Page 41 of Unleashed By Eden

Violet is there with Dave. She steps closer to him, showing him something on her camera. Her hair has fallen over one shoulder, and she pushes it back with the flick of her wrist. Dave says something and she smiles, a real one. The one I used to be able to pull out of her without trying.

He leans in to see the screen better. His head is right next to hers.

My grip on the guitar tightens, tendons standing out in my hand. I loosen it before anyone notices.

Enough.

Violet taps at the camera, completely unaware I’m staring holes in the side of her head. I drag my thumb too hard over a string, and it snaps sharp through the stadium.

Everyone looks over. Except for her.

My molars grind together before I force them apart.

This wall between us has been there for too long. Whatever we’re doing now—this half-truce, where we pretend we’re fine and bury everything under work and banter—isn’t working. Not for me.

Tonight, that distance ends. One way or another, it ends.

I’m done standing at the edges while someone else hovers near her, close enough to breathe the same air. I’m not letting some asshole step into a place he has no right to be.

She’s mine. Always has been.

Chapter fourteen

Violet

There is nothing in the world like watching Carter Ashford walk onto a stage.

Every concert is a variation of the same ritual, and yet somehow, it’s never the same show twice. A shift in how he moves. The way he drags a chord out a second longer. The angle of his chin when the crowd screams his name, hitting him full force. It’s art, wild and messy and alive.

And I get to shoot it in real time. Catch the rawness before it burns out. Trap the electricity in a single photographic frame.

Artistically, it’s a dream. Personally, it’s torture.

By the time the last note dies, my breathing is uneven, my skin overheated, my nipples sensitive against my bra, and my underwear is a whole other situation. Every show leaves me hovering on the precipice of falling apart, and he has no idea he’s the reason.

Or maybe he does. He has to know exactly what his music does to people.

Carter comes offstage at a dead run, the crowd chanting for a second encore they’re not getting. His eyes find me instantly, zeroing in like he’s been tracking me all night. He hands his guitar to a tech without even looking, his focus locked on me. Only me.

He’s drenched, chest lifting and falling in deep pulls, hair shoved back by the heat. I’ve seen him in a thousand different states, but this is something else. He’s feral, supercharged in a way that shouldn’t be human.

Those eyes. Christ.

Before he reaches me, I raise my camera on instinct and take the shot. I don’t even think; it’s pure muscle memory. Eyes like that deserve to be immortalized.

In the next breath, he’s right in front of me, the roar of the crowd blurring into background noise. He plants his hands on the wall, on either side of my head, and cages me in. Heat, sweat, adrenaline, all of it pouring off him in waves. His presence is overwhelming, crowding out my oxygen.

He’s so close, I catch the salt on his skin and the faint metallic tang of guitar strings still clinging to his fingers. I want to breathe him in, drag every inch of him into my lungs, but I don’t. I hold my breath, terrified it will push me over the edge when I’m already wound tight.

He dips his head, mouth hovering inches from mine, eyes burning straight through me.

“Wanna get out of here?” His voice is rough from the set.

The words scrape out of me on half a breath. “Where do you want to go?”

His gaze tracks from my lips to my eyes and back again.

“Don’t know.” He glances over his shoulder. I follow it and see Mika with the camera pointed our way, red light on. “Anywhere but here. Somewhere quiet.”