He had terrified humans before. Even his own brothers when he’d lost his temper. But he had never wanted to be harmless so badly as he did in that moment.
“Wren,” he said softly, “I’m sorry.”
Her breath hitched. “For what?” she whispered.
“For making you feel unsafe. Or unworthy. Or,” his voice cracked, the rest strangled by the pain in his chest—“anything less than perfect.”
Her eyes burned as she glanced at him and then quickly away. She didn’t correct him. Didn’t reassure him. Didn’t say he was wrong.
That hurt worse than any blade.
He moved to the cave mouth, lifting the heavy fur curtain and murmured to lift the magic shield. Cold air rolled in, stinging his eyes, but not nearly enough to explain the sharp wetness there. The sun was still below the horizon, giving the landscape a gray cast, with a light coming from the deep snow around the mountain.
Wren stepped beside him. Small. Shivering. Trying to hide it.
He did not reach for her hand. He didn’t have that right. Not anymore.
“I’ll take you to the edge of the gorge,” he said quietly. “Where the path is clear.”
She nodded, not looking at him.
He glanced back at the nest of furs they’d shared, the warmth already fading, the cave dimming as if it, too, felt abandoned. The mate-bond ached like a bruise behind his ribs. He ignored it.
“Let’s go,” he murmured.
As they walked into the pale morning light, he kept a respectful distance—farther than instinct wanted, closer than his pain allowed.
She didn’t look back even once.
And that was how Gunnar knew. This wasn’t a misunderstanding. Not a momentary panic. Not something he could fix by pulling her close.
This was her choosing distance. Choosing safety. Choosing a life without him.
He swallowed hard. They picked their way through the deep snow and rocks along the mountain path then through the ravine leading to her village. When the gorge opened up to the field that led to the small village and her cabin easily visible in the distance, Wren stopped.
“Thank you,” she whispered.
Thank you. Not stay. Not wait. Not give me some time.
“Always,” he said, because even breaking wouldn’t make him lie.
He forced a small nod. A silent goodbye. Then he turned back toward the mountains before she could see the way his eyes burned.
The storm had ended outside. But the one inside him had only just begun.
Chapter
Nine
Wren left Gunnar at the edge of the ravine. They had traveled through deep snow and rock fall that scattered the base of the mountains where he lived but the snow layer had thinned as they moved further away from the mountain. Clearly the storm had been isolated to the mountain region, as Gunnar theorized. Fortunately the sun was still low in the sky and he was protected by the shadows but it was on the rise now, glittering mercilessly off the snow—so bright it stung her eyes, forcing him to stop. For him, that glitter was death. The curse wouldn’t let him take even one step further.
Her breath fogged in front of her as she stared at the boundary line between shadow and sunlight. Behind her: the looming mountain with its jagged crown, the place where the storm had swallowed her whole. Ahead: the distant shape of her cabin, a handful of rooftops farther out marking the village. And strange stillness—the snowstorm that buried the mountain had never touched the land below. Once they descended past thesteep ridges, the drifts shrank to knee height, then ankle height, until they barely brushed her boots.
She should have felt relieved. Instead, her chest throbbed.
A few yards past the last rock, she paused. The cold gnawed through her coat, but that wasn’t what made her shiver. She didn’t have to turn around to know he was still standing there in the shadows, watching, hurting. Waiting for her to look back.
She almost did.
