She waved a hand big enough to palm a polar bear. “Nonsense. You’ve been a grumpy, loveless cave troll for too long. And SHE,” Gryla leaned down so close Wren could smell peppermint and smoke. “SHE is perfect! Though she is a bit soft. Small. Very breakable. But we can fix that.”
“Fix?” Wren echoed faintly.
“Oh yes.” Gryla straightened, hands on hips. “We’ll toughen you right up. Ice baths. Cliff climbing. Perhaps some light boulder lifting. You’ll be a proper troll bride in no time. And think of the children! The adorable, tusked, squishy little?—”
“Mother,” Gunnar barked, stepping between them. “Stop overwhelming her.”
“I am NOT overwhelming her.” Gryla’s eyes shone. “I am welcoming her into the family. This is how a family behaves. We’ll have a big dinner welcoming her and introducing her to everyone. It will be wonderful. Hope you don’t mind a little noise and rough-housing. My boys aren’t exactly house-trained. But we’re family.”
Family.
The word hit Wren like a slap.
Her chest tightened like a band wrapped around her. Her breath became short and rapid. Her hands began to tremble beneath the furs. Darkness clouded the edges of her vision.
Family.
She didn’t know what it meant to have a family. She’d never had one. Foster homes weren’t families. She’d always dreamt of what it was like to have a family. She’d watched television, saw other kids with their parents and dreamed of what her life could be. But she never experienced it for herself. Her life had been transactional. Kindness always had strings. Quiet always meant a blowup coming. Love was something you earned by being small, silent, useful. Not this tidal wave of troll enthusiasm barreling at her like affection with no brakes.
Gryla leaned down again, inspecting Wren as if choosing ripe fruit. “Such a puny thing. Fragile as a snow-hare. Hmm. Yes. Yes, we’ll definitely have to improve her durability.”
Wren’s stomach dropped. Fragile. Puny.
Of course Gunnar’s family would see her that way. Of course she wouldn’t measure up. Of course she’d screw this up like always.
Her vision blurred.
Gunnar turned sharply toward her, nostrils flaring as he caught her panic. “Enough.”
The single word shook the air.
Gryla blinked. “What?”
Gunnar moved fast for someone that large, placing himself fully between Wren and his mother, shoulders squared, tusks bared.
“She is overwhelmed,” he growled. “And you are leaving.”
Gryla frowned. “But?—”
“No.”
The cave vibrated with that single syllable. Even the fire seemed to pause.
Gryla’s brows rose. Then, surprisingly, she smiled. Softly. Almost proudly. “Ah,” she murmured. “You truly are mated.”
And with one last appraising look at Wren, she said, “We’ll put some meat on those bones yet, little snowflake.”
Gryla swept out in a swirl of fur and frost, leaving the cave echoing in her wake.
Silence crashed down like a collapsing snowdrift.
Gunnar turned immediately, kneeling in front of Wren, cupping her face with careful, gentle hands. His voice dropped to a low rumble meant only for her.
“Wren. I’m sorry about my mother. She can be overwhelming. I should have stopped her sooner. But she is gone now.”
The words should have soothed her. They didn’t. Not even close.
A cold knot tightened under Wren’s ribs, squeezing until her lungs shuddered. She wasn’t enough. She had never been enough. She knew it in her bones, knew it the way she knew winter air burned her lungs and that storms swallowed the unwary.
