Prologue

Somewhere in my foggy brain, I register the sound of music.

That, in itself, isn't unusual.

I hear music in my head all the time.

Music has been an integral part of my life for as long as I can remember.

Being the daughter of two affluent—albeit neglectful—parents meant being exposed to many of the finer things in life.

But in terms of music, I think I felt the beauty of it long before I came to recognize the part it played in cultural status.

It didn't matter if it was classics played to a packed house by an orchestra or a street performer playing blues music for three or four people on the corner.

If it was done well, music of any kind could be transcendent.

It was that connection to instruments, lyrics, and composition which led me to my chosen profession as a violinist with the Charleston Symphony.

So, it would be safe to say that music has always been a part of who I am.

I, like most people, had my favorite pieces.

Each one evoked different emotions within me, which was why I loved music so much.

As I try to open my bleary eyes and bring my consciousness back online from whatever is causing the brain fog currently clouding my mind, the first emotion that hits me is fear.

As my mind clears and the music begins to register, I recognize the reasoning behind that fear.

I know this piece.

It's Bach's Chaconne.

A hauntingly beautiful work of art that I used to adore listening to and playing.

Now, the sound of it causes a rush of terror to coarse through my veins, replacing my blood with battery acid.

I haven't heard this piece in years.

I haven't wanted to.

This particular song is associated with both the best and worst years of my life.

They're years that I wished I could wipe from my memory but, unfortunately, you couldn't do that when the scars of the past weren't only figurative but literal.

My brain feels fuzzy with confusion.

I never would've put this song on myself, and I'm having such a hard time focusing on anything other than the panic associated with the music.

This has happened a handful of times in the past.

In the early days, I'd unerringly hear the song and immediately dissolve into a full-blown panic attack.

It's taken me a long time to come to terms with the knowledge that this song is now a trigger for me, serving to remind me of the horrors of my past.

The only thing that helped me recover was the constant reminder that I'd survived.

Well, that and the sheer pigheadedness of my innate personality.

Fighting to shake myself awake, I wonder if I'm stuck in another nightmare.

They've plagued me off and on for years, ever since I escaped from that Hell on Earth that had once been a fantasy come to life.

As I force my eyes open, I blink hard to adjust my vision until I realize my eyes aren't the problem.

I'm surrounded by darkness.

The music is loud now.

Maybe it's been loud this entire time, and I was just too out of it to notice.

The piece seems to swell in time with my anxiety as my vision fully clears, and I'm able to take in more details of the room around me.

Even with the blurry film gone from my eyes, it's difficult to see because the light is so dim.

Some things register immediately, however.

I'm in a bed that's not my own.

In a room that's not my own.

In a house that's not my own.

I don't recognize anything in this room, but whoever owns it clearly has money.

Every piece of furniture is ornate and ostentatious.

It reminds me of the furniture that surrounded me in my parent's home when I was growing up.

Lifting my arm, I bring my hand up to rub my eyes, but it's as though my entire body is working on a delay, and my limbs weigh a hundred pounds.

Fighting to sit up, I feel like I'm under water, struggling to kick my way to the surface.

The pressure on my chest is immense, but that's probably the oncoming panic attack.

I think my heart is beating a mile a minute.

Racking my brain, I try to recall what I was doing before this.

The last thing I remember was texting Amelia before going to sleep, but that was definitely in my own bed.

I have no idea how I got to wherever I am now, and the unknowns are causing all sorts of crazy scenarios to run rampant in my mind.

Squinting, I wish I could locate a lamp or light switch somewhere so I can take in more of the room surrounding me. Maybe I could get a better idea of where I am and how I got here.

"Hello, mia Sirena."

The blood in my veins turns to ice, and it isn't long before every other part of my body immediately follows suit.

That voice.

It's the voice from my nightmares.

A voice that I never thought I'd have to hear again.

At least not outside of my own head.

No, no, no, no.

It's not possible.

He's dead.

I killed him.

I watched the blood drain from his body.

Gaze-tracking the voice, I see the dark silhouette of a prominent figure sitting in an armchair in the corner of the room.

It's only now that my senses register something else.

Something they hadn't before.

The smell of cigar smoke. A very distinct cigar. As I watch, the figure brings the cigar to his mouth, the bright orange glow on the end momentarily illuminating a face that still haunts me to this day but one that I thought was dead and buried. Feeling my insides begin to tremble, those tremors soon turn into full-body shakes. This can't be happening.

"You don't look happy to see me, Bella,"

the voice croons.

"Did you think I'd let you go that easily? You should know me better than that."

Pulling my knees to my chest, I blink past the tears streaming down my face.

If I'm here and that voice is real, no one will know where to find me.

By the time they even realize I'm gone, there'll be no saving me.

I won't be lucky enough to make it out alive twice.

Once was a fluke; twice would be defying fate.

That voice once told me that he was my destiny.

Has anyone ever spit in the face of destiny and lived to tell the tale? I did, or so I thought.

I guess I was wrong.

It looks like destiny has finally caught up with me.

Every instinct in me already wants so badly to dissociate.

To revert to the coping mechanism that used to get me through moments, hours, and days of misery with this man.

But my fight-or-flight responses are on full alert.

Without moving a muscle, my eyes track the distance of the door relative to where I am and where he still sits.

If I'm fast enough, I might make it. I wasn't always fast enough before. On those nights, in particular, I prayed for death. If I don't make it to the door before he catches me, I know how quickly I can end up back there. After nearly three years of waiting, I can only imagine the pain he has in store for me. I have to run, to get as far away from here as I can, and hide, until I can figure out how any of this is possible and how I can fix it. I can't afford to fall apart right now, and I can't mentally check out either, as much as I'd like to.

The voice from the corner comes again.

"I disapprove of the pictures you've put all over your body, Sirena.

It's almost as if you were trying to cover my artwork.

My signature, painstakingly written over and over in your flesh.

How are people going to know who you belong to now?"

Making a tsking sound, he says, "I can't have other men out there thinking they can touch what's mine.

I suppose I'll just have to redo all my hard work.

It will hurt me … and you … but you brought this on yourself."

Releasing a sob, I bury my face in my hands.

I shouldn't cry.

I know he likes it.

But despite my tough exterior, I can't seem to stop myself.

The iron grip that this man has had over my life reaches far beyond the six years I spent with him in Hell.

The only thing that kept me alive was when my pain turned to rage.

The fear was always there, but at that point, I had nothing to live for and, therefore, nothing to lose.

I would either get away or die in the process.

I'd resigned myself to either fate, though I'd gotten away in the end.

I remind myself again … I'd gotten away.

I could do it again.

My body makes the decision even before my brain has a chance to catch up.

I spring from the bed, thanking God that the man was arrogant enough not to believe that I should be tied down.

Sprinting in the direction of the door, I hear movement behind me and know he's giving chase. I try not to choke on the heart that's suddenly jumped up into my throat. I race the handful of feet to the door, blessedly reaching it before him. Blindly gripping the knob, I turn it quickly and wrench it open, managing only a few inches before an impossibly large palm slaps against the door directly next to my face, effectively slamming it closed again. At the same time, another hand roughly grips my hair in a tight fist, pushing the side of my face hard against the wood as a massive body presses into me from behind.

His mouth hovers close to my ear, and I feel his breath a second before the tip of his tongue darts out, running along the length of the shell.

Hissing through gritted teeth, he grinds himself into me from behind, and I can feel the erection that he's not even attempting to disguise.

I meant it when I said he liked to hear me cry.

He liked to hear me scream, too.

Even knowing that, terror has my mouth opening on a high-pitched wail that's abruptly cut off when my head is jerked back sharply and then slammed into the hardwood of the door.

As spots begin to swim at the edge of my vision and I feel my body slowly sliding down the length of the door, I hear a deep chuckle, followed by a whisper.

"Haven't you learned by now, Bella? You'll never escape me.

Even when you thought you were free, you were just on a longer leash.

You seem to have forgotten your place.

We'll just have to start back at the beginning of your training."

As another sinister laugh escapes him, he eases back enough to allow me to fall to the floor in a heap.

That laugh is the last thing I hear before blackness swallows me whole.

Not for the first time in my short life, I pray that I never wake up.