Page 26 of Gunnar

“See?”

“Both of you⁠—”

Gunnar’s voice lands like a dropped stone.

“Enough.”

To my astonishment, both of them straighten in their chairs immediately.

Just like that.

The argument dies.

I look at him.

Gunnar isn’t just in charge.

He’s the reason the other two don’t tear the place apart.

The room falls quiet. An uncomfortable silence, I would call it. Not that the others seem to register it.

I look around the room, turning over the combination of rotted old lodge and feral grizzly bears. “How long have you lived here?”

Torin glances up from running the edge of his knife under his nails.

“Long enough.”

I roll my eyes. “That’s not an answer.”

One corner of his mouth lifts. “Coupla years.”

“Closer to three,” Orson mutters.

I glance between them. “Why here?”

Torin shrugs. “Less people.”

“None,” Orson corrects.

His chair legs scrape back across the floor as he leans forward, planting both hands on the table.

“You notice something about this place yet?”

I blink at him.

“What?”

“No neighbors,” he says. “No road traffic. No lights at night. Nothing.”

His gaze flicks toward the dark windows, then back to me.

“That’s the point.”

Something about the way he says it makes the back of my neck prickle.

Torin tilts his head, watching me like this is all mildly entertaining.

Orson doesn’t look amused at all.