Kiera Sparrow woke up on the top floor of a dimly lit warehouse—she knew she was on the top floor because there was moonlight shining down from a skylight like a macabre, organic cone on a stage. Her arms were stretched, taut, above her head; her wrists were cuffed to two iron bars; and she was tethered to the headboard of a giant wood-and-iron bed. She gasped, even as she stifled a scream, and her eyes darted frantically around her:

Where the hell was she?

What the hell had happened?

And why did she feel so strange?

Her body was fatigued; she was curiously dizzy; and her head felt like someone had split it with an axe.

But why?

The memories flooded in with a whoosh.

She had been standing in the unisex bathroom of the bar in LoDo, chatting with Kyla, when two terrifying strangers had rushed in. The man with a mask had drugged her and dragged her to a van. And Kyla…Kyla had let him do it.

No, Kyla had actually helped him!

What the hell was going on?

She stretched her neck to peek through a bricked-in architectural cove, occupying half, or more, of a wall. With its custom-fitted, wrought-iron insert, it served as an interior window, opening the site-lines to the rest of the warehouse.

Glancing further into the space, she immediately furrowed her brow: The warehouse wasn’t empty. In fact, it was appointed like a lavish, upscale apartment with an opulent, open floorplan. There was a living room in the center, extravagantly decorated with art, floor rugs, and high-end furnishings; a kitchen, facing the living room, with cherry cabinets, granite counters, and travertine flooring; and two bedrooms, toward the back of the building, each edging a cement wall and sharing an enormous, open bathroom, with two similar bricked-in alcoves. While the bathroom was semi-enclosed, and accessed through two adjoining bedroom doors, the wrought-iron window inserts allowed Kiera to see distinctive elements from the room’s interior: a Tuscan bricked-in shower; an opulent jetted tub; two copper sinks; and two hidden water-closets, on either side of the basin, connecting the en suite to each of the abutted bedrooms.

Kiera was in the bedroom to the right.

She scanned the lofty, open space one more time: It was a home without walls, but it had to be a million-dollar spread, and that meant her captors were men of serious means.

Speaking of her captors…

She craned her neck to the left, and then the right, trying to get a glimpse of an abductor—surely they hadn’t left her there alone. No sooner had the thought crossed her mind than a heavy, barn-style door at the front of the warehouse slid open and two familiar males sauntered in, one carrying a long, wooden case in his hand as he stepped out of a rustic elevator.

“She’s awake,” the short, stocky guy with a dozen tattoos grumbled, hustling across the wooden floor toward the bed.

“Don’t touch her,” the second guy warned—this was definitely the same man who’d been wearing a mask, the one now carrying the case, and he followed on the first guy’s heels, ambling with utter confidence. “The Head Hunter said she was not to be harmed, not a single hair on her head. In fact, Xavier said she’s his. And if anyone violates her, he’ll disembowel them himself.”

The short, stocky creep glanced over his shoulder and blanched. “Damn, Owen. That bastard is rough.”

“Yeah,” Owen said. “He is. And he means what he says.”

“I got it,” Tattoo replied.

“Travis…”

“I’ve got it!” he repeated, angrily.

So, her captors were named Owen and Travis—that was good to know.

But who the hell was Xavier?

Kiera bit back a snarl of rage, gritting her teeth in disgust as her captors approached the bed.

Owen appraised her tethered body from head to toe, then back up again, and she wanted to spit in his face. “How long have you been awake?” he asked.

Kiera cleared her throat—her head was still pounding—and she tried to sound braver than she felt. “Who the hell are you, and what do you want with me? Where’s Kyla—what did you do to my sister?”

Owen sat down beside her, setting the case on the floor, and the mattress depressed from his weight. Her body tilted and rolled to the side, being sucked into the depression by gravity, but the tethers stopped her decline, causing her arms to stretch and ache. The asshole stroked her cheek with a lazy right hand, and Kiera visibly trembled. “Don’t touch me,” she snarled.

“Let’s get one thing straight, right off the bat, Miss Sparrow,” the tall, arrogant bastard spat. “You don’t ask the questions around here, and you don’t make demands.” He tapped his chest in a brazen show of dominance. “I’m Owen, and this is Travis.” He pointed at his friend. “And the fact that you know our names ought to tell you everything you need to know: You’re not going home. Not ever.” He leaned in closer until his face was hovering five or six inches above hers, and he smiled. “If it wasn’t for the boss’s orders, we would’ve slit your throat in the van and left you in a Dumpster, but as it stands, the chief wants you alive—he wants to study your blood—and he has a personal affinity for the violin.” He glanced down at the case near his ankles. “That means you’re going to play for him, whenever he asks, and if I were you, I would play my best.”

Kiera recoiled at Owen’s words: all of them.

They would have slit her throat. Left her in a Dumpster. Their boss wanted to study her blood…

What the hell was happening!

And how could anyone expect her to play the violin under such appalling circumstances?

Owen nodded at Travis, then glanced down at the wooden case, and the short, stocky sycophant jumped like a puppet on a string. He crossed to the bed in two clumsy strides, picked up the resting instrument, and placed it on the mattress. Then he fumbled with the latches, his thumbs too fat to slide them upward, until he finally got it open. He raised the case to show her the cheap, worn-out violin.

Kiera frowned.

And?

What the hell was she supposed to say?

The musician inside her was disgusted—you don’t throw a violin into an unsecured wooden box—you place it in a padded violin case. As it was, the bridge had collapsed from the weight of the lid, the bow hairs were wrapped around the pegs, and the brutes had managed to scratch the belly. Not that any of that mattered right now.

“Can you play it?” Travis snorted.

Kiera just shook her head in amazement—in horror and disbelief.

None of this was real.

This simply could not be happening.

“Can you play it!” Owen echoed, his domineering voice packed in ice.

Kiera perused the violin a second time. “Yeah,” she muttered. “If I can fix it, I can play it, but not as well as you’d like.”

“Why not?” Owen barked.

Kiera tried to quiet her mind. The only thing she was thinking about was how to get away—how to escape these obvious sociopaths—but maybe, if she was smart, the violin could work in her favor. At best, it could buy her some time to think…and plan…and maneuver. She spoke in a trembling voice: “There’s no shoulder rest or rosin, and it may need a brand-new bridge.” When they didn’t object, she continued, “And the bow needs to be re-haired. It’s useless as it is.”

Owen wrinkled his brow, and Travis shot him a questioning glance. “You think Xavier gives a shit?” he asked.

Owen shrugged. “Don’t know. But I’m not gonna be the one to piss him off. You?”

Travis cringed and shook his head.

Damn, who the heck was Xavier?

“Nah,” Travis replied. “Better get what she needs.”

Owen nodded, and Kiera felt her heart lighten, if only a little bit. In truth, she could play the instrument with or without a shoulder rest, although she preferred the former; and the bow would still make sound without the rosin—it just wouldn’t be as rich. It wouldn’t grip and fully vibrate the strings or make the instrument sing. Still, the more items they had to fetch, and the more specialty shops they had to go to, the longer they would be absent from the warehouse.

The more time she would have to try to escape.

She fought to steady her voice. “If we’re still in Denver, there’s a good luthier on Broadway—he can change out the bridge and re-hair the bow, but you should probably go to Armando’s String Shop to buy some rosin and a pack of new strings: I prefer Melos Dark and Evah Pirazzi Gold, but I’ll need to see the E-string, whether it’s a ball or a loop. And you need a better case,” she added, “or it’s just going to keep on breaking. The violin is a delicate instrument.”

Owen studied her carefully, like he was searching for hints of deception. “Don’t fuck with me, Kiera,” he warned.

She quickly glanced away. “I’m not.”

He grinded his teeth and nodded at a nearby two-drawer nightstand. “Travis, get her a pen and some paper; then untie her hands. Yes, we’re still in Denver, so you can make a detailed list, Miss Sparrow”—he spoke her name as a formal title, with unconcealed derision—“specific parts, the names of shops, everything you need: Just get it right the first time. We’re not your personal lackeys.”

Kiera gulped.

She was anxious for Travis to untie her hands so she could move her fingers and get her blood flowing—and that gave her another advantage: “I don’t know who this Xavier is, or why he wants me to play, but you should both think twice about binding my wrists so tightly. My music comes from my hands.”

Owen toggled his head from side to side, as if he were thinking it over. His eyes narrowed in contempt; his lips turned down in a scowl; and then he reached out and slapped her—so harshly, so quickly—she never saw the correction coming. “You are an extremely arrogant bitch,” he snarled. “And your princess days are over.”

She gasped in pain and alarm as his long, knobby fingers wrapped around her throat.

“I revere Xavier Matista,” he spat, “and we will get him what he wants, but don’t get things confused, Miss Sparrow—you are nothing but a stray, mangy dog to me—my boss will understand if I have to put you down.”

Kiera froze.

She closed her eyes and listened to her heart’s frantic beating—it was clamoring like an agitated metronome in her chest. “I’m sorry,” she whispered, desperate to calm him down.

But she wasn’t sorry.

She was furious; and she was trapped! How dare he call her an arrogant bitch—he didn’t know a thing about her. Yet and still, she wasn’t stupid enough to incite more violence. If anything, she was desperate to try to read him, to try to figure the situation out: Travis was a low-level flunky. He was probably too stupid to think for himself. And Owen, he was cut from a different but just as evil cloth: intelligent, self-important, and obviously successful. But his pride was his weakness, and it might be his undoing if this Xavier Matista was as dangerous as they let on.

Perhaps Kiera could play one against the other.

Either way, she needed to hedge her bets, and that meant she needed to win over the boss: One way or another, this Head Hunter, as they called him, would be Kiera’s ultimate salvation…

Either that, or he would be her final damnation.