Page 31 of Unleashed By Eden

Why did you leave?

Why did you stay gone?

Why does looking at you still hurt?

My nipples tighten under my top, traitorous nerves lighting up even while my heart is squeezed in his fist. It’s fucking infuriating that my body hasn’t got the memo that we’re not doing this anymore, that we’re not those same kids.

I force a swallow past the lump in my throat. The longer I hold his gaze, the more I feel myself drifting toward it. If I’m not careful, the gravity between us will drag me across the floor and drop me right back at his feet.

I’m the one who eventually breaks it. I turn to the bar, my hair whipping over my shoulders, putting my back to him.

He doesn’t get to look at me like that.

Chapter eleven

Violet

Ten years ago

Ilie on my back, eyes pinned to the posters on my ceiling, the glow-in-the-dark stars faint under the ugly orange spill from the streetlight outside. Sleep bailed on me hours ago.

I roll onto my side and squint at the clock on my bedside table: 2 a.m. Great. Smothering a yawn, I punch the pillow a few times, trying to knock the hard lumps into something remotely sleepable. My brain is wide awake, running the same track on repeat.

Carter is on the couch downstairs, only a few feet away, under the same roof. He does it most weekends when he’s back from uni, crashing here instead of staying at his mom’s. I hate it for him. I hate that he keeps putting himself through it.

He deserves better than that bitch.

He turns up to check she’s alive, tries to help, and it ends with him outside again, split lip, fresh bruise, some dickhead boyfriend screaming after him while his mom cries and chooses the bottle. But he keeps going back anyway.

I don’t get it.

He’s been looking after her for as long as I can remember. She’s had twenty years to get her shit together, to look after herself and her son, and she still hasn’t managed it. If she hasn’t done it by now, she never will.

My mind floats through the floorboards to where he is. I can almost feel the sadness drifting up through the springs of my mattress. I know he’s hurting, and it eats at me that I can’t fix it for him.

I don’t ever want to end up like that. Waiting around for someone who can’t, won’t choose me back. At school, bitches like Cindy Winters have always made it crystal clear where I stand: on the outside looking in. Once school’s over, I want real friends—people who actually like me for me. As soon as I hit eighteen, I’m gone.

Four months. One hundred and twenty-two days. I count backward, forward, in any direction that makes it seem closer.

With a huff, I throw the blanket off and swing my legs out of bed. I creep out of my room and down the stairs, automatically skipping the worst creak spots. I misjudge one and the step groans under me, loud enough to wake the dead. I freeze, breath held, then inch forward and peer around the wall to the living room.

Carter lies flat on the couch, one forearm flung over his forehead, bare torso exposed, one jean-clad knee bent. Even in the half-dark, I can see the fresh swelling around his eye, the faint purple starting to bloom under the skin. A new tattoo, still wrapped in plastic, runs along his forearm. I want to get a closer look to see what he decided deserved permanent space on his skin. Every fresh mark on him is another piece of his puzzle.

I bite my lip instead and make myself move toward the kitchen.

The fridge whirrs when I open it, and cold air spills out, goosebumps rising along my arms. I grab the jug of water and pour myself a glass. Leaning back against the sink, I take a long drink. I try not to look through the doorway. I really do. But I last all of five seconds.

Damn, he looks really good without a shirt. All those hours hauling amps and gear into garages and crappy venues have paid off.

On the way back, I pause at the edge of the living room. My eyes move over him from a closer distance this time. His arm has slipped off his forehead, his face fully visible, and the bruise around his eye is clearer now. I want to kiss it and press an icepack on it, hold it for him, tell him he doesn’t have to keep doing this, that she doesn’t deserve him. I hope he gave her boyfriend worse.

I just stand there and sip my water. When I’ve had my fill, I turn toward the stairs.

“Fuck, Violet.”

I stop dead.

The words barely reach me, a soft mumble from the couch, almost lost under the loud motor of the fridge and the tick of the wall clock, but I hear it. I know my name in his voice better than I know it in anyone else’s.