“Icelandic weather,” he grumbled, “is not to be trusted.”
She wasn’t sure if his irritation was directed at her or the sky, but his voice did odd things to her pulse—rough gravel softened by something she couldn’t quite name.
“Where are my clothes?” she asked, a mix of embarrassment and curiosity coloring her words. “Did you undress me?”
His other brow twitched, faint amusement breaking through the scowl. “That should have been your first question.”
It probably should have been. Yet somehow, she wasn’t afraid. Oddly, she felt safe, as though she’d come to the exact place she was meant to be. She huffed a laugh. “Yeah, well. My guardian angel’s definitely drunk and passed out somewhere.”
He frowned, clearly perplexed. “Guardian angel? Your clothes were soaked through. You would have frozen if I left them on.” He gestured toward a rack near the fire where her jeans, sweater, and socks hung steaming. “They’re drying.”
“Thanks,” she murmured, though the word came out softer than intended.
Before she could say more, a furry face popped up over the edge of the bed—massive, with dagger-length teeth and luminous green eyes. Wren shrieked and scrambled backward, clutching the fur tighter. The cat—if one could call it that—yelped, backpedaling and sending a small stool crashing over.
“By the stones, Ketty!” the troll snapped, exasperated. “Stop terrifying guests. Go back to Mother. And take your cursed curiosity with you.”
The beast flicked its tail in pure feline indignation before slinking toward the cave entrance, slipping past the heavy fur covering and vanishing as though swallowed by the mountain itself.
Wren gaped. “Where did it go? Will it be okay?” She leaned forward, nearly tumbling off the bed, trying to see down the tunnel.
“With any luck, she’ll die,” he grumbled darkly, then sighed. “But knowing Ketty, she will live forever just to spite us all.”
“You can’t say that!” she protested. “She’s adorable. In a… saber-toothed, nightmare way.”
He snorted, a sound somewhere between a growl and laughter. “Evil never dies. She’s got magic, anyway. Went home to Mother. Never even got her fur wet.”
She sank back into the furs, unsure whether to be amused or alarmed. “I have so many questions,” she admitted, staring into the firelight. “But I guess I’ll start simple. I’m Wren.”
The troll exhaled slowly, like her name alone was a burden he hadn’t asked to carry. “Gunnar,” he said at last, the word rolling off his tongue with reluctant gravity. “And I suppose you’re hungry.”
Wren smiled, warmth blooming low in her belly that had nothing to do with the fire. “Since you asked so nicely,” she teased, eyes glinting as they met his across the flickering light, “yes.”
For a heartbeat too long, he didn’t move. The air thickened—firelight licking over his tusks, shadows sliding down the ridges of his arms—and Wren swore she felt that deep, rumbling energy again, curling in the space between them. Like the storm hadn’t really ended at all. It had just come inside.
Gunnar found a shirt and handed it to Wren to wear while her clothes dried. It was one of his—massive, worn soft with age, and smelling faintly of pine, smoke, and something wild. The shirt swallowed her whole, the hem brushing her knees and the neckline slipping low enough to hint at the curve of her collarbone. It covered the important parts—barely.
Now they sat across from each other at his rough-hewn table, bowls of steaming stew between them, while the fire in the stone hearth filled the cave with flickering gold. Outside, thewind howled like a restless beast, its cry dulled by the thick furs draped across the entrance and whatever quiet enchantment he’d woven there. Inside, it was all warmth and shadow and the scent of meat and woodsmoke.
“How long will I be stuck here?”
Her voice was soft, uncertain, like she was afraid to break the spell between them. She’d been quiet since he’d mentioned food, her earlier spark dimmed into something smaller, more cautious. He didn’t like it.
“Knowing my mother, as long as it takes,” he said, his tone edged with wry resignation.
“You keep mentioning your mother. What does she have to do with this?”
He sighed and set down his spoon, the metal clinking against the bowl. “My mother is Gryla, the troll queen. She’s decided her sons need to be married, and apparently, I’m her latest project.”
Wren’s lips parted, eyes widening in disbelief. “She created a storm just to trap me here? I don’t know whether to be flattered or offended.”
“Be offended,” he muttered darkly. “She’s pushy, demanding, and impossible to ignore.”
Wren reached across the table, her fingers brushing the back of his hand. “Sounds like she loves you very much.”
The runes carved into his skin flared to life, pulsing with heat. He flinched and pulled away, his chair scraping the stone.
“What was that?”
