Page 72 of Gunnar

“And now I see why.”

A low sound rolls out of Gunnar’s chest. “Watch yourself,” he says.

Orson laughs, sharp and ugly.

“Oh, I’m watching.” His eyes flash. “You bring a human up here and start⁠—”

“Enough.”

The word cracks through the clearing. For a moment everything goes still.

Then I feel it.

Gunnar’s arms tighten around me.

Too tight.

His breathing changes. I glance up at him⁠—

—and my stomach drops.

His jaw is clenched so hard the tendons stand out in his neck. His nostrils flare, drawing in deep, sharp breaths like he’s trying to control something inside himself.

“Gunnar?” I whisper.

He doesn’t look at me. His eyes are fixed on Orson. “Alexandria,” he says tightly. The word comes out strained.

“Run!”

Adrenaline darts through me. “What⁠—”

“Back to the lodge,” he growls.

His voice is barely human now.

“Straight back.”

Orson’s expression shifts. “Gunnar⁠—”

“GO.”

The command explodes out of him.

I don’t argue. I turn and bolt.

The path is barely visible, a pale strip between the trees. Branches claw at my sleeves. I stumble on loose dirt, lungs burning.

Behind me, the forest erupts.

A roar splits the night—raw, violent.

I flinch but keep moving.

The ground drops under my foot and I falter, grabbing a tree to steady myself. Bark scrapes my palm.

I stop.

The darkness presses in from all sides. I can barely see the path anymore. The trees are black walls around me, the sky barely visible.