He swallowed hard, letting himself imagine—for just one fragile heartbeat—that this warmth, this quiet harmony, this shared art might be what life could be like. If fate was kind. If she chose him.
For the first time in centuries, the cave did not feel like a prison.
It felt like a home.
And he dared, just barely, to hope.
Chapter
Six
If her life ever became a memoir, this chapter would be titled:The Moment I Realized I Wasn’t Lost—Just Finally Arriving.
The storm still raged outside, throwing itself against the mountainside as if trying to claw its way in. But inside the cave, the hours slipped by in warm, easy silence. Wren had never expected that a place made of stone and shadows could feel gentle. Safe. Like a pause in the chaos of her life.
She and Gunnar had spent the day in a quiet rhythm that felt older than the two of them. He carved, she tinkered with scraps of driftwood and metal, the fire snapped and purred, and Ketty occasionally strutted through as if supervising both of them. Nothing dramatic happened. Nothing frightening. Nothing that should have made her heart feel this ridiculously full.
And yet it did.
The contentment should have scared her. Usually, it would have. But instead of running from it, she found herself settling deeper into it, like slipping into warm furs after a long walk through snow.
Which left too much room in her head for the thing she kept circling around all day.
The words he’d half-mumbled that morning—dream-words about being bound, about the sun, about a mate.
He’d brushed them off. But they lingered in her thoughts like a low hum she couldn’t tune out.
As evening pressed close and the wind outside screamed harder, Gunnar stirred a pot over the fire with quiet, methodical focus. The smell of herbs and slow-cooked meat filled the cave, rich and comforting. He moved with an ease that made something flutter low in her stomach—strength and gentleness in equal measure.
She wasn’t sure when she started watching him. Or when watching him became staring.
But when he glanced back, she jerked her gaze away and pretended immense fascination with a crack in the cave wall.
Smooth. Very smooth.
“Dinner smells amazing,” she said, forcing nonchalance.
“It’s just stew,” he replied without looking up.
“Sure, but you make it sound like you didn’t catch half of it yourself or season it like some ancient wilderness chef with trollish instincts.”
He huffed, a sound that was almost a laugh. “You are strange, little human.”
“I get that a lot.”
He handed her a carved wooden bowl, their fingers brushing briefly. The touch sent a spark through her so sharp she nearly drop-kicked herself into the fire. His eyes flicked to hers, something unreadable—something too intense—there for just a heartbeat.
They ate in silence, the kind that felt like a shared blanket, warm and close. But the tension buzzing beneath Wren’s skin finally pushed her to set her bowl aside.
“Can I tell you something?” she asked.
Gunnar paused. His attention snapped fully to her, blue eyes steady and unblinking. “You can tell me anything.”
The words wrapped around her like a thick fur—unexpected, protective, and far too comforting.
“Okay.” She exhaled, bracing herself. “The thing is, I didn’t just randomly pick Iceland for this trip. I mean, technically I did, but I’ve been drawn to this place for years.”
“A pull?” he asked. “What kind?”
