Page 100 of Unleashed By Eden

I smile into Carter’s kiss.

Guess we’ve started a chain reaction.

Chapter twenty-eight

Carter

The last of the light skims across Lake Como, the surface incredibly flat and still, it almost looks fake. There’s no ripples or breeze to make it move. It’s turned into a huge sheet of black glass, waiting for night to swallow it.

I stand at the open window with a cigarette between my fingers and think, Yeah, this is the shit people write ballads about and somehow get wrong.

I take a slow drag, the burn familiar, and my brain does what it always does now—goes straight to her. I’m one lucky bastard. She’s back in my life with a camera, sharp tongue, and those gray eyes I’ve missed since we were kids. I’ve always loved her. Even when I tried to bury it. Telling Liam is now a priority. I owe him that, even if he knocks my teeth in.

All I can think about lately is the end of the tour. When I don’t have to act like she’s another crew member, especially when she’s the first thing in my head every morning and the reason my whole ribcage feels . . . full, in a way that actually fucking lasts.

I want her in New York with me. She’ll argue about it, no doubt. She argues on principle. But I need her on my side of the world. I can’t move to Sydney. It’s too far from everything I’ve built and too far from the band.

“You ready?” I call, flicking ash out the window onto the stone deck below.

Her voice drifts from the bathroom. “One second.”

I take another drag, turn when the door opens—and nearly inhale the entire cigarette.

She steps out in a slip of a dress that’s mostly black, with a slash of deep red curling up the side of her body like a lick of flame. Her hair’s loose and glossy, eyes lined dark, mouth painted perfectly red, making my dick, thumb, and mouth all volunteer at once to smudge it.

“Jesus, Vi.” I let my gaze take a slow tour because self-control is not on tonight’s menu. “We’re having dinner with the family, not hitting a premiere.”

She shrugs. “I wanted to look nice.”

“You always look nice.” My voice comes out gravelly. “Come on.”

I crush the cigarette on the windowsill, take her hand, and her fingers slot into mine. We head out, down the wide staircase, and through the open doors onto the lower patio.

The villa looks different at night, more rugged and alive than the postcards people imagine. Thick old stone holding the leftover heat from the day, and heavy beams stretched overhead. Lanterns hang off iron hooks, lighting up the flagstone and the long table set under the vines.

“It’s beautiful,” Vi says.

“It is,” I answer, looking directly at her.

She levels me with a dry stare, and I wink at her because, apparently, I’m a sap now.

Everyone else is already seated, the table overflowing with bottles of red wine, open and breathing. Bowls of pasta steam beside slabs of freshly baked bread and antipasto boards loaded with olives, cured meats, and an obscene amount of cheese. Staff move quietly in the background, topping up glasses, setting down more plates, working with the ease of people who have done this a thousand times.

Dameon lifts his glass in salute, Hailee leaning into his side. James gives me one of his tiny nods while Cora tears a piece of bread, stuffing it into her mouth with a single-minded focus. Zac lets out a low wolf-whistle until Chloe smacks his shoulder.

Beyond them, the lake is now a smear of black ink. The breeze is still warm, though, full of basil and tomatoes with a hint of wood smoke from the pizza oven inside.

I pull Vi’s chair out. She sits, and I take the one beside her, pressing my knee to hers under the table, and don’t move it. I find her hand and drop it on my thigh, trapping it there.

Tonight, I’m feeling good . . . I’m at peace.

Dinner goes down the way it always does with this lot—loud, chaotic, and nobody waiting their turn to talk. People stealing bites off each other’s plates, swearing they’re done drinking while topping up their glasses.

I’ve missed this. Missed them. Missed having my people in one place.

Zac’s halfway through a graphic Eden story when Chloe grabs his arm and hisses that he absolutely cannot say the word moist at the table, not while Cora’s trying to keep her pasta down.

Cora flicks an olive at both of them. “I’m fine,” she protests. “But if anyone mentions bodily fluids, I will start gagging.”