Chapter 8
Chapter
Eight
Wren woke up warm. Again.
Not just warm—toasty, cocooned, blissfully swaddled in a furnace disguised as a very large, very muscled troll.
Her face was tucked under the curve of Gunnar’s jaw, one leg thrown over his thigh like she owned the place, his arm banded around her waist in a way that said mine even in sleep.
This chapter in her biography would be titled, That Time She Woke Up On A Troll and Immediately Questioned Her Life Choices.
She blinked groggily.
Oh. Right.
Last night had been…Yeah. That.
Her body helpfully offered a satisfied hum, a warm pulse low in her belly that said she remembered every second.
Gunnar stirred beneath her, a low rumble rolling through his chest, somewhere between a purr and a sleepy growl. He was clearly awake, in every possible way. Something long and impressively solid pressed against her hip, and heat climbed her neck.
“Morning,” she whispered, feeling suddenly shy despite having climbed him like a rock wall last night.
His arm tightened. “Stay.”
A delicious request. Or command. Hard to tell with trolls.
She snuggled closer. The cave, once eerie, now felt soft with lingering warmth from the banked fire. They were wrapped in furs, skin to skin, Gunnar’s heartbeat a steady, grounding thump beneath her ear.
But something else was different. The world outside felt still. No wind. No howling. No ice quakes trying to shake down the mountain.
“It’s quiet, almost peaceful,” she murmured.
Gunnar inhaled deeply, nostrils flaring. “The storm’s broken.”
She let out a breath, the stress that had been building inside of her, easing finally. For the first time since this surreal adventure began, she felt genuinely, peacefully safe.
Of course, that lasted approximately six seconds.
Because the ground trembled. She grabbed onto Gunnar, ducking into him, and looking fearfully at the ceiling, waiting for rocks to fall on their heads.
A gigantic shadow blocked the cave mouth.
Then, a loud voice echoed through the cave. “MY BABY BOY HAS FINALLY DONE IT!”
Gunnar jerked upright so fast Wren squealed, falling to the side and clutching the furs to her chest.
A massive figure swept inside—towering, wide body, wrapped in furs that probably used to be whole herds. Wild braids. Eyes like burning embers. A grin that could frighten nations. She could only be one woman.
Gryla. The Troll Queen. Gunnar’s mother.
And she looked like Christmas had arrived early and brought grandchildren with it.
“Oh, look at you two!” Gryla beamed, clasping her massive hands together. “Finally mated! Finally! I knew trapping a human girl in the storm would work. Mother knows best! You are WELCOME!”
Wren’s brain short-circuited, her thoughts scattering to the cold wind that accompanied Gryla into the cave.
Gunnar growled. “Mother. Boundaries. We’ve discussed this.”
She waved a hand big enough to palm a polar bear. “Nonsense. You’ve been a grumpy, loveless cave troll for too long. And SHE,” Gryla leaned down so close Wren could smell peppermint and smoke. “SHE is perfect! Though she is a bit soft. Small. Very breakable. But we can fix that.”
“Fix?” Wren echoed faintly.
“Oh yes.” Gryla straightened, hands on hips. “We’ll toughen you right up. Ice baths. Cliff climbing. Perhaps some light boulder lifting. You’ll be a proper troll bride in no time. And think of the children! The adorable, tusked, squishy little—”
“Mother,” Gunnar barked, stepping between them. “Stop overwhelming her.”
“I am NOT overwhelming her.” Gryla’s eyes shone.
“I am welcoming her into the family. This is how a family behaves. We’ll have a big dinner welcoming her and introducing her to everyone.
It will be wonderful. Hope you don’t mind a little noise and rough-housing.
My boys aren’t exactly house-trained. But we’re family. ”
Family.
The word hit Wren like a slap.
Her chest tightened like a band wrapped around her. Her breath became short and rapid. Her hands began to tremble beneath the furs. Darkness clouded the edges of her vision.
Family.
She didn’t know what it meant to have a family.
She’d never had one. Foster homes weren’t families.
She’d always dreamt of what it was like to have a family.
She’d watched television, saw other kids with their parents and dreamed of what her life could be.
But she never experienced it for herself.
Her life had been transactional. Kindness always had strings.
Quiet always meant a blowup coming. Love was something you earned by being small, silent, useful.
Not this tidal wave of troll enthusiasm barreling at her like affection with no brakes.
Gryla leaned down again, inspecting Wren as if choosing ripe fruit. “Such a puny thing. Fragile as a snow-hare. Hmm. Yes. Yes, we’ll definitely have to improve her durability.”
Wren’s stomach dropped. Fragile. Puny.
Of course Gunnar’s family would see her that way. Of course she wouldn’t measure up. Of course she’d screw this up like always.
Her vision blurred.
Gunnar turned sharply toward her, nostrils flaring as he caught her panic. “Enough.”
The single word shook the air.
Gryla blinked. “What?”
Gunnar moved fast for someone that large, placing himself fully between Wren and his mother, shoulders squared, tusks bared.
“She is overwhelmed,” he growled. “And you are leaving.”
Gryla frowned. “But—”
“No.”
The cave vibrated with that single syllable. Even the fire seemed to pause.
Gryla’s brows rose. Then, surprisingly, she smiled. Softly. Almost proudly. “Ah,” she murmured. “You truly are mated.”
And with one last appraising look at Wren, she said, “We’ll put some meat on those bones yet, little snowflake.”
Gryla swept out in a swirl of fur and frost, leaving the cave echoing in her wake.
Silence crashed down like a collapsing snowdrift.
Gunnar turned immediately, kneeling in front of Wren, cupping her face with careful, gentle hands. His voice dropped to a low rumble meant only for her.
“Wren. I’m sorry about my mother. She can be overwhelming. I should have stopped her sooner. But she is gone now.”
The words should have soothed her. They didn’t. Not even close.
A cold knot tightened under Wren’s ribs, squeezing until her lungs shuddered. She wasn’t enough. She had never been enough. She knew it in her bones, knew it the way she knew winter air burned her lungs and that storms swallowed the unwary.
His mother had looked at her and immediately assessed everything she lacked. And then left her, abandoned, not even bothering to try to raise her.
Fragile. Puny. Needs fixing. Needs toughening. Not troll enough. Not enough.
It didn’t matter that Gunnar was trying to reassure her. It didn’t matter that his voice was velvet-soft and his hands gentle. Those were words she’d heard before. In foster homes. With potential adopters. With people who promised things they didn’t mean.
People left. People always left.
She swallowed hard, her vision blurring around the edges. “Gunnar, I…”
She couldn’t meet his eyes. Couldn’t hold the softness there. Couldn’t bear how much he seemed to believe what he was saying.
“You don’t understand.” Her voice cracked, a tiny fracture. “You think I’m something I’m not.”
“Wren.” His brow furrowed. “Look at me.”
She couldn’t.
If she looked, she’d fall apart.
Instead, she pulled the furs tighter around her, curling in on herself, trying to make herself small. Invisible. Safe. Her pulse roared in her ears. Her breath hitched too fast.
All she could hear was Gryla’s voice. Puny. Fragile. We’ll toughen her up. We’ll make her suitable.
Wren shook her head sharply. “You don’t get it. I’m not cut out for this. For your family. For whatever you think we are.”
His eyes darkened with confusion, and something like fear.
“Wren, you are my…”
“Don’t.” The word tore out of her before she could stop it, too raw, too sharp.
Gunnar froze.
She pushed on, voice trembling, arms wrapped around her body in a vain attempt to comfort herself. “Please. Don’t say things you don’t mean. Don’t pretend I fit in your world. I don’t. I never have anywhere. I never will.”
His chest rose in a slow, pained breath. He reached for her again but she recoiled.
Barely an inch. But enough.
Gunnar went still, as if her flinch had pierced straight through him.
The silence between them thickened into something brittle. Something breakable. Something already cracking.
Wren looked away, because she couldn’t look at the hurt in his expression, couldn’t look at the hope she would inevitably destroy.
Because that’s what always happened. People like her didn’t get families. They didn’t get happy endings. They didn’t get trolls who wanted them forever.
Her throat closed, and her next breath rattled out shaky and thin.
She whispered, “I can’t do this, Gunnar.”
She didn’t see him break. But she felt it.
A quiet, devastated stillness that sucked all the warmth from the cave.
Gunnar didn’t argue. Didn’t roar. Didn’t beg. He simply drew back, the distance between them suddenly a chasm. He rose to his full height, shadows carving deep lines into his face, tusks low, eyes glacial.
The storm might have stopped outside—but the one inside the cave had just begun.
Gunnar knew something was wrong the moment she froze beneath his hands. Wren didn’t recoil dramatically. She didn’t leap away. She didn’t scream or accuse or storm.
She just stiffened. A small, sharp movement. Barely there. But to his senses, it was as loud as thunder and hit him like an avalanche.
He withdrew his hands immediately, giving her space, giving her air, giving her anything she needed—anything he could give.
But he sensed it wasn’t going to be enough.
The furs slipped from his arms. His palms felt suddenly too large, too clumsy, too dangerous.
He felt like he was too much for whatever was going on inside of Wren, but it scared him more than anything ever had in his life.