“No! No-no-no-no! Please…stop.”

“Sit down!” Xavier barked.

Kiera Sparrow felt for the edges of the stiff metal chair behind her and slowly lowered her body into the seat, trying not to hyperventilate. The blindfold was too tight, and Xavier was too menacing. He had taken her from the warehouse around ten o’clock that morning, and the rough-riding, musty van had trekked for at least an hour before it had finally come to a stop.

Based on what she could feel—and then smell—Kiera was quite certain they were in the country: in a barn, to be exact. The sounds of traffic had receded about a half hour into the ride; the roads had changed from pavement to dirt; and when she had finally climbed out of the van, with Xavier’s assistance, she could smell hay and moist soil…fresh, clean air. The creaking of the wood when he had opened the barn doors, as well as the uneven earthen surface beneath her feet had solidified her assessment.

Now, as she sat trembling on a cold metal seat, waiting for whatever Xavier had planned for her, her stomach turned over in queasy waves, and she felt like she might just faint.

Xavier stepped behind her, began to fumble with the knots, and just like that, he removed the blindfold. “Welcome to my lab,” he snarled.

Kiera blinked several times, trying to clear her vision. They were, in fact, in a barn, and the floor beneath them was definitely dirt. But this place wasn’t meant for horses. There was an old wooden bench to her right, about the size of a kitchen island, and behind it, there were several rickety shelves stocked with glass vials, mysterious containers, and an assortment of medical equipment—half of it looked rusted.

And then her captor’s words sank in: Welcome to my lab.

His lab?

What kind of lab?

And why had he carted Kiera to this God-forsaken place…in the middle of nowhere…blindfolded, no less?

She shifted in her seat. “Where are we? Why are we here?”

A crisp slap across her cheek rattled the questions out of her. “You don’t speak. You don’t ask questions. You just do as you’re told. Understood?”

Kiera reached up to cup her jaw and brush away a cold, icy tear.

This animal was going to kill her—she was sure of it—but not before he did all kinds of unspeakable things to her body. She felt her bile rise and bit down hard on her lower lip to keep from projectile vomiting—the last thing she needed was to puke on Xavier Matista. He would probably beat her to death.

She watched in terrified silence as he reached for a phlebotomy tray and prepared to draw her blood. He did not put on a pair of latex gloves, and she shivered. “What’s that for?” she asked in a panic, immediately regretting her outburst. He raised his hand, and she flinched, ducking, while covering her face.

He didn’t slap her again.

He just stared at her with those creepy, menacing eyes—those strange, pale amber irises, rimmed in black—as he flipped his rough, unruly lion’s mane out of his face. “I can see you are not going to cooperate,” he spat. “So I’ll tell you what; I’ll give you three questions—no, I’ll be generous and give you five, so think very carefully—and then, if you speak out of turn again, I will chain you to the wall and whip you with that rubber hose.” He nodded toward a set of hanging glass containers connected by a thick rubber tube—it looked like something Dr. Frankenstein might have used on his famous patient.

Kiera gulped, still processing his words.

He would give her five questions—did he really mean that, or was he just playing a cruel, twisted game? She swallowed her terror and eyed him cautiously, trying to read his intent.

His pale eyes narrowed as he waited.

Okay, so maybe he was serious.

She licked her lips—they were suddenly dry—trying to think of everything…anything…whatever she needed to know in order to survive. “Who are you, really? And why was I taken?”

The massive male’s cruel mouth turned up in a sardonic smile. “I am a lycan general from a land called Mhier, and you already know my name. You were taken by witless humans who are doing my bidding to keep you from another, to study your DNA, and to exact my own personal revenge.”

His strong shoulders stiffened as Kiera processed his words.

A lycan general from a land called Mhier?

What the hell did that mean?

Lycan? As in lycanthrope? From the Greek origin for wolf? A person affected with lycanthropy…or a werewolf?

The bastard was clearly insane.

But then, her dream…

Her stomach twisted into tighter knots—she would have to consider that later.

And just where the hell was Mhier, and why had he referred to it as another land?

She reached deep inside for courage, considering the rest of his words: You were taken by witless humans who are doing my bidding to keep you from another, to study your DNA, and to exact my own personal revenge…

There were only three questions left. She couldn’t waste them dissecting his mental illness. She needed to stick to straight, pertinent facts. “Who are you keeping me from?” she asked next, afraid she might be wasting a question.

“Saxson Olaru,” he growled, and that was it—no further explanation.

Damnit.

That didn’t tell her anything.

Two questions left: She needed to be more deliberate. “What was my sister’s role in all of this?” It might not have been an imperative question, but if Kiera was going to die at this general’s hands, then she wanted to know why Kyla had betrayed her. It was human curiosity at best, but it ran soul-level deep.

At this, Xavier took a deep, contemplative breath, and it appeared as if he was considering his answer: weighing whether to give her a short, dismissive response, or to taunt her with the truth. He apparently chose the latter. “Your sister is a lost, twisted bitch who has been serving me and my human playthings for many, many moons. She is a vampire-hunter, Kiera; and she has taken your place with Saxson…as his destiny. She delivered you to me in order to achieve that goal.”

Kiera’s mind was virtually spinning.

Kyla was a vampire-hunter...

Xavier was a werewolf…

And Saxson—whoever Saxson was—was their prey.

And just what the hell was a destiny?

She wondered about Travis and Owen, but she wasn’t going to waste her final question when she could just as well put two and two together: They thought they were hunting vampires, too. They were in league with Kyla on this psychotic mission.

And all of it, all the crazy, misguided pieces, centered around one person.

This Saxson Olaru.

Her eyebrows creased as she continued to imagine the unimaginable, to reason with the unreasonable—insanity and madness. If they were vampire-hunters, and Saxson was their prey, then Saxson was…he was a vampire? At least, according to Xavier?

And if Kyla took Kiera’s place, then Kiera’s place was somehow…with this Saxson?

Which made Kiera Saxson’s destiny…

None of it made any sense.

Yet and still, an eerie, far too real memory flashed in Kiera’s mind: that night in the bar, standing in the bathroom with Kyla, that freakin’ bloodred moon.

She shivered all the way down to her bones, dismissing the recollection for the moment. If Xavier let her live—if she ever left the barn—she would have hours of quiet, time alone, to contemplate this unsettling information, just so long as she didn’t forget. She committed all of Xavier’s words to memory, rehearsing his sentences in her head and pairing them with images—memory tricks—to make sure they would be there when it was time to recall them.

And then she asked her final question, because she couldn’t stand not knowing. “What are you going to do to me? Will you let me go when you’re finished?”

Xavier snarled beneath his breath and—heaven help her, because she must be crazy too—he sounded very much like a canine.

A wolf.

She shuddered, waiting for his reply.

“That’s two questions, Kiera.” He glanced at the hanging rubber tube as if revisiting the whipping, imagining it in his sadistic mind.

“I’m sorry,” Kiera muttered quickly, praying to the angels, to God, to anyone who might hear her…for mercy.

He cleared his throat with a guttural rasp. “I’m going to experiment on you, Kiera—find out what makes you tick—and then I might keep you around for a while to play your violin.” He nicked the underside of her jaw with his nail—no, not with his nail, with a claw—drawing a warm trickle of blood. “And then I am going to kill you before Saxson has a chance to find you.” He reached into the phlebotomy kit, withdrew a large syringe, and Kiera’s sanity…melted.

The next sound she heard reverberated from within, like a blast from a seaborn foghorn: Kiera screamed…and screamed…and screamed.