Page 60 of Gunnar

I’m sitting cross-legged on the bed, absorbed in a copy of Wuthering Heights, the pages yellowed, the spine cracked from decades of use.

“Coming!” I yell back, raising my voice so it passes through the thick oak door.

I’ve spent the past couple of hours hiding out in here. There’s a heater in the corner, I’m wrapped in my comforter, and the room finally feels warm.

Page 132, I note before I close the book. I’m at the part where Catherine tries to explain why she’s going to marry Edgar—even though it’s obvious Heathcliff is the one she belongs with.

The book—and several others—were stacked neatly outside my door when I came indoors earlier, along with an electric heater. Of the two potential candidates, my money’s on the one who didn’t butcher a deer in the kitchen today.

I swing my legs off the bed and go check my reflection in the dusty mirror above the vanity.

For someone who was nearly murdered a day and a half ago, I look… kinda healthy.

My eyes are bright. My cheeks have a warm glow.

Maybe that’s the fresh mountain air…

Or maybe it’s something else.

Like the fact that earlier today I watched a six-foot-something grizzly shifter fix a generator half naked.

I shake my head.

So what if he’s good-looking, and protective, and thoughtful.

And the way he says my name in that growly voice of his lights me up inside.

We’re not even the same species.

I clear my throat.

And there’s no reason I should feel nervous at the thought of seeing him again.

I smooth my hair down, zip up my sweatshirt, and pull the heavy door open.

As I start toward the kitchen, the image of the deer rises up again. It was so surreal, so unexpected that I didn’t fully absorb it in the moment. But darn, there was a lot of blood⁠—

“Not that way!” comes Gunnar’s voice from somewhere.

“Then which way?” I ask, looking around and laughing.

His head appears around a doorway at the far end of the hall.

“This way.” He beckons.

As I approach, he swings the door open wide, and I take a breath.

It’s a formal dining room.

An antique wooden table runs through the center of the space, big enough for a dozen people. A fire crackles in the fireplace. A thick tapestry rug covers the floor, and several oil lamps cast a soft golden light around the room.

“Wow,” I say. “This is… a really nice room.”

“I know, right?” Gunnar says, sounding pleased.

“You didn’t know it was here?”

“We never needed it,” he says with a shrug. “Everything was covered in sheets. Amazing what a quick cleanup and a fire can do.”