Page 46 of Unleashed By Eden

“So yeah, I toughened up,” I say. “Got hard. Built walls. Locked everyone out. And I stayed angry. I’m still angry!” The rage-fueled last word comes flying out.

His throat moves. “What are you angry about, Vi?”

“I’m angry at YOU,” I fire back. “Angry at the world. Angry at Jeanine. Angry at Liam for somehow getting out of all this semi-normal, while I turned into this.” I hit my chest hard with my palm. “I’m fucking angry all the time. And I’m—I’m exhausted.”

He studies me quietly. “Have you tried therapy?”

I glare. “I’m going to get real stabby, real fast, Carter.”

“You just tore strips off me for not growing up and getting help,” he says, “but you’re doing the same thing. Pot, meet kettle.”

We stare each other down, both of us breathing too hard for words. The silence between us stretches.

Eventually he looks away, rubbing the back of his neck. “Let me ask you something. It’s been stuck in my head ever since I found out you worked at Eden.”

I drop onto the couch, arms wrapped around myself. “What?”

“Do you work there because of me?” he asks. “Because of what happened that night in the living room?”

I shut my eyes for a moment. “What do you think?” I manage.

“I need to hear it,” he says quietly. “Say it.”

I stare at him. “Of course. At the start, that was the reason. My self-esteem was shot. I hated my body. Hated myself. Thought nobody would ever want me. Eden gave me control. I chose who touched me, and I never had to risk hearing ‘no’ again.”

His face twists, some awful combination of regret and fury aimed inward. “Vi, you don’t need men drooling over you to feel sexy,” he says. “You just have to look in a mirror.”

My anger flares. “You told me to never touch you again,” I fume. “You made me feel so dirty and shameful. Do you have any idea what that does to a seventeen-year-old girl?”

His eyes shut on a wince, every word finding its mark.

“I’m sorry.” His voice cracks. “I fucked up. I should’ve explained instead of losing my shit. I was asleep and having the best fucking dream about you sucking me off,” he grits out. “I was so close to blowing, and when I woke up and saw you there, real, willing, and underage . . . I panicked. If Liam had come down those stairs, he would’ve killed me. I don’t even remember what I said. I shoved you away to stop myself from doing something stupid like pinning you down and fucking you senseless. I’m sorry for how much it fucked you up.”

His voice drops even lower. “I’m sorry . . . for everything.”

Heat pricks the back of my eyes; I shove it down. “I’m sorry too,” I whisper. “I shouldn’t have done it, I know that now, but when I heard you say my name in your sleep, I thought it meant something real.” I pause, gathering strength for the question that still haunts me. “I just don’t understand—why did you run? Why didn’t you stay in touch?”

He looks at me, jaw working, fingers curling into fists against his knees.

“I couldn’t,” he says. “I couldn’t stand being near you and wanting things I had no right wanting. The guilt ate me alive. I couldn’t look Liam in the face while I was thinking about his little sister every damn day.”

The room shrinks around us.

He drags in a breath. “It has always been you, Vi.”

The words take a sledgehammer to my walls; years’ worth of shit I never let myself feel rushes up, heat and hurt and want all at once.

“I’m still fucking angry.” It comes out small but fierce.

“Then let me fuck the anger out of you.”

He launches across the couch before the sentence fully registers. I’m flat on the couch and his mouth is hard on mine, stealing every thought I have. I make a strangled sound, and then I’m kissing him back, fingers clutching at his T-shirt, trying to get closer, deeper, more.

We’re a mess of teeth, lips, tongues, and moans clashing together. His hands try to be everywhere at once; mine aren’t much better. I get his shirt bunched up with both fists, nails scraping at bare skin every time he shifts. He drags the hem of my top up, palms skimming my ribs, my sides, anything he can reach.

We overshoot the edge of the couch, and gravity takes over. We tumble off, clip the coffee table, and send it flipping. It clatters onto its side and half on us as we crash onto the carpet. Neither of us stops. He shoves the table away with an impatient arm, half lying over me, and dives back in, his mouth finding mine again.

This time, we get the rhythm right. Our first real kiss, and it’s everything I dreamed it would be and more. His lips move firmly over mine, catching and pressing, coaxing my mouth open until his tongue slides in and the taste of soda and him mixes with mine. It’s like coming home.