Page 33 of Unleashed By Eden

Tears crowd my eyes and my cheeks flare, traitorously hot. I push backward on my palms, then scramble to my knees.

“I—” The word snags in my throat. No excuse makes sense even in my own head. I stupidly thought this would be the moment everything changed between us. Turns out, I’ve managed to humiliate myself on a whole new level.

He drags in a ragged breath, pulls himself up straighter, building distance that doesn’t just feel physical.

“Don’t ever fucking touch me again, Vi,” Carter says, voice flat and distant in a way I’ve never heard from him. Not with me. “You hear me?”

My lungs forget how to draw in air.

I turn and bolt for the stairs, feet slipping on the first step. I catch myself on the rail and keep going, legs moving on instinct. Hot tears spill over, blurring the chipped paint and the framed photos on the wall into watery splotches.

I burst into my room and throw myself onto the bed. The pillow muffles my face as I press into it, but it doesn’t stop the noises wrenching out of me, or the pounding in my skull, telling me exactly what I’ve done.

My whole body shakes. My insides roll, and I’m close to hurling. The way he looked at me, like I was something dirty he couldn’t scrub off fast enough . . . I can’t.

He hates me.

I’ve ruined everything.

I lie there in the dark and bury my face in the pillow. I’ve never wanted to disappear more in my life.

Chapter twelve

Violet

Ishove the last of my clothes into the suitcase and sit on it to get the zipper around the curve. My hair is still damp from the shower, and I’m already in my pajamas—an old black tank and shorts that have seen better elastic.

My toiletries are still spread across the bathroom counter in an arranged mess that makes sense only to me. Those can go in my backpack in the morning, right before we leave Singapore and trade humid air for Stockholm chill.

Two countries in, and I finally get why touring bands always look half dead in photos. Constant packing, unpacking, airports, security, trying to remember what city you woke up in. Whatever glamour people imagine drains out fast.

After my drink with Megan a couple of hours ago, I tapped out. I couldn’t bring myself to stay any longer. The temptation of a dark hotel room, clean sheets, a glass of cola and a stupidly overpriced room-service burger won out.

There’s a knock at the door just as I pick up the TV remote.

Finally. My burger.

I pad across the carpet and open the door.

Carter fills the doorway, one hand braced on the frame. He’s completely wasted. His eyes need a second to find my face, sliding around before they land, and he sways in place. The security guard beside him reaches out, ready to stop his fall, but Carter rights himself at the last second with a stubborn little jerk. From the way he tilts on his feet, I’d bet money he bounced off a few walls getting here.

“Viii,” he slurs, mouth dragging over the vowel.

“What are you doing here?”

He blinks slowly. “Needed to . . . to talk to you.”

His words stick together, and the bourbon rolling off him is strong enough to make my eyes water.

“Jesus, Carter.” I grab his forearm before he folds forward into the room. “Did you swim in it?”

“No,” he mumbles. “Only spilled a little.”

Yeah, sure. He smells like a distillery exploded on him.

I shoot a quick glance at security and drag him inside, kicking the door shut with my heel.

He’s heavy and uncoordinated, a drunken mess of very warm, very muscled deadweight.