Still caged like a captive animal in Owen’s warehouse, Kiera Sparrow shut the bathroom door behind her and drew a deep, fortifying breath for courage. As moonlight shined through the arched bathroom window, she peeked through the glass and counted the tiers, considering her looming fate: She was being held captive in a five-story warehouse, somewhere in downtown Denver, and no one was coming to save her. Hell, she didn’t usually call her parents—Jackson and Pam—until Friday or Saturday night, reserving their catch-up conversations for the weekends when she had more time to talk. Travis and Owen had abducted her on Sunday; it was now Tuesday night, and that meant her parents wouldn’t notice her absence for another four or five days. As for her job, she played violin with a local symphony and in several orchestra pits. She also taught private lessons, so unless and until she missed several practices in a row, or stood up a handful of students, no one would wave a red flag. If anything, she might get fired or replaced, and her private pupils would just get angry.

As it stood, Kiera was on her own.

And in this moment, the only moment that mattered, Owen had allowed her exactly thirty minutes to retreat in privacy and take a bath—he had probably grown weary with her unkempt appearance, to say nothing of the fact that she was likely beginning to stink. “Keep the door unlocked!” he had warned her. “Or I swear, I will break it down, and you won’t appreciate what happens when I snatch you out of that tub.”

The threat had been clear and unambiguous, but Kiera didn’t have time to quake in her metaphorical boots: From the moment Xavier Matista had entered the lofty urban tenement on Monday morning, ordered Kiera to play her violin, and then hung around like a vulture—to the moment he had finally left, around noon—Kiera had done nothing but plot.

She absolutely—positively—had to get out of that warehouse before that monster came back. She could not withstand another visit from the terrifying tyrant, the leader of the Midwest region of hunters.

And just what the hell was that all about?

While pretending to be browsing through sheet music, some dystopian assortment that Xavier had brought her, she had overheard the “Head Hunter” and Owen talking about things she couldn’t wrap her arms around: vampires and blood moons; stakes and diamond-tipped bullets; secret societies of regional hunters, and things that went bump in the night…

To make matters worse, they had implicated Kyla in their crazy, far-fetched discussion—they had said she was a hunter on a vital mission; they had indicated that she was hiding out in Dark Moon Vale with some man—no, some vampire—named Saxson Olaru; and that she was going to ensure his death…and, possibly, murder the children of his friends. If Kiera hadn’t known better, she would have sworn that she was dreaming, maybe she’d entered the Twilight Zone, that her own mind had snapped, cracked, and broken, and she was several cards shy of a full playable deck.

But that’s when Owen had whispered, in a chilling but insistent tone, “I really believe we can trust her, sir. Don’t forget; the moment she recognized that a Blood Moon was happening, she reached out and turned in her sister. She also got the tattoo and went home with the vampire—she’s determined to make the most of this opportunity. She’s been ready…and waiting…for years.”

Kiera had shivered at the words. At least part of them were true: Kyla had been in on Kiera’s abduction, and that meant Kiera wasn’t altogether crazy. And neither were these men.

But what…the…hell!

She glanced down at her inner left wrist and trembled at the sight of the enigmatic markings: a flesh-and-blood pictorial of the constellation Cetus, the sea monster, engraved into her flesh—maybe it wasn’t an occultist tattoo at all. She remembered the color of that moon, that crimson, dark red moon, and how it had spurred her twin into action, precipitated Kyla’s betrayal.

Just what was her sister involved in, and what had she done to Kiera?

The sound of the water, rushing out of the smooth bronze faucet and pouring into the sunken jetted tub, brought Kiera back into the moment—she needed to stay focused.

Laser-focused.

There would be plenty of time to ruminate later.

Eyeing a couple inches above the jets, she measured the water line and nodded—there was enough water in the basin to turn on the pumps, and that would provide an extra layer of protection, a barrier against any sound. While she had to be super careful to remain beyond the sight lines of the open wrought-iron alcoves—and there would be nothing she could do if Owen sauntered into the bathroom and caught her in the act…of preparing—she had to take the chance. She didn’t believe Owen would harm her—okay, so she didn’t believe he would actually rape her—Xavier was much too possessive over Kiera, much too terrifying to oppose. But she didn’t doubt for a moment that Owen could, and would, make her life a living hell, fear of the Head Hunter notwithstanding…

Still, none of that mattered right now, and she briskly shook her head to dismiss the thought.

Focus, Kiera. Focus!

The last two times she had been allowed to use the bathroom, she had rummaged through the drawers and peered beneath the cabinets, searching for something—anything—she might use as a weapon.

Anything she might use to escape.

And that’s when she had noticed the sheets: a stack of prim white bed slips, neatly folded within a narrow linen closet at the back of the upscale powder room, beyond the sight lines of the bathroom alcoves.

That’s when the idea had fallen into place.

Sheets could be torn into strips. Strips could be tied into knots. And knotted sections could be linked into a rope. That’s when she had studied the thin iron bars over the anterior bathroom window, leading out to a fifty-foot drop-off, ending at an alley floor. Knowing there was no way in heck she was going to walk—or run—out the front sliding door and escape through the access elevator, she had finally hatched a plan.

The bars were secured with thick, sturdy bolts, about one-half inch thick each; and while she could never wrench them loose with her hands, a tuning fork might do the trick, a little at a time: one of the old-fashioned kind, thick and flat, the kind she had recently requested from Owen under the guise of fine-tuning the violin, wanting to get even richer sound out of the instrument…

For Xavier.

In the meantime, she had to tear the sheets, tie them together in knots, and then replace them at the bottom of the linen closet, carefully concealed, and she had to do it efficiently enough to still make time to take a bath. She could not begin to loosen the bolts on the windows until the tuning fork arrived, but she needed to make hay while the sun shined, so to speak, every time she was in the bathroom.

There were no ifs, ands, or buts about it; Kiera had to escape.

There was no way—absolutely no way—she could endure another meeting with Xavier, the bastard who had stroked his groin as she’d played her violin, the monster who had promised to siphon and test her blood, the beast who had nipped at her throat…with his teeth.

Just what the heck was wrong with these people, anyway?

What kind of drugs were they on?

And Kyla…Kyla… Kiera’s heart was broken…

How could she have betrayed her like this?

The sheets!

Damnit, time was running out.

Her heart beating like a Celtic drum and quaking in her chest, Kiera scurried to the closet, dropped to her knees, and gathered the first sheet in her quivering hands. She began to tear it with her teeth…one long, even, narrow strip. “Courage isn’t having the strength to go on—it is going on when you don’t have strength,” she whispered, quoting Napoleon Bonaparte.

Kiera would not be distracted by her twin’s betrayal.

She would not be dissuaded by all the insane talk about dark, haunted valleys and creatures with fangs, vampires named Saxson Olaru…

Saxson…

Olaru…

Why did that name strike a chord in her heart, a vibration that reverberated all the way down to her soul? Why, out of all the mystifying details she had heard, was his name the one thing that made Kiera want to weep?

She shook her head and hurried her pace, moving to another fresh strip.

Wrench. Tear. Repeat…

Wrench.

Tear.

Repeat.

She gritted her teeth and continued.