The pitch dark room was deathly quiet. Clara crouched near the cold edge of her bed, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird. Cold sweat dripped down her pale forehead as she stared through the darkness toward the heavy front door.

The shadowy figure stepped closer, the slow sound of heavy leather boots echoing on the smooth floor. The dim light from the city streets outside passed through the tall glass window, lighting up half of the intruder's face.

It was Marcus Vance.

He had a dirty, twisted smile stretched across his face. His eyes burned with pure, crazy anger. In his right hand, he held a...