He frowned, flexing his hand. “Nothing. Just the fire.”
She hesitated, then slowly stretched her hand toward him again. The runes answered her, glowing brighter where her warmth met his skin. When she drew back, they faded to faint embers.
“Doesn’t seem that way to me,” she said softly.
He grunted and pushed his chair back, abruptly gathering the bowls. “Hey, I wasn’t done!”
He gestured pointedly to her dish. “Your bowl was empty.”
She lifted her last piece of bread with mock solemnity. “There was still broth left. I was going to finish it. What was the meat, anyway? Elk? Reindeer? Moose?”
He dropped the bowl back in front of her with a thud. “Beef.”
“Oh.”
She tore the bread, soaking up the last of the broth before rising and carrying the bowl to his sink. He took it from her without a word, his big hands dwarfing the delicate wooden bowl as he washed it clean. The sound of water filled the air, soft and rhythmic.
“Nice place you have here,” she said, leaning against the counter beside him. “Homey, for a cave. Who decorated it?”
He didn’t look up. “I did. Not many trolls are into interior design. Thirteen brothers, not a single one with taste.”
She drifted away, her fingertips tracing the carvings that lined the shelves—smooth shapes of animals, spirits, and strange faces caught mid-laugh or snarl. “I don’t know,” she murmured. “Whoever made these has a soul. They’re beautiful.”
“I did,” he said simply.
She turned, holding up a carving of a seal resting on a glimmer of ice. “The detail is stunning. You could make a fortune selling these. Have you done bigger pieces?”
He shrugged, gaze sliding past her. “A few.”
Without warning, he stalked toward the back corridor, and she followed, curiosity pulling her along. The passage opened into a larger chamber that smelled of sawdust and cedar. Moonlight filtered through cracks in the rock, silvering the rough-hewn floor and illuminating several sculptures—massive wooden forms that seemed almost alive: a troll, a cat like the beast she’d seen earlier, and a figure that might have been an elf.
She circled them slowly, her fingers grazing the polished edges. “These are stunning. You should show them. People would fall in love with this work.”
He leaned in the doorway, arms crossed, shadows pooling around his broad shoulders. “No one cares about the old ways.”
“Maybe not,” she said, turning toward him, “but they care about beauty. And this is incredible. When did you start carving?”
“Winters are long in Iceland,” he said. “For many years, we hid from humans, only allowed out before Yule. I needed something to keep my hands busy. My uncle Eirik taught me. I’d find pieces of wood that spoke to me, shapes waiting to be freed.”
Wren rested a hand on the carved cat’s head. “I know exactly what you mean. I do the same thing, only with mixed media. Rocks, wood, moss, sand. I love taking what nature gives and making something new.”
He watched her, the light playing over her hair, the oversized shirt sliding down one bare shoulder. “How do you know what to create?”
She smiled faintly, lips curving with secret delight. “Like you, I listen. The materials tell me what they want to become.” Her eyes lit suddenly. “Where’s my pack? I need Steve 4.0.”
She hurried back into the main cave, searching through the shadows. Gunnar followed, bemused. “I didn’t see a male in your bag.”
“He’s not a male. He’s my rock.”
“You named a rock?”
“Not just any rock.” She shot him a look over her shoulder. “My soul stone. Where is he?”
He reached for the canvas pack and handed it to her. “Here.”
She dug through it until she pulled out a smooth piece of volcanic rock, cupping it gently in her hands. Her voice softened as she murmured to it, stroking its surface.
When she looked up, her eyes were bright. “I know it’s silly, but he’s important to me. I never had pets, or siblings, or friends growing up.”
