Chapter 9
Chapter
Nine
Wren left Gunnar at the edge of the ravine.
They had traveled through deep snow and rock fall that scattered the base of the mountains where he lived but the snow layer had thinned as they moved further away from the mountain.
Clearly the storm had been isolated to the mountain region, as Gunnar theorized.
Fortunately the sun was still low in the sky and he was protected by the shadows but it was on the rise now, glittering mercilessly off the snow—so bright it stung her eyes, forcing him to stop.
For him, that glitter was death. The curse wouldn’t let him take even one step further.
Her breath fogged in front of her as she stared at the boundary line between shadow and sunlight.
Behind her: the looming mountain with its jagged crown, the place where the storm had swallowed her whole.
Ahead: the distant shape of her cabin, a handful of rooftops farther out marking the village.
And strange stillness—the snowstorm that buried the mountain had never touched the land below.
Once they descended past the steep ridges, the drifts shrank to knee height, then ankle height, until they barely brushed her boots.
She should have felt relieved. Instead, her chest throbbed.
A few yards past the last rock, she paused. The cold gnawed through her coat, but that wasn’t what made her shiver. She didn’t have to turn around to know he was still standing there in the shadows, watching, hurting. Waiting for her to look back.
She almost did.
But then Gryla’s voice scraped through her mind—sharp, booming, unyielding.
Soft. Puny. Needs toughening.
We can fix her.
We can make her right.
Her stomach lurched.
This was exactly the kind of nightmare she’d spent her whole life trying to escape.
She’d always wanted someone who would love her as she was.
Somewhere she could fit without shaving off pieces of herself to match what someone else needed.
But it never worked that way—not in foster homes, not with almost-adopters, not with people who smiled at her like she was a project.
Not with Gunnar’s family.
Not even with him.
Another home she would eventually be too much for. Or not enough for. Another place she’d be asked to reshape herself until nothing recognizable remained—and then still be told she was wrong.
Not this time.
She’d learned the lesson too well: leave before you’re left.
Wren dropped her gaze to the snow and trudged forward, ignoring the way her shadow stretched long and lonely over the white ground.
She barely felt the frozen tear tracks stiffening on her cheeks or the way the wind cut at her skin.
Her feet carried her automatically, uphill and through the field, until she reached her cabin.
Warmth wrapped around her as soon as she stepped inside, but it felt thin and brittle, nothing like the deep, living heat of Gunnar’s cave. She hadn’t realized how much she liked the glow of firelight on stone, the thick scent of pine furs, the way the air hummed with his presence.
Here, the silence felt wrong.
She stripped out of her damp clothes and pulled on something soft and clean. Made tea she barely tasted. Curled onto the couch and yanked a blanket over her shoulders, trying to sink into the cushions as if they could hold her together.
But all she could think about was how his furs had been warmer. Safer. How the curve of his arm around her had felt like belonging. She dug into her bag for the shirt she had swiped from Gunnar, a reminder of him, and her fingers closed around something small and hard. She pulled it out.
Her throat tightened. It was the carving of the bird he had been working on the previous day when everything had been perfect.
The tears she’d held back all day—through the climb down the mountain, through the breaking of something she’d barely let herself hope for—slipped free.
And then they fell as if they meant to drown her.
By the next morning, Wren was cried out and dehydrated.
Her eyes felt like sandpaper, her nose burned from too many tissues, and her limbs were stiff from sleeping twisted on the couch.
Still, she forced herself upright and stumbled to the kitchen for water, wincing at the brightness spilling through the windows.
Morning looked normal, calm—like the world hadn’t caved in on itself twelve hours ago.
She stood at the counter, staring into the open cupboard, trying to convince herself she should eat something, anything, when a knock thudded against her front door.
Her heart lurched. For a ridiculous, breathless second, she thought—No. Not him. He wouldn’t risk the sunlight.
She opened the door.
Andrea stood on the porch, bundled in a wool coat, cheeks pink from the cold, a plate of muffins balanced in her mittened hands. She and her mate, Ketill, had been nothing but welcoming since Wren moved in—inviting her for dinners, introducing her to locals, making sure she never felt alone.
Andrea’s warm smile faltered the instant she took in Wren’s blotchy face and swollen eyes.
“Oh, sweetheart.” Her voice softened to sympathy instantly. “I was afraid of this. Do you need someone to talk to?”
The tears Wren thought she’d run out of stung her eyes again. She nodded and stepped aside.
A few minutes later, they sat at the small kitchen table, steam rising from two mugs of tea, the muffins untouched between them. The cabin felt too quiet, too still, every sound seeming sharp against Wren’s frayed nerves.
Andrea watched her with the steady, patient gaze of someone who’d been here before. “All right,” she said gently. “What did he do? Trolls mean well, but—trust me—they’re not always proficient in human communication.”
Wren blinked, thrown. “Do? Gunnar? He didn’t—he was sweet.”
Andrea’s brows knit. “Then why are you here crying yourself sick, and why is he there doing the same? Ketill said he looked like a lost dog.”
Wren wrapped both hands around her mug, inhaling the steam to try to clear her raw throat. “He’s miserable too?”
Andrea nodded slowly. “Of course he is. You’re his mate—his fated one. How do you think he feels?”
Wren stared into her tea. The liquid rippled as her hands shook. “I don’t want him to be miserable. But it can’t work. We’re too different. I don’t fit in his world.”
Andrea exhaled, long and thoughtful. “Humans and trolls don’t naturally fit, no. But they can. Look at Ketill and me. He lives here with me and the kids. He works with the village children. He learned how to be in our world because he wanted to. Gunnar can do the same.”
“That’s not what Gryla said.”
The temperature seemed to drop at the name. Andrea snorted. “Ah. Gryla. Let me guess—she told you that you needed to be bigger, tougher, stronger to survive as a troll’s mate?”
Wren swallowed. “Something like that.”
Andrea rolled her eyes so hard it was nearly audible. “You have to ignore seventy-five percent of what Gryla says. Maybe eighty. She means well, but she’s centuries old and runs entirely on instinct and outdated traditions. When she met me, she asked what we were ‘doing about the children.’”
Wren’s head snapped up. “She thought you’d just… get rid of them?”
Andrea laughed. “No, she genuinely believed my ex would want them more. She didn’t realize he’d drop them like hot coals once he found a new life. Gryla’s heart is huge, but her mouth is unfiltered. What she thinks does not outweigh what your troll thinks. So—did Gunnar agree with her?”
“How can I ignore her?” Wren shot up from her chair, pacing the small kitchen, arms wrapped tight around herself. “She wasn’t wrong. I’m a foster kid from Massachusetts. I’m an artist. I’m not built like some—some Nordic battle-wife. I can’t be what she wants.”
Andrea lifted a brow. “I’m a teacher from Minnesota. I’m not exactly built to be queen of trolls either. But what did Gunnar say? That’s the important part.”
Wren stopped, staring blankly at the wall. Her thoughts had been a hurricane since yesterday—so much noise she couldn’t separate memory from panic.
“I… I don’t remember.”
Andrea’s expression softened. She reached across the table, capturing Wren’s hand warmly. “Honey. Don’t you think that matters? You’re with Gunnar—not Gryla.”
Wren’s throat tightened. “But she could convince him to reject me.”
Andrea shook her head. “You really don’t understand troll brothers.
Gryla can’t persuade them to do anything they don’t want to do.
If Gunnar chose you, that’s it. Gryla’s approval has zero impact on that.
And trust me, she’d be devastated to know she scared you away.
She truly does love deeply. She just matches like a battering ram.
” A wry smile. “Who do you think trapped you in the storm to shove you two together?”
“Kind of a warped way to show love,” Wren muttered.
“Maybe. But she’s a troll queen. They don’t do ‘normal.’ She adores my kids and they adore her. You just met her on a dramatic day. And Wren—” Andrea squeezed her hand again. “I really think you need to talk to Gunnar before it’s too late.”
Wren’s breath hitched. “Too late? What do you mean?”
Andrea hesitated, weighing each word. “You’re his fated mate. And you rejected him.”
Wren’s heart stopped.
Andrea continued quietly, “Trolls go insane when that happens. And when they sense they’re losing their mind, they walk into the sunlight and turn to stone rather than endanger anyone.”
Wren froze.
Ice shot through her veins, rooting her in place.
What had she done?