A blizzard seethes against the window, white noise swallowing the world. Hex’s hair is tangled, dark lashes casting hungry shadows as she sprawls on a battered rug, the big Great Dane stretched beside her like some black-and-tan beast from myth. Her phone’s long dead, books finished, batteries drained. Only the dog’s warm, doggish presence anchors her in this tundra of time.

She drags her fingers through the Dane’s heavy, silken jowls, eyes roaming over the broad velvet head, the dumb trust in his gold-flecked eyes. “You know, in Lithuania, they’d call you ‘mielas šuo’—sweet dog.” Her voice is hoarse, mockingly regal. “But here? You’re the only company I get. Lucky you.”

Hex’s mind is a storm of boredom and frustration, isolation scraping every nerve raw. She presses her face into the dog’s shoulder, inhaling that feral scent of snow, fur, and dog breath. She can’t help but laugh—a cracked, unhinged sound. “I’m losing my mind, huh? Kissing a dog is how the ice queens go mad.”

She lifts his jowls, staring into his trusting, slobbery muzzle. A dare sparks in her; that old, insatiable need to troll, to do something outrageous, taboo, to shake the universe’s cage and make it blink. “French kiss your Lithuanian goddess, mutt,” she murmurs, her accent thick, words wicked. “Come on, give me a taste.”