Chapter 8 #2
“Wren,” he tried gently. “Tell me what’s happening.”
But she wouldn’t look at him.
Her shoulders curled inward like a wounded bird, like she was protecting something fractured and fragile inside herself.
Her breath came fast and thin. Her pulse hammered rabbit-quick against her throat.
She smelled of fear and panic. He hadn’t even scented that on her the first time she woke in his cave.
His heart sank.
Gryla had always been overwhelming, too much sometimes for even her sons. He should have stopped his mother sooner. Should have shielded Wren from her storm of enthusiasm. Should have known how delicate humans could be. Should have protected Wren better.
But he had failed. And now he may have lost his mate.
The mate-bond tugged at him, tightening painfully, sensing her distress and casting it into his own bones. Her fear. Her uncertainty. Her hurt. It was all there, trembling through him like a fault line ready to break.
“Wren,” he whispered, “please look at me.”
She shook her head without lifting it.
“It’s not you,” she managed, her voice ragged. “It’s me. It’s everything else. I can’t do this.”
Something inside him fractured clean through, like ice under too much weight.
Not you. Humans said those words a lot. They never meant them.
But he didn’t argue. Didn’t roar. Didn’t claim or plead or pull her close the way the bond screamed at him to do.
He would never force Wren to do something she didn’t want to do.
He would never make her miserable. He would rather walk into the sunlight and be stone forever than know he caused her an ounce of pain.
He forced his breathing to slow. Forced the beast inside him quiet. Forced himself to be gentle—for her.
“What do you need?” he asked softly.
She swallowed hard. “To go home.”
His stomach sank. She wanted to leave him. To be anywhere but with him. Hope faded away like smoke drifting on the wind. But he would never hold her against her will. The mate bond wouldn’t allow it. The curse would come for him either way.
He nodded once, even though it grated against his very nature. “Of course. I’ll take you home as soon as you want to leave.”
Wren flinched at the tenderness in his voice. It pained him to see that. Deeply.
He moved slowly—so painfully slowly—to give her time, space, anything. He rose to his feet, every limb heavy, every breath a burden.
He fought the bond clawing at him, calling her mine, insisting he pull her close, insisting this was wrong, insisting she was scared, not rejecting him. But he refused to let instinct rule now. Not when she was hurting.
“We’ll walk out together,” he murmured. “I need to see you home safely. Please let me do that.”
“What about the sun?” Her voice was quiet, but still considerate of his curse.
“If we go now, I can avoid the sun. Or we can wait until later. The sun is only out for about five hours this time of year. Most of the journey is in the forest, sheltering me from the light.,” he responded, hoping she took the later time, giving him more time with her.
She nodded. “I think it would be best to go quickly. Less painful that way.”
“As you wish,” he said, his heart twisting inside.
She dressed quietly in the clothes she had arrived in, now dry.
He gathered her coat from the warm stone ledge and held it open for her.
She hesitated—just a flicker—but then stepped into it.
When his hands brushed her shoulders, she tightened, almost imperceptibly, but he noticed, and stepped back fast, throat closing.
He had terrified humans before. Even his own brothers when he’d lost his temper. But he had never wanted to be harmless so badly as he did in that moment.
“Wren,” he said softly, “I’m sorry.”
Her breath hitched. “For what?” she whispered.
“For making you feel unsafe. Or unworthy. Or,” his voice cracked, the rest strangled by the pain in his chest—“anything less than perfect.”
Her eyes burned as she glanced at him and then quickly away. She didn’t correct him. Didn’t reassure him. Didn’t say he was wrong.
That hurt worse than any blade.
He moved to the cave mouth, lifting the heavy fur curtain and murmured to lift the magic shield.
Cold air rolled in, stinging his eyes, but not nearly enough to explain the sharp wetness there.
The sun was still below the horizon, giving the landscape a gray cast, with a light coming from the deep snow around the mountain.
Wren stepped beside him. Small. Shivering. Trying to hide it.
He did not reach for her hand. He didn’t have that right. Not anymore.
“I’ll take you to the edge of the gorge,” he said quietly. “Where the path is clear.”
She nodded, not looking at him.
He glanced back at the nest of furs they’d shared, the warmth already fading, the cave dimming as if it, too, felt abandoned. The mate-bond ached like a bruise behind his ribs. He ignored it.
“Let’s go,” he murmured.
As they walked into the pale morning light, he kept a respectful distance—farther than instinct wanted, closer than his pain allowed.
She didn’t look back even once.
And that was how Gunnar knew. This wasn’t a misunderstanding. Not a momentary panic. Not something he could fix by pulling her close.
This was her choosing distance. Choosing safety. Choosing a life without him.
He swallowed hard. They picked their way through the deep snow and rocks along the mountain path then through the ravine leading to her village. When the gorge opened up to the field that led to the small village and her cabin easily visible in the distance, Wren stopped.
“Thank you,” she whispered.
Thank you. Not stay. Not wait. Not give me some time.
“Always,” he said, because even breaking wouldn’t make him lie.
He forced a small nod. A silent goodbye. Then he turned back toward the mountains before she could see the way his eyes burned.
The storm had ended outside. But the one inside him had only just begun.