Chapter 7
CONNOR
Ifound her at the gallery.
But I didn't go in.
Standing across the street in the shadow of a café awning, I watched through the windows as bodies moved inside—art lovers, poseurs, people with too much money and not enough sense. The kind of crowd that made my skin itch.
She was in there. I'd tracked her from the metro, keeping enough distance that she wouldn't notice. She hadn't.
Smart move, Ward. Real professional. Following a civilian like some obsessed stalker.
I told myself it was protective instinct. That I was keeping an eye out because Micah's warning had rattled me more than I wanted to admit. Your old friends are in Paris. They're sniffing.
If they found her—if they connected her to me somehow—
I didn't finish the thought.
But the truth clawed at me, anyway, sharper than I liked.
Maybe I was going crazy.
Micah's revelation. The Sanctuary. The black DNA-coded card burning a hole in my pocket like it was radioactive. The fact that fucking Paris was getting in my fucking head in ways I couldn't control.
And Mila.
Always Mila.
I couldn't put distance between us. Couldn't walk away like I should have. Every rational part of my brain screamed at me to leave her alone, to let her live her life without dragging my shit into it.
But rationality had stopped mattering somewhere around the third time I'd seen her and felt my chest tighten like I'd taken a gut punch.
So, here I was. Standing in the dark. Watching.
Real fucking hero material.
I was about to leave—force myself to walk away, go back to The Sanctuary, pour another glass of that ridiculously expensive bourbon and forget this whole stupid impulse—when I saw him.
A man. Mid-thirties, maybe. Well-dressed in that effortless European way that always looked calculated to me. Dark coat, scarf looped just so, hair styled like he'd paid someone to make it look careless.
He was watching her.
Not casually. Not the way you glanced at someone pretty in a crowded room. He was watching her the way I watched targets. With intent.
My jaw tightened.
He moved closer to her inside the gallery. I saw him say something. Saw her turn, smile politely. Saw the distance she kept even as she responded.
Good girl. You don't trust him.
But he didn't take the hint. He stayed close. Too close. Leaning in like proximity gave him permission.
Someone called his name—Julien—and he turned, irritated at the interruption.
Julien.
I filed it away.
When Mila's group started leaving, I tracked them. Stayed back far enough that the shadows swallowed me. They took the metro, and I followed two cars down, blending into the late-night crowd. Headphones in, hood up, just another tired asshole heading home.
Mila got off with a dark-haired woman—one of the residency friends, probably. They walked together for a while, talking, then split at a corner.
Then Julien went toward Mila's neighborhood.
My pulse kicked.
I followed him.
He knew where she lived.
That was the first problem.
I'd done my research on Mila—enough to know her building, her street, the café she favored. But I'd never actually been to her apartment. Hadn't let myself cross that line.
Julien walked straight there like he'd done it before.
He followed someone into the building—an older woman with grocery bags who held the door without thinking twice. Classic security failure. I made a mental note to mention it, if I ever got the balls to actually talk to Mila about this.
If.
Right.
Julien was inside for maybe three minutes. Then he came back out, leaned against the building, and lit a cigarette.
Waiting.
I watched from the corner, body angled so I could see him without being obvious. He smoked slow, calm, like he had all the time in the world.
Then he pulled out his phone.
His posture changed. He straightened. His expression sharpened, focused on whatever was on the screen. Then he smiled—not pleasant, predatory—and started walking.
Fast. Purposeful.
Like he'd just picked up a new scent.
I stayed on him.
Mila showed up five minutes later.
I saw her from a block away, walking quickly, shoulders tight, glancing behind her once, then twice. She looked spooked.
My hands curled into fists.
I wanted to go to her. Wanted to ask if she'd planned to meet Julien. If she was okay.
But then I saw her face in the window of her apartment—pale, drawn, scared.
No. She hadn't been expecting him.
I turned and took off the way Julien had gone.
The bastard was fast, and the streets in this part of Paris twisted like a maze designed by someone with a sick sense of humor. I lost him twice, had to double back, nearly called Ellsworth to see if he could pull CCTV access.
Then, I got lucky.
I spotted two figures ahead, partially hidden under a tree in one of those pocket parks Paris scattered everywhere. Napoleon must've needed regular pee spots for all his dogs.
I slowed my pace. Casual. Just another guy walking home.
As I got closer, I saw them clearly.
Julien. And a woman who very much did not want to be there.
She was young. Maybe early twenties. Blonde. Her body language screamed discomfort—arms crossed, leaning back, eyes darting toward the street like she was calculating how fast she could run.
Julien stood too close, one hand on her arm, his voice low and insistent.
I didn't speak French. Didn't need to.
Body language was universal.
I timed it perfectly.
Stumbled slightly, like I'd had a few too many, and bumped into Julien's back.
"Shit, sorry, man," I said, American accent thick and sloppy.
Julien spun, annoyed, his grip on the woman's arm loosening.
I blinked at him, playing up the drunk tourist bit. Then my face lit up like I'd just had a revelation.
"Julien? Is that you?"
His expression shifted—confusion, suspicion. "I don't—"
I grabbed his arm, friendly, firm. "Man, I thought that was you! From the children's benefit picnic outside Montmartre, remember? You were talking to that woman with the ridiculous hat."
Julien's face twisted. "I think you have the wrong—"
I turned to the woman, grinning. "Hey, sweetheart, would you mind giving us a minute? Julien and I have some good times to discuss."
She hesitated, eyes wide, uncertain.
"Go on," I said, softer. "We're fine here."
Julien tried to protest. "Wait, I—"
I clamped down on his arm. Hard.
The woman didn't wait for permission. She bolted, heels clicking fast against the pavement, disappearing into the night.
Smart girl.
Now it was just the two of us.
I pulled Julien deeper into the park, away from the street, away from the lights.
He tried to resist. "Let go of me, you—"
I kneed him in the stomach.
The air left his lungs in a whoosh. He doubled over, gasping, and I dragged him further into the shadows, past the trees, out of view of any cameras.
When we were clear, I spun him around and shoved him against a tree.
"How many women?" I asked, voice low, controlled.
His eyes went wide. Fear flickered, then denial. "I don't know what you're—"
"How many women have you done this to in the past year?"
The truth was written all over his face. In the way his breath hitched. In the way his gaze darted, looking for an exit.
I'd hit the mark.
He opened his mouth to protest—or maybe to shout—and I headbutted him.
The cartilage in his nose crunched. Blood sprayed. His head snapped back, eyes rolling.
"Uh-uh. Don't go to sleep yet, asshole."
I slapped him. Once. Twice. His eyes focused, barely, swimming with pain and fear.
"Listen carefully," I said, my face inches from his. "If—when—you get out of jail, if you ever lay another hand on a woman without her consent, I will find you. And I will kill you. Understand?"
He nodded frantically, blood streaming from his ruined nose.
"Good. Time for your lesson."
I was methodical about it.
Three punches. Body shots. Lifting uppercuts aimed directly at his balls.
He screamed. Or tried to. The sound came out strangled, airless.
"Sorry, Julien," I said, voice flat. "Your things aren't gonna work anymore."
I let go.
He crumpled to the ground, unconscious from the pain.
I thought, touching takes hands.
I stomped on his right hand. Felt the bones crunch. He jolted awake, screaming, and then passed out again.
I did the left hand for good measure.
I crouched beside him, breathing steady, pulse calm. This part of me—the part that could do violence without hesitation—was the part I'd spent years perfecting. This was my domain, and I was its master.
I searched his pockets.
Wallet. I flipped through it. Credit cards, some cash, an ID that confirmed his name. Julien Mercier. I put it back.
A baggy of white powder. Cocaine, probably. I left it.
And a phone.
Despite his smashed nose, his face still unlocked the device. Convenient.
I opened his messages. Scrolled through. Found what I was looking for—texts to women, some of them graphic, some of them threatening. Screenshots of photos. Addresses.
My jaw tightened.
I opened a new message and typed carefully, using his phone to text the local police tip line:
My name is Julien Mercier. I abuse women. You can find me at the park at the intersection of Rue de Turenne and Rue des Francs-Bourgeois. I have drugs in my pocket. Come quickly.
Pressed Send.
I wiped the phone down. Put it back in his pocket. Stood.
Julien groaned, still unconscious.
I looked down at him one last time, then turned and walked away.
I didn't know much right then.
But I sure as hell knew I felt better knowing one more asshole was off the streets of Paris for a few months.
Maybe longer, if the police found everything he’d been up to.
I walked back to Mila's block. Took up position a block away, hidden in the shadows, out of sight.
Her window was still lit. She was awake.
Safe.
I stood there for an hour. Then two.
The light finally went out.
I stayed another thirty minutes, just to be sure.
And the whole time, I wished I had the balls to go knock on her door.
To warn her. To ask if she was okay.
But I didn't.
Because men like me didn't get to have women like her.
We just got to watch from the shadows and hope that was enough.