Chapter 7
Chapter
Seven
Gunnar lifted Wren and lowered her onto the furs, his massive hands spanning her waist. Heat radiated between them, her skin prickling with awareness where his rough fingertips grazed her bare flesh.
His grip tightened for an instant before gentling, as though battling his own desire to claim her completely.
She arched into his touch, wanting more—wanting everything.
He knelt between her parted thighs, his chest heaving with each ragged breath. Sweat gleamed on his skin, firelight licking across the ridges of his abdomen, the hard planes of his chest. But it was the runes etched into his powerful body that made her mouth go dry with want.
They glowed.
First a shimmer like moonlight on water, then brighter, pulsing in rhythm with the ache building between her legs. The silver markings deepened to colors that called to something deep inside of her.
Her hand hovered near one, tremulous with awe.
“Gunnar, your markings—”
He shuddered. “Wren. Don’t, unless you mean this. All of it.”
“I do.” She reached for him, her palm settling over the rune just above his heart. “I’ve never meant anything more.”
The light blazed under her fingertips, sliding beneath her palm like molten silk, alive and humming at her command.
Gunnar exhaled a low growl that shivered through her core.
Her pulse leapt in her throat. He leaned down, slow and worshipful, giving her every chance to turn away.
She didn’t. Instead, she curled her fingers into the muscles of his broad shoulders, drawing him close until his breath warmed her lips.
“You’re sure?” he whispered, voice thick with need and warning. “Once we cross this, I may never let you go.”
Her heart pounded. She curved her lips into a daring smile. “Good. Don’t.”
His kiss was nothing like before—hungry, fierce, utterly consuming.
He pressed into her with the desperation of centuries starving for one taste of life.
His tusks—alien and provocative—brushed her mouth, sending sparks through her veins.
She matched him stroke for stroke, a wave of urgency rising in her chest.
His hands glided down her sides, reverent and quivering, worshipping every inch of skin. When his palms cupped her hips and tugged her up against him, she gasped, arching into his solid weight.
The runes pulsed in answer, glowing brighter in waves of ancient magic that kissed the furs beneath them with soft luminescence. She felt it deep in her soul—a tether drawing her to him.
Foreheads pressed together, his breath ragged, eyes squeezed shut. “The bond stirs,” he rasped. “It answers only to you.”
She framed his face, thumbs brushing the ridges of his tusks. “Then let it.”
He kissed her again, slow and deep, a kiss that dissolved every thought but the one tying them together. His body draped over hers, protective and scorching, enveloping her in warmth. She arched, welcoming the intimacy of heat against heat, the profound rightness of him.
Fingertips trembling, she tugged his shirt up and over his head, tossing it aside. He inhaled sharply, his gaze roaming her bare skin as though committing every curve to memory. He peeled off his pants, scattering them across the pallet, then settled between her thighs once more—skin on skin.
A shudder ran through her when his warm skin pressed against hers. His hands traced the glowing runes etched across her waist, each stroke setting her nerves aflame. Gunnar’s breath hitched; his forehead fell to hers as he exhaled her name like a benediction.
“Sensitive?” She teased.
“I never knew.”
“Someone had to have touched them before,” she said, still exploring the glowing designs.
“Yes,” he admitted. “There have been women, occasionally. I rarely left my cave, unlike my brothers. And there was one woman, long ago, who I thought might be a mate. But she was only looking for an experience.”
She froze, the realization slamming into her. “An experience? She wanted to know what it was like to be with a troll?”
He nodded against her neck and she tightened her arms. That explained so much. Why he was so hesitant around her, and so reluctant to trust her.
He lifted his head. “Is it okay?”
Her breath tangled with his in the warm space between them. She nodded. “It’s perfect, like you.”
When she pressed her lips to his, his entire body shuddered as if he’d been hit with lightning.
“Wren…” Her name broke from him in a groan, reverent and disbelieving.
She let her nails drift down his spine in slow, teasing strokes, feeling each muscle quiver beneath her touch. He gasped, and the runes etched into his skin flared to life, flooding the cavern with a soft, silver glow. The air hummed with magic—warm, electric—pressing against her skin.
He traced the line of her cheek with exquisite tenderness, his dark eyes burning with desire.
His hand slid down her throat, across the hollow of her collarbone, and settled on the swell of her breast. His thumb brushed her nipple, and she cried out, arching up into him.
When his lips closed over her nipple, gentle but hungry, fire bloomed between her legs.
He coaxed both breasts together, alternating light nips and soft, wet kisses, his tusks grazing her lightly, teasing her.
She writhed into the furs, fingers tangled in his midnight hair, urging him deeper.
Then his hand drifted lower, fingertips ghosting across her belly, teasing the curve of her hip before slipping between her thighs.
She parted for him like water, wet and trembling.
He traced her folds, up to her swollen nub, and she bucked instinctively, her breath catching.
“Is this too much?” He murmured against her skin, concern flickering in his eyes.
She cupped his cheek. “It’s perfect. Just right.”
Encouraged, he dropped his mouth lower, lips feather-light against her, and his tongue danced a slow, sensuous arc from her slit up to her clit, eliciting a squeal of delight.
He savored her flavor, groaning as her walls fluttered around his finger when he slipped it inside.
He added a second, curling them to brush that exquisite spot, then bent forward to suck her clit into his mouth.
She shattered, a low cry vibrating through her as her release washed over her in relentless waves.
He lingered at her center until her hips stilled, then crawled up her body, breath hot against her skin, before settling beside her. She met his gaze and smiled, suddenly shy.
“That was incredible,” she whispered, sliding her hands down his chest. She stroked him with languid confidence, watching his pulse quicken until he groaned, his eyes fluttering closed.
“But we’re not done,” she teased.
He aligned himself, his length poised at her entrance. He paused, trembling with restraint. “Look at me,” he demanded, his voice strained.
She did, meeting the storm of need and devotion in his eyes. “If you say stop,” he whispered, voice raw, “I will. Even if it kills me.”
She curled her legs around him, drawing him in. “Don’t ever stop.”
He exhaled—a sound half growl, half prayer—and slid into her slowly, inch by burning inch. She gasped at his size, every nerve aflame as he filled her completely. For a heartbeat he froze, letting her adjust to him, until she tipped her hips, wordless encouragement shining in her eyes.
He moved again, deeper, until there was no distance between them—only the pulse of their joined bodies.
His runes blossomed bright, bathing the cave in rippling silver light that danced across the walls with every thrust. The magic wrapped around them, weaving them together, root and branch, heart and soul.
“Wren…” His voice cracked, reverent. “My mate.”
She clung to him, tears shining in the candlelit haze of magic and sweat.
They found a fierce, perfect rhythm, rising faster, hips and bodies moving together.
Then with a cry that echoed off stone, she came again, searing through them both.
His name tore from his throat as he followed her over the edge, a wave of silver fire binding them in one ecstatic blaze.
And then—quiet. Just the echo of labored breaths and the warm, beating press of his body against hers. He sagged into her embrace, one powerful arm curling around her like a shield, his face nestled in the hollow of her neck as they sagged into their release.
Her fingers threaded through his hair, soothing, tender.
The runes dimmed to a soft glow.
The bond settled, twining through her very soul.
“Gunnar,” she whispered, pressing a kiss to his temple, “I’m yours.”
His answering exhale trembled with relief and something dangerously close to joy.
“And I,” he murmured, voice thick with reverence, “am yours.”
Gunnar had held many things in his arms over the centuries—fallen brothers, splintering wood, dying firelight, his own breaking heart.
But never her. Never anything like her.
Wren lay curled against him, her breath warm and steady against his chest, her fingers resting lightly on one of the faded runes that still glowed faintly beneath her touch.
Her legs tangled with his, her skin soft against his roughness, her scent—wild, sweet, human—filling the cave as if she’d always belonged there.
He didn’t dare move. Didn’t dare breathe too hard.
Because some part of him believed that if he shifted even an inch, she might flicker out of existence like a dream too bright to keep.
The bond hummed inside him, warm and anchored, a new pulse under his skin.
Alive.
Settled.
Claimed.
But instead of joy, fear curled like a fist around his throat.
She might leave.
The thought lanced through him so sharply he almost flinched.
He’d felt her body respond to him—felt the magic root itself in her, felt her choose him. But choosing him in the heat of the moment didn’t mean she understood what it meant in the daylight.
Humans changed their minds. Humans ran. Humans woke up from intoxicating nights and wondered what madness had overtaken them.
And she—Gods, she was too bright for him. Too alive. Too full of a world beyond this cave.
His hand cupped the back of her head, fingers threading through her hair almost without thought. She nuzzled closer, a tiny contented sound escaping her that shot straight through him.
He shut his eyes.
This felt like the thing he had begged the gods for and then cursed himself for wanting. It felt like a life that was never meant to be his.
She shifted slightly, her thigh grazing his, her arm tightening lightly around him. A simple movement, innocent even. And yet it nearly undid him.
She was his mate now. The bond had sealed. Her magic—and her life—were tied to his.
But she didn’t know the weight of that. Not really. Not the way trolls understood it: with centuries of loss stitched into their bones and the memory of brothers who had walked into the sun rather than face another winter alone.
He’d held her through passion, through magic, through that exquisite moment when two souls recognized each other.
But could he hold her through morning?
Could he hold her through choice?
Gunnar looked down at her, the soft glow of dying runes reflecting faintly off her skin. She looked peaceful. Trusting. As if curling up in the arms of a troll was the most natural thing she had ever done.
That terrified him.
“Wren,” he whispered, though she didn’t stir, “you don’t know what you’ve given me.”
He brushed a thumb over her shoulder, memorizing the shape of her in the low firelight.
“If you leave…” He swallowed. The words caught in his throat, jagged and dangerous. “Then I will unravel.”
It wasn’t a threat. It was truth. Simple. Quiet. Fatal.
He kissed her hair, barely a touch of his lips. “But it must be your choice.”
His arms tightened around her before he could stop himself, holding her with a mix of desperation and reverence he couldn’t hide even from himself.
She murmured in her sleep, pressing closer, her breath warming the hollow of his throat. His heart slammed painfully against his ribs.
He knew he would protect her. He knew he would worship her. He knew he would face gods and storms and curses before letting anything harm her.
But the one thing he couldn’t fight was her leaving.
So he held her as the fire burned low and the storm outside raged on, praying—something he hadn’t done in centuries—that when morning came, she would still be in his arms.
And that she would still want to be.