But then Gryla’s voice scraped through her mind—sharp, booming, unyielding.
Soft. Puny. Needs toughening.
We can fix her.
We can make her right.
Her stomach lurched.
This was exactly the kind of nightmare she’d spent her whole life trying to escape. She’d always wanted someone who would love her as she was. Somewhere she could fit without shaving off pieces of herself to match what someone else needed. But it never worked that way—not in foster homes, not with almost-adopters, not with people who smiled at her like she was a project.
Not with Gunnar’s family.
Not even with him.
Another home she would eventually be too much for. Or not enough for. Another place she’d be asked to reshape herself until nothing recognizable remained—and then still be told she was wrong.
Not this time.
She’d learned the lesson too well:leave before you’re left.
Wren dropped her gaze to the snow and trudged forward, ignoring the way her shadow stretched long and lonely over the white ground. She barely felt the frozen tear tracks stiffening on her cheeks or the way the wind cut at her skin. Her feet carriedher automatically, uphill and through the field, until she reached her cabin.
Warmth wrapped around her as soon as she stepped inside, but it felt thin and brittle, nothing like the deep, living heat of Gunnar’s cave. She hadn’t realized how much she liked the glow of firelight on stone, the thick scent of pine furs, the way the air hummed with his presence.
Here, the silence felt wrong.
She stripped out of her damp clothes and pulled on something soft and clean. Made tea she barely tasted. Curled onto the couch and yanked a blanket over her shoulders, trying to sink into the cushions as if they could hold her together.
But all she could think about was how his furs had been warmer. Safer. How the curve of his arm around her had felt like belonging. She dug into her bag for the shirt she had swiped from Gunnar, a reminder of him, and her fingers closed around something small and hard. She pulled it out.
Her throat tightened. It was the carving of the bird he had been working on the previous day when everything had been perfect.
The tears she’d held back all day—through the climb down the mountain, through the breaking of something she’d barely let herself hope for—slipped free.
And then they fell as if they meant to drown her.
By the next morning, Wren was cried out and dehydrated. Her eyes felt like sandpaper, her nose burned from too many tissues, and her limbs were stiff from sleeping twisted on the couch. Still, she forced herself upright and stumbled to the kitchen for water, wincing at the brightnessspilling through the windows. Morning looked normal, calm—like the world hadn’t caved in on itself twelve hours ago.
She stood at the counter, staring into the open cupboard, trying to convince herself she should eat something, anything, when a knock thudded against her front door.
Her heart lurched. For a ridiculous, breathless second, she thought—No. Not him. He wouldn’t risk the sunlight.
She opened the door.
Andrea stood on the porch, bundled in a wool coat, cheeks pink from the cold, a plate of muffins balanced in her mittened hands. She and her mate, Ketill, had been nothing but welcoming since Wren moved in—inviting her for dinners, introducing her to locals, making sure she never felt alone.
Andrea’s warm smile faltered the instant she took in Wren’s blotchy face and swollen eyes.
“Oh, sweetheart.” Her voice softened to sympathy instantly. “I was afraid of this. Do you need someone to talk to?”
The tears Wren thought she’d run out of stung her eyes again. She nodded and stepped aside.
A few minutes later, they sat at the small kitchen table, steam rising from two mugs of tea, the muffins untouched between them. The cabin felt too quiet, too still, every sound seeming sharp against Wren’s frayed nerves.
Andrea watched her with the steady, patient gaze of someone who’d been here before. “All right,” she said gently. “What did he do? Trolls mean well, but—trust me—they’re not always proficient in human communication.”
Wren blinked, thrown. “Do? Gunnar? He didn’t—he was sweet.”
