Page 2 of Little Red Riding Hood (The GriMM Tales #1)

Two

R ed’s hands shook, slivers of ice digging into his skin as he fruitlessly struck stone against flint.

The gnawing cold consumed him, seeping beneath his thin cloak and settling in his bones.

He cursed the insubordinate sparks, his breath misting in the glacial air.

Even the trees jeered at him, their bare branches shivering in mockery.

Was it folly, after the wolf’s unsettling words, to journey even deeper into the forest, away from any semblance of warmth or civilisation? Yet some part of him remained stubborn, refusing to be bested by the biting cold or the fear that whispered through the shadows.

Red struck stone and flint once more. A pale ember danced to life, but a sudden gust snuffed it out like a cruel joke. He cried aloud, hunching over the feeble collection of twigs. When had his life become such a wretched tale?

His feet had long since lost all feeling, the ragged holes in his boots inviting the bitter cold to feast upon his toes.

He’d walked for what felt like a thousand eternities before making camp for the night, though ‘camp’ was a generous term for his set-up, which consisted of a simple bedroll, the cooking pot Auntie Anne gave him, and the fire that would not start.

A loud snap of a twig, just to Red’s left, made him jump out of his skin. He scanned the darkness, heart thundering in his chest, fingers tightening around the flint .

A massive grey form emerged from the shadows. The wolf. Wim . Back again.

Back to eat him.

Within a heartbeat, Red’s fingers closed around his bow, nocking an arrow with practised precision as he aimed at the approaching beast.

The wolf stared at Red.

The feral glint in Wim’s eyes had vanished. Once wild and hungry, now they held a calm intensity that made Red’s skin prickle. His posture, before predatory and tense, now seemed more relaxed, although cautious.

Red blinked, uncertain whether his eyes were playing tricks on him in the dim light—the wolf’s entire demeanour had shifted.

“You’re… different,” Red managed to croak out.

“I’ve sated the beast inside me, for now,” rumbled Wim.

“So you… ate those two men?” Red whispered. It seemed an awful waste of that very handsome man to become a meal, but at least it wasn’t Red who’d been eaten.

Wim snarled, revealing those ever-so-sharp teeth. “Wildlings don’t feast on human flesh. Goes against our sacred code.”

“Well, you seemed awfully keen on eating me earlier!”

“I wasn’t myself back there.”

“What do you mean, not yourself?”

There was no reply, and the silence lingered between them. Red lowered his bow, then glanced behind Wim to the dark trees, as if he could will him away. “And if you’re not going to eat me, why are you standing in my camp?”

A wolfish laugh. “Been keeping an eye on you for a bit. Great entertainment, watching you struggle with that fire.” Wim’s furry grey head nodded towards Red’s feeble attempt at a firepit. “Reckon a hot bowl of broth might help me sleep soundly tonight.”

“Go and make your own broth elsewhere, wolf. I have no desire for company.” Particularly not from a beast who threatened to eat me .

“I have no cooking pot, and you’ve got no fire. Trust me, the last thing I want is to break bread with one of Queen Schon’s supporters.”

Red flinched. “How did you know I’m from the palace?” How could this creature possibly know that? He’d been careful to blend in with the common folk scattered around the forest.

Wim’s eyes gleamed in the darkness, a hint of amusement dancing in their depths. “That smell on you,” he growled. “All those fancy perfumes. Only palace folk wear scents like that.”

Red’s cheeks burned. He’d bathed in the river that morning using the tiny bar of lavender-scented soap Auntie Anne had procured for him. “Is it so bad to smell nice?”

The wolf took a large step closer, then sniffed the air.

“Not a bit. But where I’m from, standing with that cruel witch who wears the crown…

now that’s a crime. She had members of my pack slaughtered until my alpha bent to her will, and her tithes are crippling the kingdom, not that she gives a damn. ”

Red couldn’t argue with that, but the wolf’s attitude towards him, as if he were equally responsible, made him bristle.

“The Queen does what needs to be done,” Red retorted. “In fact, right now she has sent me on this very quest to rid Falchovari of the Great Famine.” Probably, he was revealing too much, but he couldn’t help but brag, allowing pride to seep through him and warm his bones.

Wim sneered, and those horribly sharp teeth of his appeared even sharper. “What quest ?”

“Look, if you’re going to hover in my camp, I insist you return to your man-shape.” Red also found he’d grown rather curious to see what this strange man looked like when he wasn’t a mangy mutt.

“Fine by me.”

Red watched, transfixed, as Wim’s form began to shift.

The wolf’s massive body contorted and twisted, fur receding into skin like waves retreating from the shore.

Bones cracked and reshaped themselves, the sound echoing through the silent forest. It was both terrifying and mesmerising, a dance of nature defying all logic.

It was magical. The palace staff were not going to believe their ears when Red recounted this tale upon his return.

The transformation neared its end, and Red found himself holding his breath. The last vestiges of fur melted away, revealing a man kneeling where the wolf had stood moments before. Wim raised his head, meeting Red’s gaze with those same intense amber eyes.

Red’s heart skipped a beat. Gone was the flea-infested beast, replaced with something far more…

magnificent. Wim’s hair was the colour of the chestnuts they roasted every Yuletide, tousled and wild, framing a strong, chiselled face.

His beard, thick and well-groomed, accentuated his masculine features, giving him an aura of ruggedness that made Red’s breath hitch.

Because there was no doubt about it; this was the manliest of men on his knees before Red.

He was older than Red for sure—a good handful of winters older. His broad shoulders and muscular chest spoke of raw power, and made Red feel like a feeble twig in comparison. Wim stood and stretched his arms behind his back. A thick dusting of dark hair covered his chest, trailing down to…

Red jerked his gaze away, heat rising to his cheeks. He cleared his throat, willing away the sudden dryness in his mouth. “Do you often wander about stark naked?” he asked, aiming for a haughty tone but falling short.

Wim chuckled—a deep, rumbling sound that sent an involuntary shiver down Red’s spine. “Not when it’s this cold, no.” He disappeared into the tree line, returning with a large pack, bulging at the seams. He pulled out a pair of breeches, fur-lined boots, a layered tunic and a thick wool cloak.

As Wim dressed, Red found his eyes drawn back to the man’s form. He couldn’t help but fixate on the way Wim’s muscles flexed as he moved, the grace with which he carried himself. Wim had implied earlier that he was starving—like most of Falchovari was—but his muscular body suggested otherwise .

There was no denying it. This stranger was effortlessly attractive for a commoner. It was infuriating.

Red shook his head, banishing such thoughts. This was ridiculous. Wim was a beast, a ‘wildling,’ someone who had threatened to eat him mere hours ago. He needed to banish these absurd, preposterous thoughts. He was on a grand quest, a mission from the Queen herself.

Yet he heard himself saying, “You have the same colour eyes. You and your wolf.”

“That I do.” Wim kneeled, reaching for Red’s firepit.

Without hesitation, Red surged forward. “I don’t need help from the likes of you!” He gathered up his fragile bundle of kindling, only to have Wim yank the wood out of his hand.

“Well, you’re charming,” Wim said. “Anyone ever tell you that?”

“Plenty, actually.”

An icy gust of wind blew through the small clearing, and Red sighed, moving away to perch on a large log. If this dog wanted to build a fire, Red would be a fool to stop him.

Wim pulled a small metal contraption from his pack.

With a few deft movements, the man struck sparks onto the kindling.

Flames licked upwards, catching quickly.

Heat bloomed outwards, and Red couldn’t help but lean closer, savouring the warmth that chased away the chill that had made its home in his bones.

When Wim helped himself to Red’s cooking pot, Red didn’t stop him.

“That rabbit of Hansel’s hit the spot.” There was an odd smirk on Wim’s face. “Kept some of the bigger bones.” Wim brought out a handful of grisly animal bones from his bag, and tossed them into the pot, then tipped in the contents of a leather waterskin.

Red watched as Wim tended to the fire, his fingers itching to take over. He’d always prided himself on his survival skills, honed under the tutelage of the Queen’s huntsman. Yet here he was, relying on a wildling to keep him warm .

The aroma of simmering broth filled the air, making Red’s stomach growl traitorously. He hadn’t realised how famished he was until that moment. Wim stirred the pot with a wooden spoon he’d produced from his pack, humming a low tune that Red didn’t recognise.

“Got any vegetables?” Wim asked hopefully.

Red blinked, caught off-guard by the mundane question. It seemed absurd, discussing vegetables with a man like Wim. “No. I… ran out of rations this morning.”

Wim sighed, then perused his pack again, leafing through packets of herbs before sprinkling some into the pot. Soon the broth bubbled and steamed, filling the air with a tantalising scent that made Red’s mouth water.

“Won’t be long now,” Wim said, stirring the pot. “Best get some food in you. You look like you’re about to keel over.”

Red bristled at the comment, drawing himself up straighter. “I’m perfectly fine, thank you very much. I don’t need your concern.”