PEYTON lay in the chilly sheets of a cold hotel room somewhere in Brazil.
Killer Valentine’s first tour of South America was progressing splendidly, each venue overflowing with new fans.
That night’s show had dragged on longer than normal. Xan had added songs into the second set until his voice nearly gave out.
Exhaustion weighed on Peyton’s arms and legs, pinning him to the cold mattress.
No, he wasn’t going to do it tonight.
It was a stupid form of self-torture, and he wasn’t going to do it anymore.
His future started now. It started tonight.
It started in the same way as his past: alone, with the woman he loved somewhere else.
His eyes closed.
Just as he drifted off, his flesh warming the bed around him, the image of Raji lying with her head on the other pillow came to him. Her dark eyes shone in the dim light leaking in the window, and her soft hand stole over the sheets and twined in his fingers.
God, he missed her.
When he awoke the next morning, her absence sliced through him again.