The shaking stopped as abruptly as it had begun. The silence that followed pulsed with heat and heartbeats.
Wren tilted her head back to look up at him, laughing breathlessly. “I’m not sure I want to meet your mother if she thinks deadly storms and earthquakes are romantic gestures.”
As if on cue, the ground gave one last violent lurch. She squeaked and stumbled right back into his arms.
He caught her again with a resigned sigh. “I wish I could say she’s not that bad. But she’s worse.”
“She clearly loves you,” Wren said softly, her hands still pressed against his chest. The fire painted his runes in molten gold where his shirt gaped open. “She just wants you to be happy.”
He grunted, a low rumble that vibrated against her palms. “I was perfectly happy minding my own business.”
“Wasn’t it lonely?” she asked, the words slipping out before she could stop them.
He didn’t answer. But the glow of his runes brightened, lighting the space between them like a heartbeat.
Before she could ask, a sudden squawk split the air. A massive raven swooped into the cave, wings glinting blue-black in the firelight. It carried a small woven basket in its talons. The bird dropped it neatly on the table, then deliberately swooped over Gunnar’s head, forcing him a step closer to Wren. She felt the brush of his breath against her temple.
Then the raven vanished into the storm.
Wren blinked, then darted toward the basket. “Hot chocolate,” she said with a delighted gasp, rummaging through the contents. “Cookies and—oh my god—is this mistletoe?” She held it aloft, the berries gleaming red.
Gunnar’s expression darkened. He plucked a small card from the basket and read aloud in a flat tone, “You’re welcome. Mother.”
Wren burst out laughing. “She sent you hot chocolate? That’s kind of adorable.”
“She’sinterfering,” he growled, stalking toward the hearth to fetch two mugs. “If she thinks cocoa and mistletoe will make me mate with the first human she tosses into my cave?—”
“Whoa, whoa, back up.” Wren raised her hands, still smiling. “You have mistletoe rules here too?”
He grunted again, pouring the thick, dark chocolate into the mugs. The scent of it filled the air—rich, sweet, and spiced, mingling with pine smoke and something that made Wren’s pulse skip. He handed her a mug, his clawed fingers brushing hers just long enough to spark heat up her arm.
She sipped. It was heaven—velvety and thick, like drinking a melted candy bar. “If this is troll hospitality, I might never leave,” she murmured.
Gunnar didn’t smile, but his eyes softened, the gold of the fire catching in their dark depths. “You might not have a choice.”
Something in his tone made her pause. “What do you mean?”
He stared into the fire for a long moment before answering, his voice quieter now, almost reverent. “There’s a curse. On us. On all thirteen of Gryla’s sons.”
“A curse?” She repeated, setting her mug down slowly.
He nodded once, the motion stiff. “Centuries ago, our kind angered a witch. She bound us to this land—half stone, half flesh. We cannot walk freely in the daylight or live among humans for long. Only one thing can break the curse.”
“What thing?” She asked, barely breathing.
He turned toward her then, his eyes luminous in the firelight, every rune on his skin burning faintly like living script. “Truelove,” he said simply. “A human who sees us for what we are, accepts us, chooses us. Only then can the curse be undone.”
Wren’s throat went dry. “And if you don’t find that person?”
He lifted his mug, taking a long, steady sip before replying. “Then we turn to stone. When the longing grows too great, when hope fades.”
The fire crackled softly, and outside, the wind screamed across the mountains. Inside, everything slowed—the shadows, the breath between them, the weight of his confession.
Wren stared at him, her chest tight. “That’s beautiful. And heartbreaking.”
His gaze dropped to her mouth, and for one charged moment, she thought he might kiss her. Instead, he looked away.
“It’s foolish,” he murmured. “No human would ever love a troll.”
