74. Addy
Chapter seventy-four
Addy
T he morning light creeps in, a pale intruder that I can't fend off. My eyelids flutter, reluctantly giving way to the day. My limbs feel like they're coming back from a long vacation, still not quite sure they belong attached to my body. There's a stiffness in my joints, but the sharp pains that haunted me are now dull whispers.
If only the pain in my heart felt the same.
Gen's silhouette appears in the doorway, her presence tentative, as if she's crossing into forbidden territory. "Hey, Addy," she murmurs, her voice soft but laced with something that sounds like hope. "We've got some color choices here for—"
"Doesn't matter." My words cut through the room, sharper than I intend them to be. I don't want to decide on colors or fabrics or whatever other decisions are being made without me. Not when every choice feels like an illusion of control.
Saint's shadow falls next, his figure blocking out the warm sliver of sunlight as he stands by my bed. "Princess—"
"Please," I whisper, turning away from him and pulling the sheets up over my shoulder. The action is a shield, a thin barrier against the world that constantly demands more of me than I'm willing to give.
There's a gentle touch, fingers grazing my arm, and I know it's Dre even before he speaks. "Please, Snowflake. We just want to talk."
"Can't." The word is barely audible, choked out as I press my face into the pillow. They don't understand. How could they? They pried open my life like it was their own personal treasure chest, rifling through my most intimate details. And for what?
Chess doesn't attempt to touch me, but I feel his gaze, heavy with concern. "It's not what you think, Addy," he starts, his tone uncharacteristically solemn. "We thought—"
"Thought wrong." It's all I can manage. The betrayal sits in my chest, a stone weight that refuses to erode. They saw the scars, the walls I had built, and still, they chose to dig deeper, searching for demons in a garden they had no right to cultivate.
I hear their collective sigh, a symphony of frustration and regret that plays on without an audience. They hover, these boys who have stormed into my life with the subtlety of a hurricane, but I am the eye, calm and detached, unwilling to be swept up in their storm any longer.
"Let her rest," Gen's voice commands softly from the doorway, and I can almost picture the solemn nods that follow. The door clicks shut, leaving me alone with my thoughts, which are louder and more insistent than any conversation they wish to have.
Gen's still there when I'm ready to talk again. I roll back to face her. She doesn't look annoyed or angry, she just looks sad for me.
"So," she leans forward like we're sharing a secret, "what do you want to do with your newfound freedom?"
I lick my lips, tasting the remnants of captivity, of days spent with no food and no water. "Cake," I say, and then, as if the word has unlocked something frivolous within me, "And french fries. Oh—and maybe a milkshake."
"Done." Gen's lips twitch upward, a smile that doesn't quite reach her eyes. She knows there's more at stake here than indulgent treats.
The first taste of air outside the confines of these oppressive walls is sweet, a hint of freedom that I didn't realize I was craving. My legs are unsteady, but I'm pushing through.
I'm wearing sweats. I haven't worn sweats since I was a foster kid. These are infinitely more expensive, but that's not really the point. It feels strange and freeing and panic-inducing all at once.
But I'm too sore to consider wearing anything else.
"Ready?" Gen's voice pulls me back from the edge of the world I'm still afraid to explore. She eyes me suspiciously, like she's not sure I'll make it down those stairs. Well, that makes two of us.
I stare at them, start to take a step and then change my mind. I lower myself down to my ass and start slowly scooting step-by-step. Gen cackles, her voice echoing off the walls. Then she shakes her head and joins me as we boot scoot all the way down to the foyer.
The boys are waiting but I don't acknowledge them. I wave them off when they try to help me out to the car. Gen and I get the front seats, shoving all three of the oversized assholes into the backseat together.
The diner is a slice of Americana, all checkered floors and neon lights, and it feels like stepping onto a movie set. It's an illusion of normalcy I’m not sure I'm ready for, but the smell of grease and sugar is a siren call I can't ignore.
We slide into a booth, the same one the boys always claim, and I order with abandon, not caring about the curious glances from Saint, Dre, and Chess. They're a silent trio of shadows, their concern hanging over the table like a storm cloud.
"Everything's been arranged," Gen says, pulling me out of the haze of anticipation for the feast before me. "The wedding will happen tomorrow morning."
I nod, but it's automatic, the gesture empty of the excitement such news should evoke. The word 'wedding' feels foreign on my tongue, an alien concept forced upon me by circumstances beyond my control.
Gen leans in, her face etched with a severity that belies her usual stoic demeanor. "Addy," she murmurs, and I can hear the hesitancy in her voice, "they know they fucked up. They—well, they really fucked up. And they know it."
It's not a confession, it's a plea for absolution that I'm not ready to grant. But the raw honesty in her tone gives me pause.
"Okay?" My voice is flat, my defenses still up, even as part of me yearns to understand, to forgive.
"Please." It's a whisper, almost lost amidst the clatter of the diner. "Just...give them a chance to explain. They're...they're not handling the silence well."
I look at her, really look, and see the remorse that's etched into the lines of her face. And for a moment, just a fleeting second, I consider what it would mean to listen, to open my heart once more to the possibility of trust.
"Maybe," I say, and it's not a promise, just an acknowledgment of the olive branch she's extending on their behalf. I wonder if they asked her to talk to me. I don't care. I don't want to worry about them right now.
I let myself sink into the vinyl seat and wait for cake, for french fries, for a milkshake. For a moment of peace in the eye of the storm.
When the food arrives, I attack my plate like it's the first meal I've ever had. It all swirls together in a maddening rush of sugar and salt. The diner's fluorescent lights buzz overhead, casting an artificial glow on everything. Gen sits beside me, her eyes filled with something like shock, but it's Saint's voice that pulls me back from the edge of my feast.
"Princess, slow down, you're gonna make yourself sick." His hand brushes mine, a fleeting touch meant to steady rather than restrain.
I pause, my chest heaving, my stomach churning with too much, too fast. "I'm fine," I lie, pushing the words out along with a breath I didn't realize I was holding.
He leans back, his dark curls falling into his eyes, shadowing the intensity within them. "You will never go hungry again, Princess. I swear on my life."
The promise is so fierce, so sure that for a moment, I want to believe him. I want to believe in this strange pact of security he offers. But promises are fragile things, aren't they?
Back at the house, the walls feel too close, the silence too loud. My legs carry me up the stairs mechanically, barely. I'm tempted to get on my hands and knees and crawl up the steps or admit weakness and let one of them carry me.
Saint follows, a silent specter trailing just behind me. Until he can't take it anymore. He scoops me up despite my protests and storms into my bedroom before he turns and locks the door. The click of the deadbolt sounds like finality.
I shove out of his arms and back away from him, anger vibrating through me.
"Princess," he starts, his voice strained with an emotion he barely lets surface. "I need you to understand... it was my fault."
I cross my arms over my chest, defense against the confession I didn't ask for. "What was?"
"Everything." He takes a step closer, the air between us charged with his regret. "Bringing the Winthrops down—that was my mission from the beginning. I thought you were part of it all, another spoiled heiress playing games with people's lives."
My heart clenches, a dull ache throbbing in time with his words.
"Chess dug into your digital life, not to control you, but to dig out all your secrets. I thought they would give me the answers I needed. All we found was spyware, likely from your parents. We gave you that new phone to protect you, not to trap you." His eyes hold mine, desperate for me to see the truth in them. "We left a backdoor open, just in case. We only wanted to prove what your family was doing, not hurt you."
"Protection," I echo hollowly, feeling the weight of the word settle around me like a cloak. It's hard to discern where safety ends and suffocation begins.
"Princess, please," Saint pleads, a crack in his stoic facade showing through, "I fucked up. I fucked up so bad, but I never wanted to cause you pain."
"Then congratulations," I say, my voice bitterly ironic, "you've spectacularly failed at that."
A relentless pounding on the door reverberates through the room, every thud a clear echo of Dre's desperation to get in. Saint's eyes flicker toward the noise but he doesn't budge from his spot, his focus trained on me.
"Saint, let him in," I command, my voice devoid of the strength I'm known for.
"Not until I know you believe me, Princess," he says, the plea evident in his tone.
"Fine, Saint. I believe you," I lie, hoping it will be enough to silence the chaos for just a moment longer. The words are empty, a hollow offering that doesn't reach my eyes.
He searches my face, looking for the trust that used to reside there, but all he finds is the shattered remnants of what we had. Despite my words, his shoulders slump, and I can tell he doesn't buy it. He keeps talking, a stream of apologies and explanations pouring out, but they're like rain against a window—seen, not felt.
"Dammit, open up!" Dre's voice shatters the strained silence, his fury palpable even through the wood.
I can't take it anymore—the tension, the guilt in Saint's eyes, the relentless pounding that seems to mirror the ache in my chest. I stride over and yank the door open.
Dre nearly falls into the room, caught mid-kick. His ice blue eyes are stormy with anger and worry, his tattoos and scars stark against his skin, telling tales of past hurts that seem to resonate with the current moment.
"What the hell, Saint? You think locking her in here with you is going to fix things?" Dre's voice is a sharp blade, cutting through the lingering air of confession and regret.
"I needed to explain," Saint mutters, but even he seems to realize how feeble it sounds now that Dre has stormed in.
"Explain or control?" Dre steps closer to me, and I feel his presence like a shield, a twisted and damaged protector that still feels safer than most things I've known.
"Explain," Saint insists, but his gaze drops away, unable to meet mine again.
The fury in Dre doesn't subside, but he turns his attention to me, seeking assurance that I'm alright. His presence is a cold flame, ready to burn down everything to right the wrongs done to me. I understand suddenly that their twisted ways of showing love are all they've ever known.
"Saint, why? Why can't you just leave it be?" My voice breaks, a mix of frustration and exhaustion seeping through. I've had enough of the silence and the secrets, enough of the pain that comes with every breath.
"Because!" He explodes, his dark curls seeming to bristle with the force of his outburst. "I love you. Because you're going to be my wife and I need to know you don't hate me." His hands are on my face now, warm and insistent, cradling my cheeks as if he's afraid I'll shatter. He says it again, his voice raw, "I love you."
I'm frozen, my heart hammering so hard it might crack my ribs. I search Saint's eyes for any hint of deceit, but there is only a desperate sincerity staring back at me. The kind that shakes you to your core. The kind that makes you believe against all odds.
And then there's Dre, suddenly wrapping himself around me from behind, his presence engulfing, his essence both ice and fire. "Snowflake," he murmurs into my hair, his voice thick with emotion. "I'm so sorry... for everything. For the secrets, for leaving you at the Winthrops, for not getting to you sooner." His body trembles with the force of his confession, and I can feel him coming undone.
The air shifts around us, heavy with words left unsaid and actions taken too late. Though they've both broken me in ways I can't yet comprehend, their regret is tangible, wrapping around us like a vice.
"Shhh, Dre," I whisper, turning to face him, our noses almost touching. I run my hands over his shoulders and down his arms to soother. My fingertips trace over the faint scars that cross cross his skin. I see the boy who has endured too much, the boy who wants to make it right. So I do what feels natural—I kiss him, softly, forgivingly.
He responds with a fervor that speaks of more than just passion. It's a plea for absolution, a silent vow.
Dre’s hands cradle my face, his touch gentle as if I might shatter. "I love you," he whispers against my lips, each word a lifeline thrown in the dark waters of my tumultuous heart. He kisses me again, fervently, and this time there’s an urgency that knots in my chest—a sweet, aching pressure that demands to be felt.
He loves me, despite the chaos, and I find myself sinking into that love, even if I'm not sure where it will lead us.
"I love you so much, Snowflake," he breathes out between kisses that sear my soul.
A laugh bubbles up from within me, surprising even myself with its lightness. "I love you too, Dre." The words are barely a whisper, but they hold the weight of all the unsaid things, the forgiveness I never thought I could give.
It's like something inside him breaks—or maybe it remakes. With newfound strength, he lifts me effortlessly, carrying me toward the bed like I'm the most precious thing he's ever held. My heart thunders in my ears as he lays me down, his fingers fumbling yet tender as he undresses me. Then, his warm breath on my skin, reverent and worshipful, and I'm lost to the sensations that follow.
As he lowers his head between my thighs, I feel the rough stubble on his chin tickle my skin. A gasp escapes my lips as his warm, wet tongue slides across my sensitive flesh. My fingers grip the sheets as waves of pleasure ripple through me.
Saint stays back, leaning against the doorframe, his dark eyes intense and unreadable. There’s a tension in his jaw, a war waging behind those guarded depths. But my heart, battered and bruised, somehow finds space for him too.
"Saint," I breathe out, extending a shaky hand towards him. "I love you too."
The room feels charged, electric with raw emotion as he hesitates, then steps forward, accepting the silent invitation. There’s a vulnerability in the way he moves, a silent plea echoing in the distance between us. His presence is a balm to the chaos, the final piece in a puzzle I didn’t realize was incomplete until now.
A gasp draws my attention to the door, and Chess stands there, his dark hair tousled, eyes wide with a storm of emotions. " Dios mio ," he curses under his breath, the words slipping out in a mix of awe and exasperation.
"Chess," I gasp, my voice a ragged thread of sound. I reach out a hand towards him, fingers trembling from the rush of what Dre has ignited within me. My body is a live wire, every touch sparking something deep and primal.
Dre presses his lips against me, soft at first but then with an urgent hunger. He pulls my clit into his mouth and sucks hard, sending a jolt of pleasure through my body. I can't help but cry out in delight as he continues to devour me whole.
His tongue swirls and twirls, teasing my sensitive flesh. I grip onto his hair, pulling him closer, not above begging.
"Addy," Chess breathes, stepping closer, his hazel eyes flaring with that familiar mischievous light that belies the depth of his feelings. There's a hesitation, a question in his gaze, as if he's still unsure if he belongs in this tangled web we've woven.
"Come here," I plead, needing him to bridge the gap, to erase any doubt that he is as much a part of this as Saint and Dre.
He moves, drawn by the gravity of our connection, and kneels on the bed. His fingertips graze my skin, sending ripples of pleasure through me. "I'm sorry for just barging in like—" he starts, but I cut him off.
"Shh, it's okay," I whisper, pulling him down to me. Our lips meet in a kiss that silences all apologies, all hesitations. It's a promise, a seal over the cracks in our bond. "It's okay."
"Addy," he murmurs against my lips, "you're incredible."
We get lost then, in the push and pull of hands and mouths. Dre's touch, Saint's gaze, Chess's whispers—they blend into a symphony of sensation that crescendos within me.
"More," I breathe, a plea, a command.
And they oblige, Dre's mouth relentless, Chess's hands exploring with unspoken reverence, while Saint anchors me with his presence, his touch gentle yet possessive. The world narrows to the room, to the bed, to the three of them surrounding me, filling me with an intensity that shatters me over and over.
" Te amo ," Chess whispers into my ear, his breath hot. Each word punctuates another wave that crashes through me, leaving me gasping, shuddering.
"Love you too," I manage to say between the tremors, reaching out to twine my fingers in his hair, anchoring myself to him as much as he does to me.
And for those moments, we are lost in each other, in a place where the past doesn't exist, and the only truth is the love that pulses through us—a love manifested in kisses, caresses, and the shared heat of bodies entwined.