Kiera Sparrow came awake in the dark, jackknifing off the mattress. Her head instinctively turned to the right and scanned the alarm clock as she distractedly made note of the time: two o’clock A.M. And then her heart slammed into her chest, the air left her body, and she froze like a calcified statue.

A pair of glowing amber eyes stared down at her, the pupils two menacing slits. The body of the man—no, the supernatural creature—hovering above her was something out of a horror film: hulking, brawny, and covered with dark, coarse fur.

She blinked several times to clear her vision, then gasped again as wet canine lips drew back into a snarl and flashed two rows of wicked-sharp teeth.

She started to scream, but the sound was instantly muffled by a hard, unforgiving hand pressed over her mouth. She squirmed beneath the heavy, unyielding body, and nearly hyperventilated when she felt the push, the invasive wedge—the harsh, calloused thrust—of her own thighs being shoved open by a knee…

What the hell!

Panic slammed into her like a two-ton truck, and she gnawed at the furry palm pressed tightly against her mouth, clawing and biting at her assailant in desperation. His hand drew back, and she shouted her alarm. “No! No-no-noooooo!” She tried to squeeze her legs together, but he was already settling between her thighs.

The thought was revolting…terrifying…mind-numbing, but it was suddenly the least of her worries. As viscous drool dripped down from his jaws, the creature—the wolf?—somehow managed to smile, and she recognized that menacing smirk: Xavier Matista.

But how could that be?

He dipped his head in a feral, undulating motion and dropped his jowls to her chest.

Oh, dear Lord, he wasn’t going for her breasts to violate her—he was aiming at her heart to devour her.

As his canines sank deep and the pain serrated her mind, she screamed like the world was ending.

* * *

The shrill, terror-stricken scream pierced the darkness, and Kiera came awake with a start.

Her heart slammed into her chest, and she panted, her eyes darting around the darkened room.

Oh, thank God, it had only been a dream.

A terrifying, indescribable nightmare.

She had been dreaming—about dreaming—dreaming about waking up.

She brought her hand to her chest and felt the flesh above her heart through her flimsy nightgown, audibly sighing in relief.

Her clothes were intact.

Her flesh was unmolested.

And there was no one—and nothing—above her.

And then she turned her head to the right, almost as an instinct, and glanced once more at the alarm clock.

Her forehead beaded with sweat.

It was two o’clock A.M.: the same as in the nightmare.

Was she reliving it again?

Falling back asleep?

Caught in an endless loop of a revolving night-terror?

“Wake up, Kiera!” she urged, frantically squeezing her eyes shut, then forcing them open, again…and again…desperate to escape the spiraling cycle. “Wake up!”

And then she heard a snarl from the corner of the room and turned to find a man, not a wolf…

Xavier Matista.

Watching her in the dark, stalking her sleep like a specter.

She bit down on her bottom lip: She wasn’t asleep, and this was no longer a dream.

“Xavier?” she croaked, quaking like a leaf, still caught between her recent nightmare and this equally disturbing reality. “What are you doing here?”

“I couldn’t sleep,” he purred like an animal, his voice sending chills down her spine.

Kiera recoiled.

He couldn’t sleep?

What the hell did that have to do with her?

And why was he standing in the corner of Owen’s spare bedroom, in the middle of the night, stalking Kiera like a predator? “W…w…” She tried to reply, but she couldn’t form the words. Her mouth was filled with cotton.

“Play for me,” he rasped, his voice emerging as if through shards of glass.

“Play?” she mimicked, more confused than ever—and then it suddenly struck her.

The violin.

He wanted to hear the instrument.

Holy hell, this just wasn’t happening.

Remembering the alternative, the way he had climbed on top of her in the dream, the jaws of a canine that had gorged on her heart—or, at least, begun the bestial feeding—she quit arguing with fate and sat up in bed. This was as real as real got, however impossible, and as for her nightmare…perhaps it had been a premonition.

Or a warning.

Who knew.

Who cared.

She scrambled from the bed, uncaring that the nightgown Owen had given her was virtually sheer, and fumbled through the dark, trying to find the violin case. She didn’t need light to play the familiar instrument—she had practiced a thousand times with her eyes gently closed, feeling and hearing the music, relying on her instincts to find the notes, allowing her muscle-memory to rock the bow, transitioning perfectly from one string to another by feel.

Her fingers slid along the front of the case, unhooked the latches, and felt for the violin, then the bow, working each one free in turn. There was no time for a shoulder rest, no time to tune the instrument, no time to even tighten the bow hairs. She simply tucked the violin under her chin and began to play the first thing that came to her mind: a sonata.

“Not that one!” Xavier barked. “The one from before.”

Kiera halted her playing, took a deep breath, and shakily, began again…

Kneeling on the floor of her captive’s bedroom, Kiera performed “Song from a Secret Garden,” praying the man, and the beast inside his soul, would be soothed by the rich, haunting music.