Page 117 of Unleashed By Eden

Big hands lock around Liam from behind.

Theo gets him in a reverse bear hug and lifts him clean off me as if he weighs nothing.

“That’s enough,” Theo grunts. “You’ll kill him if I let you keep going. And we really don’t need another scandal right now, yeah?”

That cuts through. Liam’s shoulders drop, and he loosens his fists.

“Fine,” he grinds out. “Fine. Get off me.”

Theo eases his arms away and steps back, ready to grab him again if he so much as flinches.

I push myself up onto one elbow and wipe my mouth with the back of my hand. It comes away red.

“It’s not like that,” I say again, more controlled, getting to my feet.

Liam storms closer, chest heaving. “Then spell it out for me—nice and clear.”

I run my tongue over the cut in my lip, and it bites back.

“Yes, we hooked up on tour,” I admit. “More than once.”

He sucks in a breath through his teeth.

“But we were together,” I add. “Actually together. This isn’t some fling. We were going to tell you after the tour. We weren’t hiding it to screw you over.”

A muscle jumps in his jaw.

“And about when we were kids . . .” My throat goes tight, old shit clawing up. “Violet and I have gone through it. I’ll tell you everything; you deserve that. But not here. Not with the crew watching this shit show.”

I sweep a look around the ring of faces. Half of them pretend to suddenly find their phones interesting.

“Enough of my personal crap is out there,” I snap. “We don’t need to leak the rest in Arrivals.”

Liam stares at me, shoulders still tight, breath still too fast.

“This conversation isn’t over,” he clips out.

“Wouldn’t dream of it, asshole.” Touching my cheek, I hiss. “Nice shot, by the way.”

“Fuck,” Liam mutters, pinching the bridge of his nose.

Chris crouches, scoops my sunglasses off the floor, brushes them off on his suit jacket, and hands them to me.

“Get these on,” he says. “We’ve got twenty minutes to get you to the hotel and cover that lovely shade of purple coming through.”

I slide them on and the frame digs into swollen flesh.

“Alright,” Liam calls out, voice cracking across the space as he slides into full manager mode. “Listen up.”

The terminal goes quiet.

“There will be no change of plans,” he announces. “We don’t cancel anything. If we move dates or pull out of appearances, it throws petrol on the fire. And this thing . . . It’s not going away anytime soon. We finish the tour, business as usual. We smash the show tonight, and press stays the same.”

He looks at Chris. “Statements?”

“Drafted,” Chris says. “Legal’s picking them clean as we speak.”

Liam nods. “Good. You”—he jabs a finger at me—“are going to answer every question like a goddamn choirboy. You say exactly what we tell you to. You memorize every line. You do not improvise. Not one word. Got it?”