Chapter 3
Chapter
Three
If Wren had a guardian angel, she just knew he was thinking, What fresh hell has she gotten into now? Her angel was either drinking himself into a stupor or had quit entirely, moving on to someone smarter—and less likely to die of exposure.
Consciousness crept over her slowly, stealthy as dawn sliding across a snow-blanketed horizon.
Warmth came first. She was warm. Dry, even.
Not frozen stiff like she should’ve been after tromping through thigh-deep drifts while muttering curses at Google Maps and Icelandic weather.
The storm had rolled in fast, swallowing her in white.
She’d never seen snow pile up that quickly in her life.
Then again, Massachusetts winters had nothing on Iceland.
She shifted carefully, mindful of her surroundings, and her bare legs brushed against something sinfully soft. Fur—thick, plush, and warm enough to melt away the last shivers still trapped under her skin.
“You may as well open your eyes. I know you’re awake. Though it’s hard to tell. You talk a lot in your sleep.”
The voice was a low rumble that slid over her like smoke, roughened and deep enough to vibrate through her chest. Her eyes flew open.
A towering figure stood before a crackling fire, all shadow and molten gold light.
The man—no, not a man—he was a troll. His skin was a deep moss green, alive with faint movement like shifting lichen.
Dark runes glowed dimly across the ridges of his arms. His black hair fell in a thick curtain halfway down his back, his tusks gleamed ivory-bright, and his dark eyes fixed on her with a glower that could’ve melted glaciers.
Her breath caught. This was him. The one she’d been looking for. Certainty thrummed through her like a struck chord, wild and inexplicable, and for the first time in years the restless energy that had chased her across continents stilled.
“Ketill is your brother?” she asked, her voice scratchy from sleep.
The only sign of surprise was a brief flicker of his brow. “You know Ketill? Of course you do,” he muttered. “He’s probably in on this with Gryla. Yes, he’s my brother. The nicer one.”
She pushed herself upright, clutching the white fur to her chest. It slid across her bare skin, and the brush of it made her acutely aware of how little she was wearing—nothing. Heat crawled up her neck. “He told me not to wander too far.”
The troll settled on his heels, the movement fluid despite his massive size. “Then why did you?”
“I got lost. And I didn’t expect the storm. The forecast said it’d be clear.” She frowned. “It was supposed to be a nice day.”
“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, the wind 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?”
He frowned, flexing his hand. “Nothing. Just the fire.”
She hesitated, then slowly stretched her hand toward him again. The runes answered her, glowing brighter where her warmth met his skin. When she drew back, they faded to faint embers.
“Doesn’t seem that way to me,” she said softly.
He grunted and pushed his chair back, abruptly gathering the bowls. “Hey, I wasn’t done!”
He gestured pointedly to her dish. “Your bowl was empty.”
She lifted her last piece of bread with mock solemnity. “There was still broth left. I was going to finish it. What was the meat, anyway? Elk? Reindeer? Moose?”
He dropped the bowl back in front of her with a thud. “Beef.”
“Oh.”
She tore the bread, soaking up the last of the broth before rising and carrying the bowl to his sink. He took it from her without a word, his big hands dwarfing the delicate wooden bowl as he washed it clean. The sound of water filled the air, soft and rhythmic.
“Nice place you have here,” she said, leaning against the counter beside him. “Homey, for a cave. Who decorated it?”
He didn’t look up. “I did. Not many trolls are into interior design. Thirteen brothers, not a single one with taste.”
She drifted away, her fingertips tracing the carvings that lined the shelves—smooth shapes of animals, spirits, and strange faces caught mid-laugh or snarl. “I don’t know,” she murmured. “Whoever made these has a soul. They’re beautiful.”
“I did,” he said simply.
She turned, holding up a carving of a seal resting on a glimmer of ice. “The detail is stunning. You could make a fortune selling these. Have you done bigger pieces?”
He shrugged, gaze sliding past her. “A few.”
Without warning, he stalked toward the back corridor, and she followed, curiosity pulling her along.
The passage opened into a larger chamber that smelled of sawdust and cedar.
Moonlight filtered through cracks in the rock, silvering the rough-hewn floor and illuminating several sculptures—massive wooden forms that seemed almost alive: a troll, a cat like the beast she’d seen earlier, and a figure that might have been an elf.
She circled them slowly, her fingers grazing the polished edges. “These are stunning. You should show them. People would fall in love with this work.”
He leaned in the doorway, arms crossed, shadows pooling around his broad shoulders. “No one cares about the old ways.”
“Maybe not,” she said, turning toward him, “but they care about beauty. And this is incredible. When did you start carving?”
“Winters are long in Iceland,” he said. “For many years, we hid from humans, only allowed out before Yule. I needed something to keep my hands busy. My uncle Eirik taught me. I’d find pieces of wood that spoke to me, shapes waiting to be freed.”
Wren rested a hand on the carved cat’s head. “I know exactly what you mean. I do the same thing, only with mixed media. Rocks, wood, moss, sand. I love taking what nature gives and making something new.”
He watched her, the light playing over her hair, the oversized shirt sliding down one bare shoulder. “How do you know what to create?”
She smiled faintly, lips curving with secret delight. “Like you, I listen. The materials tell me what they want to become.” Her eyes lit suddenly. “Where’s my pack? I need Steve 4.0.”
She hurried back into the main cave, searching through the shadows. Gunnar followed, bemused. “I didn’t see a male in your bag.”
“He’s not a male. He’s my rock.”
“You named a rock?”
“Not just any rock.” She shot him a look over her shoulder. “My soul stone. Where is he?”
He reached for the canvas pack and handed it to her. “Here.”
She dug through it until she pulled out a smooth piece of volcanic rock, cupping it gently in her hands. Her voice softened as she murmured to it, stroking its surface.
When she looked up, her eyes were bright. “I know it’s silly, but he’s important to me. I never had pets, or siblings, or friends growing up.”
“Count yourself lucky. Siblings can be a curse.”
“Not when you don’t have a family.”
He froze. “How is it you have no family?”
“I was abandoned,” she said simply. “At a fire station when I was a baby. Nobody ever found out who my parents were. I grew up in foster care, moved a lot. Never stayed anywhere long.”
He frowned. “Foster care?”
She tilted her head. “You don’t have that here? It’s when the government pays people to take in kids without homes. Some are kind. Some aren’t.”
His jaw clenched. “You were mistreated?”
She smiled faintly, brushing his forearm again without seeming to realize how her touch made his skin heat. “I survived, big guy. Don’t worry about it. There are worse stories than mine.”
A low growl rumbled from his chest, deep and dangerous. “No child should be treated that way.”
Her hand stilled on his arm, eyes wide at the intensity in his voice. “I agree,” she whispered. “But I made it through. And Steve helped.”
“The rock.”
“Not this particular one,” she said with a rueful grin. “There have been others. But this one feels right. Maybe because it’s volcanic—born of fire and pressure. Stronger that way.” She traced a thumb over the stone’s ridges. “Nothing lasts forever, though. Not even rocks.”
Her gaze lifted to his, firelight flickering between them.
For a moment, neither spoke. The air hummed with magic—or maybe it was just the storm still raging somewhere outside, waiting.