Chapter 2
Chapter
Two
The storm had started exactly the way his mother’s temper always did—quiet at first, then relentless.
Wind howled down the mountainside, shaking loose icicles from the cave’s mouth. They shattered on the rocks below, each one like the punctuation mark of a curse he muttered under his breath.
Gunnar paced before the fire, the warmth doing little to thaw the tight knot in his gut. Outside, snow whirled in violent spirals. Inside, Gryla’s words echoed in his head like a particularly irritating refrain.
“You’ll know when the storm hits.”
He scowled, running a hand through his hair. “Sure. Because endangering someone’s life is an excellent way to find them a boyfriend.”
Another gust roared through the valley, louder this time, rattling the iron lanterns that hung by the entrance. The runes along the wall flickered in response, like the cave itself was uneasy.
He’d tried to ignore it. Honestly, he had.
He’d sat down, sharpened his carving knife, even started a new charm—a simple pendant of rowan wood etched with a warding rune.
He told himself he was just staying busy.
But every few minutes his gaze flicked toward the cave mouth, drawn to the growing chaos outside.
The air was thick with magic. Old magic. His mother’s magic.
“Damn it, Mother,” he muttered. “Tell me you didn’t actually do it.”
Because if Gryla had stirred up a storm just to drop some hapless human woman in his lap, that wasn’t matchmaking—that was borderline attempted murder. Even for her, that was extreme.
He tossed another log onto the fire, the flames hissing as the snowmelt dripped from his fingers. Shadows flickered over his green skin, catching on the faint scars along his forearms—souvenirs from centuries of bad ideas.
He stared at the flames. “You wouldn’t, would you?”
The fire crackled.
“Right,” he said grimly. “Of course you would.”
Another gust screamed through the mountains, this one carrying a different sound—something sharper. A cry. Faint, but unmistakable.
He went still.
“No,” he said softly, shaking his head. “No, no, no. That’s not—”
The sound came again, faint but insistent, swallowed quickly by the wind.
His teeth ground together as he exhaled through his nose. “Unbelievable.”
For a long moment, he stood there, torn between irritation and dread. His better judgment told him to stay put. The woman—if there even was a woman—was likely some unlucky hiker who’d taken a wrong turn. The human rescue teams could handle it.
Except, no human rescue team would be out in this storm. Not yet. Not fast enough.
And his mother’s words gnawed at him like an itch he couldn’t scratch.
“Try not to scare this one away.”
He growled, low and frustrated. “I hate being predictable.”
Snatching his heavy furs from the peg by the wall, Gunnar swung them around his shoulders. The pelt’s weight settled across him like a promise—or maybe a curse.
Ketty, who had returned sometime during the storm, probably to enjoy his misery, perched by the fire and gave a disapproving flick of her tail.
“Don’t start,” he told the cat, fastening the cloak clasp. “If she freezes to death out there, Mother will never let me hear the end of it.”
Ketty yawned, unbothered.
“Fine. Stay here. Guard the place. Report to mother that I am once again cleaning up her mess.”
He grabbed a small stone from the shelf and tucked it into his belt—a lightstone, in case visibility went to shit. The instant he stepped toward the mouth of the cave, the cold slammed into him like a wall.
The wind clawed at his furs, flinging snow against his face hard enough to sting. The world outside was nothing but white and shadow.
“Just going to look,” he muttered, forcing his way into the storm. “Check. Confirm she’s fine. Then I’m back. No saving, no rescuing, no fate nonsense.”
Lightning flickered in the clouds above, reflecting pale blue across the drifts. Somewhere below, a shape moved—small, dark, and struggling against the wind.
Gunnar’s heart gave a hard, traitorous lurch.
“Of course,” he said flatly. “Of course there’s a human.”
He tightened his grip on his cloak and started down the slope. The wind howled louder, carrying the faintest echo of a voice calling for help.
And beneath his irritation and cynicism, something instinctive stirred.
He hated that feeling.
But he couldn’t ignore it.
“Fine,” he muttered, trudging into the storm, snow swirling around his boots. “Let’s go find out which one of Mother’s disasters I’m cleaning up this time.”
If there were awards for Terrible Life Choices in Subzero Weather, Wren Taylor was about to win a lifetime achievement trophy.
The storm had rolled in out of nowhere. One minute she’d been admiring the way the snow had piled against the basalt stones—thinking how the rough edges would look incredible in a sculpture—and the next, she couldn’t see three feet in front of her.
Wind slammed into her from every direction, sharp as glass, stealing her breath.
She hunched her shoulders, clutching her pack of tools. “Okay,” she shouted into the gale. “Fine! I get it! Bad idea to wander off the trail! Thank you, universe, for your subtle feedback!”
Snow clawed at her coat, weighing her down until every step felt like dragging a sandbag through quicksand.
She could barely tell which direction led to the cabin anymore.
The entire world was white, endless and loud.
Thunder boomed above her and lightning zigzagged across the sky.
Thunder snow. She had heard of it but never experienced it.
Frankly, it was terrifying. How had she ever thought a snowstorm was quiet and peaceful?
“Bad advice,” she gasped, forcing one boot forward. “Worse life choices.”
Her voice sounded small in the storm.
She pressed on, leaning into the wind. The snow actively working against her, piling up quickly so that it was almost to her knees, soaking through her jeans. Every exhale came out as a puff of fog that vanished instantly.
Somewhere behind her, the wind shifted—low, heavy, and strange.
Wren froze. The hair on the back of her neck prickled. Slowly, she turned.
Two faint lights glowed through the snow. Eyes. Large. High above the ground.
Her mind scrambled through possibilities. Wolf? Bear? Reindeer? Yeti? Did Iceland have Yetis?
“Okay,” she said shakily, scanning the snow. Her hand closed around a broken branch sticking out of a drift. “Bad yeti! Go away!”
She hurled the stick. It disappeared instantly into the whiteout. The glowing eyes didn’t move.
Her heart thudded. “That’s fine. Totally fine. Maybe it’s a friendly Icelandic forest spirit. Here to offer creative inspiration and mild hypothermia. Maybe directions to the nearest 7-11 and coffee.”
The lights moved closer. Definitely not friendly.
Her legs gave up before her brain did. The snow caught her, cold and soft and far too inviting. She tried to stand again, but her knees buckled. Her vision flickered between white and gray, and the wind roared louder, as if laughing.
“Not how I wanted to go,” she muttered. “Death by art project.”
A shadow loomed through the snow—tall, broad, wrong in the way that made her instincts scream and her curiosity flare at the same time.
“Okay,” she whispered, not sure if she was talking to herself or the storm. “You’re dramatic, whoever you are.”
The shadow crouched beside her. She blinked through the blur of snowflakes—and saw him.
A face carved from stone and night. Skin the deep, mossy green of lichen-covered rock. Eyes that glowed faintly gold through the snow. Dark hair streaked with frost. And tusks—short but unmistakable—curving from his lower jaw. He looked like Ketill, yet not like him.
“Oh,” she breathed. “You’re new.”
He frowned, voice rumbling like distant thunder. “You shouldn’t be here.”
“That makes two of us,” she mumbled. Her body gave one last shiver of protest before exhaustion won.
She slumped forward—and strong arms caught her.
For one dizzying heartbeat, she thought she might be dreaming, that she’d sculpted this towering, impossible figure from her imagination and he’d simply stepped off her workbench to scold her. But the heat of him burned through her frozen clothes, real and grounding.
Her last flicker of defiance slipped out as a mumble against his chest. “You better not be mythological.”
He huffed, the sound halfway between exasperation and disbelief.
“Humans,” he grumbled, shifting her easily into his arms. “Always wandering where they don’t belong.”
The world tilted, warmth pressed close, and Wren let the darkness take her.