She didn’t need him. She had made that painfully clear.
The bond’s silence hurt worse than the sun ever could. The sun would at least be quick.
Ketill perched on a basalt boulder nearby, arms crossed, watching him with a mix of fear and stubborn brotherlyirritation. “Are you certain about this? Waiting one more day would not be amiss.”
Gunnar turned to him slowly. Dawn lightened the horizon by the second, painting the jagged volcanic plain in shades of pewter. “You have tried all night to sway me, brother, but I am determined. Wren made her decision. I will not force what she does not want.”
“You’re not forcing her,” Ketill countered. “You’re giving her time.”
Gunnar pressed a hand against his sternum, the pain sharp, twisting, relentless. “The bond hurts, Ketill. It is like a blade through the ribs, and the madness presses closer with every moment. Rage is building inside me, dark and wild. I do not want any of you to face the burden of stopping me if I lose myself.” His fingers brushed the cold stone of his uncle. “Eirik knew when it was time.”
Ketill groaned. “Wren is a good woman. She was overwhelmed. Gryla would overwhelm a mountain if it stood still long enough. You will regret this.”
Gunnar lowered himself beside his brother. The wind whipped around them, carrying the sting of salt from the distant sea. “I cannot take that chance. Just as you could not when Andrea refused you.”
Ketill shook his head. “And Andrea changed her mind. Which is why I advise patience.”
They both looked eastward. The horizon glowed brighter—orange bleeding toward gold.
“I wish I could,” Gunnar whispered.
“Gunnar!” A voice cracked through the rocks like a breaking wave.
He tensed. That voice. Her voice.
Wren.
She scrambled across the uneven terrain, Andrea close behind her, Gryla striding like an avalanche a few steps back.
Wren’s breath hitched as she reached him. “Don’t,” she gasped. “Please, don’t do this.”
Gunnar stared at her, afraid to believe it was real. “Wren…?”
She nodded, tears streaking her wind-reddened cheeks. “I was wrong. I was scared. You didn’t reject me. I rejected myself. I thought I wasn’t enough.”
Her voice trembled. “But I am. And I want you. I want us.”
The bond inside him ignited—blinding, fierce, an explosion of warmth that nearly drove him to his knees. His chest seized painfully as hope surged through him so swiftly it hurt.
Ketill let out a long, shaky breath. “Thank the ancestors.”
Gryla wiped at her eyes dramatically. “MY BABIES!”
Andrea elbowed her and winced. “Let them talk.”
Gunnar’s voice cracked as he whispered, “Wren, I thought you were gone. That you didn’t want me. The pain—” His voice fractured. “The madness was closing in.”
Wren took his hands, small and warm against his trembling ones. “I know. Andrea explained everything. And I should have listened to you. I let your mother get in my head.”
Gryla huffed. “I meant no such thing! I merely said she was small and?—”
“Not. Now.” Andrea snapped.
Wren didn’t look away from him. “Gunnar, I love you. Not your strength. Not your size. You. Just as you are. And I want to stay, if you’ll still have me.”
The sun crested the ridge fully then, and light spilled across the rocky plains.
Gunnar stepped back into shadow instinctively, but Wren followed, gripping his fingers.
