“Calculating route.”

Stopping in front of the open-air market, I stared at my phone, cursing the universe for poor wireless connections, and myself for being a stalker, while I waited for the piece of shit in my hand to make up its mind.

Thanks to the oh-so-tempting app that Tori had put on my phone to track her whereabouts in case she ever turned up missing, I knew exactly where she was. But not how to get there.

“Please proceed to the highlighted route.”

Without looking up, I took a step into the street, and narrowly missed getting splattered by a passing car. The driver shouted something in French, his middle finger shooting out from the sunroof.

Even though I was dead wrong, my own finger went up in response.

Maybe the asshole would stop, and instead of following the yellow arrow to the girl who obviously didn’t want me around, I could hit something. His car. Or his face. It didn’t matter. But the little Fiat disappeared around the corner. So I trudged on, boots eating up the pavement as I tried to figure out exactly how my life had fallen to pieces in ten fucking days.

Playtime’s over. She’s done with you.

It made sense. The tour was coming to an end. Two more weeks and we were heading home. We’d avoided any talk of the future. I’d made a couple of halfhearted attempts, but Victoria had chased the words from my lips with soft kisses and gentle touches. Her mouth on my cock. Or her hands in my hair. So many distractions.

My palm went to my chest, and I rubbed at the tender spot. Was this really love? Because it felt like something was shredding my insides with a dull knife.

“You have arrived.”

Scratching the back of my head, I looked from my phone to the massive stone structure with the statues of saints carved into the façade. A church. Switching the ringer off, I climbed the steps, the chord twining through my ribs and wrapped around my heart beckoning me to the door.

As I stepped inside, a calming scent wafted to my nose. Whatever lingered in the air, incense or holy water or hope … it centered me. And then I saw Tori, kneeling in front of a pew, shoulder to shoulder with a guy dressed all in black. A priest? I wasn’t Catholic—hell, I wasn’t anything—so I couldn’t be sure.

But moments later, when he made the sign of the cross and pushed to his feet, the collar around his neck confirmed my suspicions.

Tori lifted her gaze to his, tears streaking her face. She nodded and tried to hand him something. A necklace? He shook his head, and his hand curved around hers. Then he helped her up, and together they walked to the alter.

I followed, keeping my distance, but the domed ceiling and stone walls didn’t allow for secrets and a few of the priest’s words drifted to my ears.

He is with God.

Honor him through prayer.

You will reunite with him in the kingdom of heaven.

The last one was like a punch to the gut. Tori wasn’t mine. She’d never be mine. I could see the grief etched into her face, softened by the light that shone from the stained glassed windows. Agony that was as fresh and raw as it had been six years ago.

Dropping onto a pew, I landed with a thud that I was sure could be heard all the way to heaven. And I said my own little prayer. Not to God. To her.

Look at me, baby.

See me.

Feel me.

Want me.

But Tori didn’t turn my way. She just continued to nod, clutching her beads.

A hundred years passed before the priest trailed a hand up Tori’s arm and said goodbye. One final nod, and she shuffled to a little alcove where candles glowed beneath a statue of the Virgin Mary. Tori’s lips moved as she lit a votive, and even in all her sorrow, she was beautiful. So fucking beautiful.

Maybe it was selfish to hold my ground, to make Tori face me when she was raw and vulnerable. But that’s exactly what I did. If we were through, what better place to end it than here. In a church. In front of God.

A small smile lifted her lips when she stepped back, making the sign of the cross. And then she turned, and whatever solace she’d found evaporated into the ether when our eyes met. A better man wouldn’t have been happy about that.

But it was something.

The statues of all the saints mocked me as I made my way to the door, a sinner, unworthy, the remnants of my shattered heart left like tiny stones at her feet.

Still clutching the rosary, I watched Logan’s retreating back. With every step, he took a little of my light and a little of my air and when the door slid shut behind him, I was in the dark, suffocating.

But I wasn’t scared. And that’s what frightened me the most. Because, this, this was all too familiar. The inky black void threatening to swallow me—reclaim me—was like a dark friend who wasn’t a friend at all. Just someone I’d tolerated because they moved in one day and never left.

But Logan, he chased the darkness away and brought me into the light.

And now he was gone.

No … no, no no.

I forced my feet to move, optimism propelling me into the crisp morning air. And then I was running—to the something better that Logan had promised without words, my Angel Caller swinging from my neck, chiming softly with every step.

Spotting Logan up ahead waiting for the light to change at the busy intersection, my heart leapt into my throat. “Lo!”

Warning bells went off when I heard the pounding feet behind me. And voices. But in that moment, I couldn’t figure out why they were calling me. Confused, I whirled around, nearly colliding with a camera lens.

“Très jolie … Tori … make the smile!” one of the photographers said in heavily accented English. Several of his buddies surrounded me making similar demands.

Don’t panic.

Fixing my gaze on their feet, I looked for any crack in the wall of bodies. “No comment. Sans commentaires.”

Finding a sliver of light, I made my move, but one of the bigger guys rushed to block my path, knocking a body out of the way in the process. A tussle ensued, and something hit my temple with enough force that I saw stars. Darkness crept into the corners of my vision as I crashed to the ground.

The crowd parted for a split second, and I saw a flash of blond hair in the sea of brunettes. Logan. The look on his face—murderous rage mixed with something else. Something I’d never expected to see. Terror.

He pawed his way through the worst of the throng, a caged lion set free, his eyes locked on mine. Pushing bodies out of his way, he ignored the shouts, the curses, everything, until a young guy—barely eighteen from the looks of him, stuck a camera right in my face. Instinct took over, my hand flew up, and I think I called his name. “Lo …”

And that’s when the world exploded into chaos.

“Get the fuck away from her, you piece of shit!”

Logan’s roar cut through everything, and the camera in my face swung around, colliding with Logan’s chin. I tried to scoot back, terrified I was about to be crushed by the melee, when I saw the blood dripping onto Logan’s white shirt.

As the kid’s camera hit the ground, I knew what was going to happen, but I was powerless to stop it.

“You break my camera, you fuck!” the photographer hollered as he lunged, reaching for Logan’s throat. But the paparazzo was too slow, and Logan’s fist connected with his face, sending half the crowd fleeing. As I tried to scramble to my feet, a burly, older guy—close to forty—snaked an arm around Logan’s neck.

“Stop! Let him go—”

Before I could finish the thought, Logan spun free. But then I heard a crack, and Logan’s head snapped to the side, blood spurting from his nose. He barely flinched. In fact, he smiled. And with speed I’d never seen, he cocked his fist and let loose a bone-shattering punch straight to the guy’s jaw.

The sirens cut through the din, but the two photographers were still trying to best this beast of a man who looked more like he belonged in a fight-to-the-death cage match than outside a Paris church.

“Arrêter maintenant! Le Cessar!” Two French police officers burst into the tiny circle, and the bigger one grabbed Logan’s right arm, twisted it high behind his back, and kicked him in the knees, sending him straight to the ground.

“Lo!” I crawled forward, glass from the broken lens biting into my knees. A strong hand curled around my bicep, and another officer, a female, helped me to my feet. She tightened her grip when I tried to break her hold. “Let me go!”

“Calmez-vous, s’il vous plait,” she said firmly.

“I don’t speak French! Let me go!”

“Baby …” Logan’s voice snapped me out of my haze. On his feet now, in the officers’ hold, arctic blue eyes locked onto mine.

With one tug, I was free, and I stumbled forward. My gaze shot to the cop behind Logan. “Please … it’s not his fault. He didn’t do anything.” With a grim shake of his head, the officer removed the handcuffs from his belt. “No … Please …”

I continued to babble until Logan said calmly, “Baby, look at me.” I jerked my watery gaze to his and a semblance of a smile curved his lips. “That’s my girl.” He rested his forehead against mine. “It’s okay.”

Flinching when I heard the metal cuffs snap into place, I fisted Logan’s T-shirt. “No. Please.”

The female officer appeared at my side, her hand on my arm again. “Par ici, s’il vous plaît.”

I didn’t know what she said, but I shook my head and kept my gaze on Logan’s. He pressed his lips together when the officers pulled him back with a jerk. And when they dragged him away, I shattered into a million pieces.