Page 42 of Unleashed By Eden

The post-show high looks different on him tonight, more intense than elated.

“Sure,” I breathe against his lips. “My room.”

He straightens and steps back, but the intensity doesn’t drop. We move together through the maze of corridors, out the back entrance, where his SUV is waiting, security already in position.

Outside the barricades, the fans have made themselves into a human wall. Screaming, crying, hands reaching through gaps, phones shoved up in the air. They pound on the SUV as it crawls forward through the blockade. People call his name, beg, and sob.

Carter doesn’t look at any of them. He stares straight through the glass, as if all that noise and movement out there has nothing to do with him.

My hand moves before I think. I reach across the seat and take his, my fingers slipping between his knuckles. I squeeze and hold.

His eyes flick to mine, the heat there dimmed. He gives me a small half-smile that doesn’t reach the edges, then turns his head back toward the glass.

We keep our hands tangled all the way to the hotel.

It’s the same kind of chaos when we arrive. Security slices through the wall of bodies and funnels us into the underground car park. We take the elevator in silence.

He’s too quiet. Too turned inward. It feels wrong.

When we step into my room, he stands just inside the door, taking it in. Neutral walls, a decent bed, and a sad little kitchenette and sitting area. Comfortable enough, but nothing on the scale of the luxury he’d be used to.

He drops onto the couch and lets his head fall back, a wordless sound slipping out of him that could mean anything.

“You want a drink?” I ask, already walking toward the minibar.

He cracks one eye open. “Do you mind . . . no alcohol tonight?”

“Sure.” I grab a bottle of water, twist the cap off, and hand it over.

He downs the entire thing in two gulps, throat working, then wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. The bottle lands empty on the coffee table.

“You want to shower?” I ask. “You’re a biohazard.”

He gives me a tired grin. “With you?”

“Keep dreaming, rock star.”

“You saying I stink, Vi?”

“Absolutely.”

He reaches out, catches my wrist, and tugs until I drop down beside him on the edge of the couch.

“What’s wrong?” I ask.

“Nothing. Just tired.”

Liar.

I slide my fingers into his damp hair and push it off his forehead, smoothing it away from his face.

His eyes drift shut. “Don’t stop.”

“I wasn’t planning to,” I say quietly.

Time goes strange. It could be minutes. Could be an hour. His breathing evens out, not quite asleep, yet not quite awake either. My hand keeps moving through his hair. It feels too good to stop.

“Wanna play cards?” he says suddenly, eyes still closed.