Page 24 of Unleashed By Eden

“Thanks,” I finally mumble. I worked my ass off to build Vega’s reputation. It didn’t magically fall out of the sky.

I look around the cabin, searching for something, anything to redirect the conversation. Lots of polished wood and cream leather. A fully stocked bar and a giant flat screen with a sound system that probably costs more than my car. It’s utterly insane.

“It’s a lot, isn’t it?” Carter asks, following my gaze as he starts shuffling the cards.

“Hmmm,” I concede, watching the way his hands move, fast and loose.

“It’s surprising how quickly you get used to it.”

I make another non-committal sound. I’m not planning on getting used to any of this. The click and slide of the cards stop, and he deals out six to each of us.

“Pick up your cards, Vi.”

“What are we playing?” I ask, gathering my hand.

“Poker.”

We play a few practice rounds in silence. It’s strangely easy, this pointless little back-and-forth. Cards down, cards picked up, bets that are only theoretical. We have years’ worth of heavy conversation hanging between us, and yet we’re choosing to talk in colors, shapes, and numbers.

I ease into the game and win the latest round quickly.

“We should have played for stakes,” I say, grinning despite myself.

I reach for my camera and turn it on. The images from last night’s concert flicker to life on the small screen. Carter onstage, bathed in white light, veins protruding from his neck as he sings, head thrown back, guitar slung low. The whole concert was unreal in person; on screen, it looks even more otherworldly.

He’s magnetic up there. Annoyingly so. Almost godlike, if I could believe in gods who wear sweat-soaked tees and curse into microphones.

I flick past wide shots of the arena, the crush of bodies, hands in the air, the band silhouetted against massive screens. Shots of the crew doing their jobs, light techs with their eyes glued to consoles, stagehands poised in the wings. Then I land on it—the shot that tells the entire night’s story in one frame.

A woman in the front row, tears streaking her cheeks, mouth open on a sound I can’t hear. The emotion is so raw, it almost hurts to look at. Awe, joy, relief, and love.

That is what their music does. What last night did. I don’t blame her. For a while, in the shadows, I felt the same, the beat pulsing through my veins, tethering me to something bigger than myself. I’ve shot more concerts than the average person will attend in their lifetime, and I have never felt anything quite like that. It tipped over into something close to spiritual.

I was blown away by how the band fed off the crowd and gave it right back, this loop of energy that never dipped. And the way they played together, easy and instinctive, made it obvious they’re not just a band; they’re a bunch of guys who love what they do and actually love each other.

It overwhelmed me so much that, as soon as they walked offstage, I bolted. Straight home to sleep in my bed for the last time, because the idea of seeing Carter after all that energy, all that history, made my skin feel too tight. I don’t get overwhelmed often, not by anything except anger. Last night made the very short list.

“You know what? You’re on,” Carter says suddenly. “Let’s play for stakes.”

I look up. He’s watching me with that crooked half-smile, the one that did things to my insides when I was sixteen and, apparently, still has some residual power now. Dark blond hair falling over one eye, week-old stubble, tattoos winding down his forearms all the way to the knuckles. White baggy tee. Navy sweats. Sneakers.

I can’t resist. I bring the camera up and take the shot.

He raises a brow. “Seriously?”

“Just doing my job,” I say, smirking around the camera body. “Give me a minute.”

I get up and move around the cabin, slipping into the version of myself that knows how to disappear, even in small spaces. I capture Kai, hunched forward and swearing under his breath while playing Gran Turismo on the big screen. Theo, his eyes closed, massive headphones on, one foot tapping. Xander bent over a notebook, pen moving fast. Liam is still glued to his laptop, his face carved into his do not fucking talk to me expression. And Chris pointedly ignores me.

I keep my steps soft, my presence smaller than my lens, and circle back to my seat.

“So, want to play again?” Carter asks, already shuffling.

“Sure.” I shrug, dropping back into the leather. “But let’s make it interesting.”

He scratches his chin, the rasp of his fingers over stubble noticeable in the quiet between us.

“How about this?” he says. “Whoever wins gets to ask a question, and the other person has to answer. Truthfully. No holding back.”