Page 49 of Unleashed By Eden

“Keep up, Storm,” he says, taking a few steps and dropping me onto the mattress with a bounce. “It’s going to be a long night.”

Chapter fifteen

Carter

Ican’t breathe.

My heart is doing its own version of a staccato beat that the rest of my body doesn’t know the tune to. The chemical smell of vodka, stale smoke, and sweat wraps around my throat.

I open my mouth . . . but nothing. My hands fly to my neck; a desperate gasp rips from my vocal cords. A thread of oxygen finally forces its way in, but it’s not enough. I need more.

Methylated spirits crawls up my nose and makes my stomach pitch.

I shouldn’t have stayed for dinner. Or the night before. I know better.

My stomach aches in a way I only ever feel after eating too much. Liam’s foster mom made roast chicken. Real food. A proper meal. But my body can’t process it. Full hurts more than empty.

The living room is dark, except for the TV screen flickering. The walls used to be white. They’re stained yellow now, nicotine and time sunk into the plaster. The carpet’s worn down to a flattened path where she has stumbled the most.

She’s on the couch.

Too still.

My brain does what it always does. It jumps straight to the worst. Dead. Gone. Finally drank herself out of her body.

My heartbeat spikes.

I take a step closer.

Her mouth hangs open. One arm dangles off the side of the couch. There’s a bottle on the floor, tipped on its side, vodka soaking into the carpet. A dark stain spreads under it, fumes blooming up into the room.

I nearly gag.

My eyes dart around the room.

Is he still here?

His jacket is thrown over the armrest, but his shoes are gone. And there are no keys on the bench.

The back of my neck prickles.

I stand still and listen.

Nothing.

He might be gone. Or he might be in the hallway, waiting for me to walk past so he can get in one more swing. One day, I’ll be old enough and strong enough to take a swing back. He won’t see it coming. But I’ll make it count.

I move toward her anyway. Slow, careful steps, socks protecting my feet from the rough carpet. I kneel by the couch. My hand shakes when I reach for her face.

Her chest rises, falls. A flutter more than a breath.

“Okay,” I whisper. “You’re okay.” It’s for me, not her. She doesn’t hear and wouldn’t care if she did.

Her head lolls to the side and I catch it, angling it to keep her airway clear. She groans, a horrible, wet sound, and her next breath hits me in the face. Pure vodka.

The smell goes straight to my gut. I fight down the vomit clawing up my throat.

I tug the ratty blanket over her legs, up to her shoulder. She doesn’t move. Doesn’t even seem connected to the body she’s living in.