Chapter 4
Chapter
Four
Wren suspected the title of her autobiography—or at least one chapter—would be Wren Taylor: Desperate People-Pleaser.
She knew exactly where that tendency came from.
Therapy had drilled it into her head. Children raised in foster care, told often enough that no one wanted them, grew into adults who bent over backward for crumbs of affection.
Some people learned to build walls. Wren learned to build herself into whatever people wanted, hoping someone might stay. No one ever had.
And yet, here she was, in a cave in Iceland, with a brooding, green-skinned troll whose scowl could curdle milk, and she still wanted to belong. In fact, she had never felt more like this was the place where she belonged. Now to convince Mr. Growly of the fact.
He sat near the fire, massive frame hunched over a block of wood and a carving knife, the firelight gilding the planes of his face.
Each curl of shaved wood spiraled to the floor in a fragrant drift of cedar and smoke.
He didn’t look up, didn’t acknowledge her presence, but somehow she felt every ounce of his awareness tracking her movements.
Wren wandered the cave, trying to keep her fidgeting to a minimum.
She stopped at each carving, tracing her fingertips over the smooth grain, the elegant precision of his cuts.
She smiled at a seal caught mid-dive, at a stag with antlers like spreading branches. Every piece breathed life, humor, soul.
He carved like he lived—quiet, contained, yet impossibly intense.
When she couldn’t stand the stillness anymore, she began tidying.
Straightening the carvings, dusting around the older ones, rearranging the small figures so they’d be better seen.
She rescued a tiny penguin from where it had been wedged in a wall crack and set it front and center.
She folded the drying towel, smoothed the furs, and adjusted the placemats on the table so they lined up perfectly.
Finally, Gunnar let out a sound that was half sigh, half growl. “When will you sit down?”
“When I’m done.”
“Doing what?”
She turned, only to find him right behind her. The air went still between them, warm and heavy. “Exploring,” she said faintly.
Before he could respond, the ground shuddered beneath her feet. The walls rattled. Loose shavings from his carvings danced in the air. Wren pitched forward, and landed hard against his chest.
His arms came around her instantly, solid and immovable, anchoring her to him as the cave trembled. “What’s happening?” she gasped, clutching his tunic.
“Minor quake,” he rumbled near her ear. “Iceland has many. Or,” his voice deepened, “it’s my mother, meddling again.” He raised his voice toward the cavern roof. “Enough, Mother! You’re scaring the human.”
The shaking stopped as abruptly as it had begun. The silence that followed pulsed with heat and heartbeats.
Wren tilted her head back to look up at him, laughing breathlessly. “I’m not sure I want to meet your mother if she thinks deadly storms and earthquakes are romantic gestures.”
As if on cue, the ground gave one last violent lurch. She squeaked and stumbled right back into his arms.
He caught her again with a resigned sigh. “I wish I could say she’s not that bad. But she’s worse.”
“She clearly loves you,” Wren said softly, her hands still pressed against his chest. The fire painted his runes in molten gold where his shirt gaped open. “She just wants you to be happy.”
He grunted, a low rumble that vibrated against her palms. “I was perfectly happy minding my own business.”
“Wasn’t it lonely?” she asked, the words slipping out before she could stop them.
He didn’t answer. But the glow of his runes brightened, lighting the space between them like a heartbeat.
Before she could ask, a sudden squawk split the air.
A massive raven swooped into the cave, wings glinting blue-black in the firelight.
It carried a small woven basket in its talons.
The bird dropped it neatly on the table, then deliberately swooped over Gunnar’s head, forcing him a step closer to Wren.
She felt the brush of his breath against her temple.
Then the raven vanished into the storm.
Wren blinked, then darted toward the basket. “Hot chocolate,” she said with a delighted gasp, rummaging through the contents. “Cookies and—oh my god—is this mistletoe?” She held it aloft, the berries gleaming red.
Gunnar’s expression darkened. He plucked a small card from the basket and read aloud in a flat tone, “You’re welcome. Mother.”
Wren burst out laughing. “She sent you hot chocolate? That’s kind of adorable.”
“She’s interfering,” he growled, stalking toward the hearth to fetch two mugs. “If she thinks cocoa and mistletoe will make me mate with the first human she tosses into my cave—”
“Whoa, whoa, back up.” Wren raised her hands, still smiling. “You have mistletoe rules here too?”
He grunted again, pouring the thick, dark chocolate into the mugs. The scent of it filled the air—rich, sweet, and spiced, mingling with pine smoke and something that made Wren’s pulse skip. He handed her a mug, his clawed fingers brushing hers just long enough to spark heat up her arm.
She sipped. It was heaven—velvety and thick, like drinking a melted candy bar. “If this is troll hospitality, I might never leave,” she murmured.
Gunnar didn’t smile, but his eyes softened, the gold of the fire catching in their dark depths. “You might not have a choice.”
Something in his tone made her pause. “What do you mean?”
He stared into the fire for a long moment before answering, his voice quieter now, almost reverent. “There’s a curse. On us. On all thirteen of Gryla’s sons.”
“A curse?” She repeated, setting her mug down slowly.
He nodded once, the motion stiff. “Centuries ago, our kind angered a witch. She bound us to this land—half stone, half flesh. We cannot walk freely in the daylight or live among humans for long. Only one thing can break the curse.”
“What thing?” She asked, barely breathing.
He turned toward her then, his eyes luminous in the firelight, every rune on his skin burning faintly like living script. “True love,” he said simply. “A human who sees us for what we are, accepts us, chooses us. Only then can the curse be undone.”
Wren’s throat went dry. “And if you don’t find that person?”
He lifted his mug, taking a long, steady sip before replying. “Then we turn to stone. When the longing grows too great, when hope fades.”
The fire crackled softly, and outside, the wind screamed across the mountains. Inside, everything slowed—the shadows, the breath between them, the weight of his confession.
Wren stared at him, her chest tight. “That’s beautiful. And heartbreaking.”
His gaze dropped to her mouth, and for one charged moment, she thought he might kiss her. Instead, he looked away.
“It’s foolish,” he murmured. “No human would ever love a troll.”
But his voice carried a tremor of something that sounded dangerously like hope.
Wren smiled faintly into her mug, heart pounding as warmth spread through her—not from the chocolate, but from the man—no, troll—sitting beside her, shoulders hunched as he steadfastly refused to look at her.
And for the first time in her life, Wren Taylor thought that maybe, just maybe, she’d stumbled into exactly where she was meant to be.
For the first time in all his long years on earth, Gunnar had someone living in his cave.
He never tolerated company. Not his brothers—gods knew they were disasters waiting to happen—certainly not a human.
His brothers could visit, bring their noise and chaos, but he always sent them away after a day or two.
He preferred his quiet, his solitude, the peace carved into the rhythm of his days.
But Wren was different.
She didn’t just exist in a space—she filled it.
She moved like a spark catching on dry kindling, darting from one end of the cave to the other, touching everything, talking to herself, humming.
She left trails of sound and scent wherever she went.
Sweet, warm, a mix of berries and cream and something softer beneath—like wildflowers caught in sunlight.
She was a whirlwind. And he’d never realized until now how desperately he needed a little wind in his life.
Damn Gryla.
When he held Wren earlier—her small body pressed to his, the curve of her spine fitting perfectly into the cradle of his arm—it had taken everything in him not to kiss her.
He’d felt her tremble against him, not in fear, but with something alive and electric.
And he’d wanted to follow that current, to find where it led.
But he was a troll. Trolls and humans did not mix. Not really.
Even now, after all these centuries, most humans barely tolerated them.
The legends of the Yule Lads still lingered in whispers—Gryla’s monstrous sons who once stole naughty children.
People liked to pretend those stories had faded, but the old ones still eyed him with suspicion whenever he walked through the village market.
He made a living selling his carvings, trading woodwork and furniture for supplies, and retreating back here. Alone. Always alone.
Until her.
Wren was nothing like he imagined a human mate might be.
She was softer and louder, full of motion and light.
And somehow, she already belonged to the space as if she’d been born from it.
The sight of her in his shirt—his shirt—made something inside him tighten painfully.
The hem brushed her thighs, the neckline wide enough to reveal a sliver of pale skin and the shadow of her collarbone.
The firelight gilded her hair, turning the strands a golden red as she curled near the flames.
He feared what that meant. He feared she was his fated one—the human who could break his curse.
And if she rejected him? He’d do as Uncle Eirik had done. Walk into the sun and let it turn him to stone.
He remembered his uncle—gentle, quiet, kind. Eirik had fallen for a human woman who hadn’t returned his love. The morning she refused him, he’d gone out at dawn and stood until the light devoured him. Gunnar still visited the stone figure sometimes, half buried in moss and snow.
He would not let himself suffer the same fate. And yet… he wasn’t sure he had a choice anymore.
The wind outside rose to a howl, rattling the furs covering the entrance. The temperature dropped sharply, the kind of cold that sank deep into the bone.
Wren shivered and wrapped her arms around herself, his shirt slipping off one shoulder. “Is it getting colder?”
He frowned, rising to check the door covering. “The storm is intensifying.” He could taste the magic in it now, faint and metallic. “My mother must have started something she can’t quite control.”
“Should we be worried?” She asked, her voice small in the vastness of the cave.
“Not unless you count freezing,” he muttered. Then, softer, “You should get under the furs. Warm up.”
“Where will you sleep?”
He hesitated. She must have seen it in his expression because she shook her head with a small, resigned laugh. “Right. We’ll have to share.”
The word share did strange things to him.
It was a reasonable decision, logical even. He didn’t have another bed or room for one, but every nerve in his body reacted as if she’d whispered something scandalous.
“I’ll stoke the fire and bring more wood,” he said, his voice rougher than he meant. He turned away before she could see the heat in his eyes.
He busied himself stacking logs from the woodpile near the back. His hands, capable of carving delicate figures from oak, trembled slightly as he fed the fire. Sparks leapt up, dancing in the smoky air.
When he turned, she was already burrowed beneath the thick fur blanket, looking small and soft in the glow. Her hair spilled over the pillow like a tangle of scarlet threads.
“Come on, big guy,” she murmured sleepily. “You’ll freeze over there.”
He hesitated only a heartbeat before moving to the bed. The furs dipped under his weight, and her scent enveloped him instantly—warm skin, soap, a hint of chocolate from earlier. His body went rigid as her hand brushed his arm, her fingers tracing the faint pattern of the glowing runes.
“You’re warm,” she whispered.
“You’re not,” he said gruffly, tugging the covers higher.
She shifted closer, her body pressing along his side. The world narrowed to the sound of her breath and the slow, steady thump of his heart—too loud in his own ears.
“Do trolls ever cuddle?” she asked, her tone teasing, drowsy.
He turned his head toward her. “No. Trolls don’t cuddle.”
“That’s a shame.”
He couldn’t help it. A rumble of laughter escaped him, deep and low. “We can make an exception.”
Her face tilted up toward his, her lips just inches away. The moment stretched thin as an icicle. Then she rose onto her elbow and kissed him.
It was soft—hesitant at first—but her mouth was warm and sweet, and when she parted her lips, his control slipped. He deepened the kiss, tasting her, savoring the way her breath hitched and her hand slid up his chest. The rune-light flared between them, casting golden light across the furs.
He wanted to pull her closer, to roll her beneath him, to see how her body fit against his. But then she broke the kiss, panting softly, her forehead resting against his.
“Maybe we should just sleep,” she whispered.
He nodded, though it took effort. “Probably wise.”
Wren nestled into his side, curling up against him, her head resting on his chest. He draped an arm around her, protective and possessive all at once. The storm raged outside, wind shrieking against the mountainside, but in the cocoon of fur and firelight, it felt far away.
Her breathing slowed, soft and steady.
He pressed a kiss to the crown of her head and whispered into her hair, “Sleep well, little human.”
But Gunnar didn’t sleep.
He lay awake for hours, listening to the storm and the quiet rhythm of her heartbeat against his ribs—each one a reminder that she was real. And that he was already in far more danger than any blizzard could bring.