So he held her as the fire burned low and the storm outside raged on, praying—something he hadn’t done in centuries—that when morning came, she would still be in his arms.
And that she would still want to be.
Chapter
Eight
Wren woke up warm. Again.
Not just warm—toasty, cocooned, blissfully swaddled in a furnace disguised as a very large, very muscled troll. Her face was tucked under the curve of Gunnar’s jaw, one leg thrown over his thigh like she owned the place, his arm banded around her waist in a way that saidmineeven in sleep. This chapter in her biography would be titled,That Time She Woke Up On A Troll and Immediately Questioned Her Life Choices.
She blinked groggily.
Oh. Right.
Last night had been…Yeah. That.
Her body helpfully offered a satisfied hum, a warm pulse low in her belly that said she remembered every second.
Gunnar stirred beneath her, a low rumble rolling through his chest, somewhere between a purr and a sleepy growl. He was clearly awake, in every possible way. Something long and impressively solid pressed against her hip, and heat climbed her neck.
“Morning,” she whispered, feeling suddenly shy despite having climbed him like a rock wall last night.
His arm tightened. “Stay.”
A delicious request. Or command. Hard to tell with trolls.
She snuggled closer. The cave, once eerie, now felt soft with lingering warmth from the banked fire. They were wrapped in furs, skin to skin, Gunnar’s heartbeat a steady, grounding thump beneath her ear.
But something else was different. The world outside felt still. No wind. No howling. No ice quakes trying to shake down the mountain.
“It’s quiet, almost peaceful,” she murmured.
Gunnar inhaled deeply, nostrils flaring. “The storm’s broken.”
She let out a breath, the stress that had been building inside of her, easing finally. For the first time since this surreal adventure began, she felt genuinely, peacefully safe.
Of course, that lasted approximately six seconds.
Because the ground trembled. She grabbed onto Gunnar, ducking into him, and looking fearfully at the ceiling, waiting for rocks to fall on their heads.
A gigantic shadow blocked the cave mouth.
Then, a loud voice echoed through the cave. “MY BABY BOY HAS FINALLY DONE IT!”
Gunnar jerked upright so fast Wren squealed, falling to the side and clutching the furs to her chest.
A massive figure swept inside—towering, wide body, wrapped in furs that probably used to be whole herds. Wild braids. Eyes like burning embers. A grin that could frighten nations. She could only be one woman.
Gryla. The Troll Queen. Gunnar’s mother.
And she looked like Christmas had arrived early and brought grandchildren with it.
“Oh, look at you two!” Gryla beamed, clasping her massive hands together. “Finally mated! Finally! I knew trapping a human girl in the storm would work. Mother knows best! You are WELCOME!”
Wren’s brain short-circuited, her thoughts scattering to the cold wind that accompanied Gryla into the cave.
Gunnar growled. “Mother. Boundaries. We’ve discussed this.”
