Page 24 of Gunnar

I reach for another piece.

He lets out a quiet huff.

I barely register it. The meat is smoky and rich and salty, and suddenly I’m eating like someone who hasn’t seen food in days.

Across the table, there’s a shift in Gunnar’s expression, as the hard set of his mouth eases.

He spears another piece of meat and drops it onto my plate. “That one’s good,” he mutters.

The piece is thicker than the others, darker at the edges where it caught the heat. I cut into it and take a bite.

It’s ridiculously tender, the meat almost melting as I chew.

When I finally glance up again, Gunnar is still watching me. Those faint crinkles have appeared at the corners of his eyes again.

“Special treatment already,” Torin quips.

Orson gives out a snort.

“She’s hungry,” Gunnar grunts.

Torin leans back in his chair, studying me. “Yeah,” he says. “That’s why.”

My fork pauses halfway to my mouth. “What does that mean?”

Torin opens his mouth⁠—

Gunnar kicks him.

Torin winces and grins at the same time. “Nothing,” he says quickly. “Means absolutely nothing.”

Orson mutters something under his breath, scrapes his chair back and shoves another log into the fire.

But when I glance back at Gunnar, he’s watching me again.

I have no idea what just happened.

7

Alexandria

My thoughts feel fuzzy as I look down at the beer bottle in my hand. Apparently, I just chugged the whole thing.

I finish the last bite of bear-hunted meat and sit back. The fire pops softly in the hearth and the room finally feels warm. My stomach is full and the beer has given me a buzz.

Suddenly, the three beast-men sitting around me don’t seem so unnerving. I lift my gaze and look at them more boldly than before.

Orson has six empty beer bottles lined up in front of him like a barricade. He keeps adjusting them, nudging one into line with the others like he’s building a little wall between himself and the rest of us. His beard is thick and uneven, his dark hair pulled back in a rough knot. He shifts constantly, like the chair is just something he’s putting up with.

Then he tips it back onto two legs, bracing one boot against the edge of the table.

Gunnar kicks the chair down immediately. The legs slam back onto the floor with a crack, and Orson’s head snaps toward him, a snarl ripping from his throat.

He doesn’t argue though.

Instead, he glances at me and drags a hand through his beard.

“Well,” he mutters in a tone that sounds a lot like Gunnar’s, “let’s have some manners now we’ve got humans here.”