
"Love," Dre whispers. "Unconditional and unwavering."
"Exactly." I straighten up, feeling the power of our bond like a current between us. "We're her family now. The one she should've always had."
"Never letting her go," Saint vows, and the promise echoes in the stillness of the room.
"Never," Dre and I say in unison.
We sit in a hushed vigil, each lost in thoughts of atonement and futures we're determined to craft for Addy, a fortress built on the foundation of our collective devotion. And as the night deepens around us, our whispered plans weave into the quiet. I'm never letting her go again.