Kiera Sparrow stirred in a stiff, high-backed chair beside the bed in her warehouse prison. Travis had untied her, at least from the bed, just as Owen had requested, but he had quickly bound her legs and her torso to the hard, unforgiving chair instead.

And that was the first time she had seen her left inner wrist.

Holy hell!

What the devil was wrong with these bastards?

They had tattooed some intricate, archaic design—probably something occultist—deep into her flesh. And the longer she’d stared at it, the more she’d turned it over and studied it from every potential angle, the more it had begun to resemble an astrological sign: Cetus, one of the original forty-eight Greek constellations. The memory had come back to her in a flash—something she’d learned, and then forgotten, in her college astronomy class…

So what did that make them?

Some sort of coven of devil worshipers, obsessed with the ancient Greek Pantheon?

She couldn’t afford to think about it—not now—not until she was free. Maybe she could, one day, have the emblem removed, but until then, she needed to focus on where she was. On what was happening. On the fact that she had spent a long, restless night, devoid of sleep, strapped to a high-backed chair, reflecting on her state of captivity…

And how to win her freedom.

If such a thing were possible, the air in the loft suddenly grew dense—heavy, thick, and alive with electricity—as the door from the elevator slid open and a beast of a man sauntered in. Kiera craned her neck to see him, and then she winced in fear.

Who the hell was this?

Travis had returned to his own private residence, somewhere in lower downtown from what she’d overheard. The warehouse abode clearly belonged to Owen, and Kiera hadn’t expected to see anyone but him…

At least not for a couple more days.

Boy, had she been wrong.

The giant who stepped off that elevator was at least six feet, six inches tall, his body made of solid, heavy granite, and his hair—if a human being could don a lion’s mane: rough, wiry, and unruly, then that was what it was. The shoulder-length tresses were deep golden brown, interspersed with various black tendrils. And as he approached the back bedroom in that silent, stealthy prowl, Keira caught a glimpse of his eyes: pale, amber irises, rimmed in circles of onyx black.

Where the hell were his white sclera?

He didn’t have any.

She gulped and watched him come closer.

His muscles bunched and contracted with every lithe step, and there was a harsh, arrogant quality to his gait. His mouth was cruel, almost brutal, and he was humming a harsh, dissonant tune.

Holy Mother of Mercy.

His entire countenance was jarring.

Kiera began to tremble, and then she noticed his fisted right hand: He was carrying a new violin case in his massive palm, no doubt the updated instrument she’d requested from Owen.

She shivered and glued her eyes to his as he slowly approached her chair.

He stopped and licked his lips, a canine swipe of the tongue. “Kiera,” he drawled lazily, setting the violin down. “So this is a celestial, chosen destiny.”

She blinked several times.

What?

She didn’t dare ask.

She didn’t dare speak as he loomed like a medieval bell tower above her. Some part of her recognized that Owen was now in the room—he had entered from the conjoining bathroom—but her eyes were transfixed on the terrifying beast.

He placed his hand on her cheek, and his skin was rough to the touch. “I am Xavier Matista—your new master and your god. We are going to be spending a great deal of time together, Kiera Sparrow.” He raised his hand and drew a thin, straight line down her chin, along the length of her neck, and slowly, between her breasts. His spooky eyes alighted with salacious intent.

Kiera regurgitated in her mouth, clamping down on the bile to keep it from spewing out. She had been frightened before, unsure of her fate, but at this particular moment, she almost wished for death.

She could not spend time with this monster.

“What do you want with me?” she whispered, her voice faintly shaking. She was trying her best to be strong.

He smiled then, and the satirical visage was crueler than his words: “Oh, everything you can imagine. All that I ask. Whatever I envision.” He grabbed her left forearm, traced the odd Greek tattoo, and then pressed his nail into the bend above her elbow, right above her vein, where he pricked it, making it bleed. And then he stared at the droplets of blood like he was gazing at liquid gold. “I intend to discover exactly who you are.”

She tried to retract her arm, to pull out of his reach, but her binds were too tight to give. “Please,” she whimpered, hating herself for her weakness. “Please, don’t.”

He released her arm, took a generous step back, and glanced at the violin case. “I have a thing for music, Miss Sparrow.” He smirked. “I just happen to be tone-deaf myself.” He chortled, as if any of this were funny. “But if you are as good as I’ve heard, then you may be able to buy your next breath, one note, one private concert, at a time. Life is tedious,” he added, “and what must be done…must be done…but there’s no reason we cannot make it enjoyable, no?”

Was that really a serious question?

Surely he didn’t expect her to answer.

Kiera glanced at the long, mahogany violin case and shuddered. She could never play under these conditions.

“Untie her,” the evil bastard barked at Owen. “I want to hear her play.”

Kiera shook her head furiously. “I can’t,” she croaked, failing to provide any further explanation. “I just can’t.”

At that, the huge man’s eyes grew ten shades darker, and his lips turned up in a snarl. And God help her, because her eyes had to be playing tricks on her, but it looked like his canines sharpened.

Kiera stiffened her spine.

This was all about survival: nothing more, nothing less.

If this brute of a man wanted to hear her play—and if dragging out the music kept his hands, and his eyes…and his teeth…to himself, then Kiera needed to get a grip.

And right away!

She had not been able to formulate a plan to escape Owen, at least not yet, but as long as there was life, there was hope—and what had the monster said? You may be able to buy your next breath…

As the ropes fell away, Kiera pumped her fists, trying to get her circulation flowing. With laser-like focus, she padded to the case on the floor and slowly stooped to open it. The violin had been polished, it had a new bridge, and the bow had been re-haired, as requested. Thumbing through the various compartments, she withdrew the shoulder rest and the rosin, tightened the bow, affixed the former to the back of the instrument, and gave the bow a few passes with the latter. Then she stood on shaky legs, took a few steps backward, and nestled the lower bout beneath her chin, her left hand falling effortlessly into position as she cradled the neck. She was so, so tentative—she wasn’t sure if she could do this.

Nonetheless, she drew the bow over each of the strings, starting with the D-string, and much to her surprise, the instrument was still in tune—the luthier must have tuned it when he added the Evah Pirazzi Gold strings.

She sighed, grateful for one less task that she wasn’t sure she could perform under such harsh scrutiny—frankly, she didn’t know if Xavier had the patience to wait, or understood enough about the instrument to allow her to tune it.

And then she willed her mind to be quiet, and tried to come up with a song: something brilliant, something difficult, a caprice or a complex fugue.

Something that would impress her kidnapper.

As the fingers of her right hand fell into a natural, perfect position—resting lightly around the frog—she set the hairs on the E-string, preparing for a downward stroke, and took one final deep breath.

And then the oddest calm swept over her.

Her soul expanded with a deep, otherworldly knowing, and all thoughts left her mind…

There was nothing but Kiera and the instrument.

The bow rocked subtly from the E-string to the D-string, without any conscious consideration, and her arm began to move, her left hand accompanying fluidly, as the most poignant, languid music she had ever managed to play resounded like liquid sound from the instrument.

As the melody grew wings and soared, filling the spacious warehouse with light and angst and manna straight from heaven, she swayed to the unexpected tune she had somehow, unconsciously chosen: “Song from a Secret Garden.”