Page 88 of Unleashed By Eden

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Electric. Unhinged. Those are the only words that come to mind after witnessing two-and-a-half hours of pure magic.

The guys are still on their feet for the encore, bleeding themselves dry under the lights.

I duck backstage as the first notes hit, weaving through cables and crew. From side-stage, the crowd is different—no longer heat rolling off bodies around you, but a collective roar that smacks you in the face, turning the stadium into one enormous animal.

Liam’s already there with Chris and Megan. Dave and Mika are both filming, which is a genius move. Having two cameramen capture tonight’s show is going to pay off in post-production.

“Good timing,” Megan says without looking away from the stage. “Get me the side-stage reactions. Crowd, band, and Liam, if he’ll cooperate.”

Liam scoffs. “I always cooperate.”

Pulse launches into “Closer,” and Carter turns it into a new confession.

I avoided Pulse for years. I didn’t want Carter’s voice in my head when I’d worked too hard to keep him out of my life. I’d never really listened to the lyrics until this tour.

Now, I can’t unhear them.

It’s the same song every show, but somehow never the same. Carter drags something different out of it each night. Sometimes it’s rage. Other times it’s an apology. Tonight it’s . . . softer. Almost sweet. Call me crazy, but I swear he’s making a promise to himself in front of thousands of witnesses and daring the universe to call him on it.

I lift the camera, track Theo’s hands on the bass, catch him in that perfect moment where sweat shines and his grin turns savage. The shot is clean. Beautiful. I drop my eyes to the monitor to check exposure—

Powdery-sweet perfume floats in around me and my nose wrinkles immediately.

A blonde woman slides into my peripheral vision next to me, too close.

I look across—and my stomach drops.

I haven’t seen her since I was old enough to leave that shithole town for good, but some faces never get erased. Her bone structure’s the same—still pretty, just older. And she’s still into pink, apparently. The baby-pink dress clings to her body.

She doesn’t even look at me. She watches the stage with a smirk that I could happily knock sideways.

“Hi, Grunty.”

“Careful, Cindy,” I reply, flatly. “We’re not teenagers anymore. I’ve got zero issue punching you in the face and rearranging whatever Botox you’ve got in there. Don’t tempt me, bitch.”

Her smirk widens. “Still touchy, huh. Some things never change.”

“What the fuck are you doing here?”

“Carter invited me.” Her chin lifts toward the stage. “His tour manager personally extended an invitation. Guess he knew I moved to Toronto.”

She finally turns her head, and there it is—hope, bright as a torch. She’s got that dreamy, delusional excitement of someone who’s ready to hunt down her happily-ever-after.

“It’s nice to know he kept track of me,” she says, hand fluttering to her chest. “He must really want to . . . reconnect. Can you believe it?”

No. I genuinely fucking can’t.

I see red—proper, cinematic red. My brain drops into a Kill Bill fight scene, siren and all. Shame I don’t have a katana sword.

I do, however, have my Swiss Army knife in my boot.

Carter knows my history with her. We literally fought about her in Paris. Why would he—

Unless he didn’t.

Unless this is Chris being a prick. I thought we were on the same page. But this seems unnecessarily cruel, even for his standards.