CHAPTER Viicleen cacoéthes (n.) an urge to do something inadvisable Wila Heap RESTING AGAINST THE WINDOW, I stared past the spiderwebs of frost on the glass. Moonlight cast a blanket of silver over the snow, and the frozen wasteland glittered like diamonds. From my vantage point, it felt like I was a princess locked in a tower. Held captive by a monster who shot men in the head at a dining table set with crystal glasses and cake. After I vomited the contents of my stomach into one of Ronan’s potted plants and wiped my mouth with the back of a hand, for whatever demented reason, he let me walk back to my cage and shut the door. In the midst of bloodshed, it felt like the safest thing to do. But as two more days passed in this room, not even the memory of a man with a bullet hole in his forehead quelled the desire for air. The seclusion began to burn, to bubble, to encase my body and squeeze. Pd started making tallies on the bathroom mirror with an old tube of lipstick I found, which probably belonged to Ronan’s last “pet,” and I was now at seven days. A full week in hell. The door opened, and a chill coasted through me as Ronan’s shadow spread wings across the floor. He pulled a wooden chair toward the middle of the room, took a seat, and rested his elbows on his knees. My gaze flicked to the open door behind him. I wondered if that guard was still stationed in the hall. At this point, I’d rather be shot than stuck in the same room as this man.