Page 56 of Unleashed By Eden

“How are you going to get him to a hospital without Chris and security finding out?” I ask.

“Leave it with me,” he says. I can practically hear the gears turning, routes and timings and fake meetings lining up in his head.

I let out a long breath. “Okay. Thank you, Liam.”

“Thanks for giving me the heads-up. You’re right, I would’ve flipped my shit otherwise.”

I snort. “I know.”

There’s a muted knock, then Anne’s voice comes through the door, calling his name. “I gotta go,” he says. “I’ll let you know what’s happening once I’ve set it up.”

“Give Indigo a kiss for me,” I say.

“Will do.”

The line clicks off.

I sink deeper into the couch, lifting the camera again. Thumb to the wheel, click, click, click. From Lisbon to Madrid.

I hit the newest set, and there it is. The shot from the airport.

I pause.

In the frame, the fan’s chest is front and center, bra half visible, boobs pushed together and up. Her face is turned toward him, lit from inside, pure joy and disbelief plastered across her features. It’s the expression of a woman who has waited years for this moment.

But that’s not what holds me.

My focus is on him.

His face is turned straight at the camera, straight at me. Pen in hand, frozen midair, his posture angled toward her, but his attention on me.

His brows are drawn just enough to show it’s not a pose. His eyes are wide open and unguarded, bright blue beneath wind-tousled hair, a question sitting there so clearly, it may as well be a caption.

Is this okay?

I zoom in until his features fill the tiny screen. The faint red at the tip of his nose from the cold. The flip of his leather collar. The outdoor light catches his iris, turning the startling blue into the color of ice.

It’s Carter stripped bare, a moment of pure vulnerability. A true representation of who he is as a person, and deep down, into his soul.

One of the best photographs I’ve ever taken. My thumb hovers over the trash icon on instinct. This doesn’t belong in any folder that might one day get dragged into a documentary cut or an album release. It’s too personal.

Too mine.

I should delete it.

My thumb falls away. Instead, I sit there, staring at that small, stolen moment of him looking straight through the lens at me, a stranger’s breasts blurred in the foreground with nothing but pure devotion on her face.

The contrast is exquisite. I lower the camera slowly. No one will ever see this shot. Not the band, Megan, or PrimeTime+. Not even Carter.

Some images are for the world.

This one is for me.

Chapter seventeen

Carter

“Dave, kill it a sec,” I throw over my shoulder, nodding at the camera pointed at my face. I wipe sweat off my forehead with the towel hanging around my neck.