He busied himself stacking logs from the woodpile near the back. His hands, capable of carving delicate figures from oak, trembled slightly as he fed the fire. Sparks leapt up, dancing in the smoky air.
When he turned, she was already burrowed beneath the thick fur blanket, looking small and soft in the glow. Her hair spilled over the pillow like a tangle of scarlet threads.
“Come on, big guy,” she murmured sleepily. “You’ll freeze over there.”
He hesitated only a heartbeat before moving to the bed. The furs dipped under his weight, and her scent enveloped him instantly—warm skin, soap, a hint of chocolate from earlier. His body went rigid as her hand brushed his arm, her fingers tracing the faint pattern of the glowing runes.
“You’re warm,” she whispered.
“You’re not,” he said gruffly, tugging the covers higher.
She shifted closer, her body pressing along his side. The world narrowed to the sound of her breath and the slow, steady thump of his heart—too loud in his own ears.
“Do trolls ever cuddle?” she asked, her tone teasing, drowsy.
He turned his head toward her. “No. Trolls don’t cuddle.”
“That’s a shame.”
He couldn’t help it. A rumble of laughter escaped him, deep and low. “We can make an exception.”
Her face tilted up toward his, her lips just inches away. The moment stretched thin as an icicle. Then she rose onto her elbow and kissed him.
It was soft—hesitant at first—but her mouth was warm and sweet, and when she parted her lips, his control slipped. He deepened the kiss, tasting her, savoring the way her breath hitched and her hand slid up his chest. The rune-light flared between them, casting golden light across the furs.
He wanted to pull her closer, to roll her beneath him, to see how her body fit against his. But then she broke the kiss, panting softly, her forehead resting against his.
“Maybe we should just sleep,” she whispered.
He nodded, though it took effort. “Probably wise.”
Wren nestled into his side, curling up against him, her head resting on his chest. He draped an arm around her, protective and possessive all at once. The storm raged outside, wind shrieking against the mountainside, but in the cocoon of fur and firelight, it felt far away.
Her breathing slowed, soft and steady.
He pressed a kiss to the crown of her head and whispered into her hair, “Sleep well, little human.”
But Gunnar didn’t sleep.
He lay awake for hours, listening to the storm and the quiet rhythm of her heartbeat against his ribs—each one a reminder that she was real. And that he was already in far more danger than any blizzard could bring.
Chapter
Five
Wren woke slowly, caught in that hazy place between dream and dawn where everything felt unreal in the nicest way—soft, warm, sheltered. Her guardian angel had definitely outdone himself this time, probably thinking,she deserves a reward for whatever she had done in her life. Her cheek was pressed against something solid and wonderfully hot, her legs tangled in heavy furs—and in him.
Gunnar.
The realization brushed across her consciousness like a warm hand, drawing a slow, dreamy smile to her lips even before she dared open her eyes. She was draped over him like a second pelt, her thigh thrown across his waist, her arm splayed across the wide, warm plane of his chest. He was all heat and muscle and immovable presence, his heartbeat a slow, steady drum beneath her palm. The air around them smelled of woodsmoke and pine sap and snow and him, that grounding scent of earth and storm, ancient and intensely alive.
Outside, the wind screamed against the rock walls, a reminder of the blizzard still raging, trapping her here. But cocooned against Gunnar’s body, the storm felt distant and harmless, like a wild thing pacing just beyond the safety of their den.
She shifted ever so slightly, and that tiny movement drew a deep, low sound from his chest—a rumble somewhere between a growl and a sigh. A sound that sent heat skittering through her stomach.
Oh.
Wren froze.
