Page 28 of Little Red Riding Hood (The GriMM Tales #1)

“Hello?” The word escaped before he could stop it, small and afraid in the vast darkness.

The forest swallowed his voice whole.

Red’s skin prickled. Even the familiar weight of his bow offered little comfort. His fingers trembled as he drew the cloak closer still, as if the fabric could shield him from whatever lurked in the darkness .

Pop!

Red nearly leapt out of his skin as the fire crackled. A laugh bubbled up in his throat—high and nervous—at his own jumpiness. But the sound died as quickly as it began when something definitely moved in the shadows to his left.

Red’s breath caught. The darkness seemed to stretch, to reach for him with grasping fingers. His head spun, the wine making it impossible to tell what was real and what was imagination. He pressed himself back against the log, heart thundering in his chest.

Hurry back, Wim. Please hurry back.

A shape emerged from the shadows, moving towards the firelight. Red’s shoulders sagged with relief.

“Oh, thank—”

The words died in his throat. It wasn’t Wim.

Before Red could scream, a rough hand clamped over his mouth from behind. His arms were yanked backwards, twisted painfully as someone bound them with coarse rope. He thrashed against the iron grip, but the wine had dulled his reflexes, made his limbs clumsy and uncoordinated.

The figure stepped into the firelight. No! Red’s blood turned to ice as he recognised the scarred lip, the cold eyes of the merchant from the market—the one who’d struck that child before Wim intervened.

The merchant’s lips curved into an ugly smile. “You didn’t go far, did you?” He crouched down, bringing his face level with Red’s. “Now then, where’s that brute of yours?”

Red couldn’t answer, could barely breathe through the crushing pressure of the hand across his mouth. His chest heaved as panic clawed at his throat. The merchant’s belt housed a row of sharp knives that glinted as he moved.

The ropes bit into his wrists as Red struggled, the knots only tightening for his efforts.

Red’s teeth sank into the flesh of the man restraining him. The hand jerked away with a curse, and Red gasped in air .

“He’ll be back any second,” Red spat out. His words wavered more than he’d like, the wine still clouding his thoughts. “He’ll tear you to pieces.”

The merchant’s cruel smile never left his face as he said, “That’s why I brought friends.” He pressed two fingers to his lips and let out a piercing whistle.

Shadows detached themselves from the darkness. Numerous figures emerged into the firelight. Their clothes hung in tatters, faces dirty and weather-beaten. Bandits . Red’s stomach dropped.

“Found them just like I promised,” the merchant said to a burly man with an eyepatch who seemed to be the leader. “Your turn now.”

“Take everything!” The one-eyed bandit bellowed. The others descended like vultures upon their camp, ripping through their packs and supplies.

Red’s heart stopped as one of them snatched up his bow and quiver. The golden arrow—the Queen’s arrow meant for Old Oma—was hidden among the others. If they took it… his mission would be ruined. The Queen would have his head.

“Two gold pieces, as agreed,” the one-eyed leader said, pressing coins into the merchant’s palm. “For the tip-off about rich travellers.”

“Wasn’t easy tracking them through the forest,” the merchant mumbled, pocketing the money. “And that big one could snap a man’s neck without trying. I’d say all this was worth three, looking at it now.”

The bandit leader spat. “You get what we agreed. You wanted revenge on the big one, we wanted their valuables. Fair trade.”

Red’s chest constricted. They’d been followed. All because Wim had stood up for that child at the market. And now their belongings were being ransacked, the golden arrow about to be stolen, Red’s throat likely about to be cut, and Wim was going to walk right into an ambush when he returned .

If he returns at all , a small voice whispered. Maybe he’s already abandoned you.

Red watched helplessly as the bandits gathered their belongings: their cooking pot, the sacks of fresh vegetables, their new blankets and the bedrolls, the clothes Wim had just shed, the remaining wine, their coin purses, and even the herbs they’d collected.

“What’s this?” One of the bandits held up the golden arrow, its shaft gleaming in the firelight. “This ain’t normal metal.”

The merchant’s eyes widened. “That should be worth at least another gold piece for me!”

Eyepatch barked out a laugh. “You got your payment. Be grateful for what you’ve got.”

“Wait!” Red screeched. “Please, take everything else, but leave that arrow.”

“And why would we do that?” Eyepatch’s good eye narrowed.

“It’s… cursed.” Red’s wine-addled mind scrambled for a convincing lie. “Anyone who touches it will die a horrible death within three days. Their insides will rot and—”

The bandits erupted in laughter. Red didn’t blame them.

“I’ll… trade anything for it.” The words tumbled from Red’s mouth before he could stop them.

Eyepatch’s lip curled. “Trade what exactly? We’ve taken everything you own.”

Red’s heart plummeted to his stomach. His gaze fell to the red cloak around his shoulders—his most precious item. But not more precious than his own life. “This cloak. It’s magical. It keeps you warm in winter and cool in summer. Never tears, never wears out. It’s a royal enchantment, very rare.”

“Is that so?” Eyepatch stepped closer, running the fabric between his fingers. A cruel smile spread across his face. “Well, if it’s that valuable, we’ll be taking that too.”

“ No —”

Rough hands seized the cloak, yanking it from Red’s shoulders.

The clasp at his throat snapped, the silver pieces falling into the darkness as they wrenched it away.

A choked sob escaped his lips before he could swallow it back—the only thing he had left of his mother, ripped away like everything else.

The last thread connecting him to any sort of belonging, any hint of being wanted, severed.

The night air bit into his exposed skin, but the cold was nothing compared to the hollow ache spreading through his chest. Stupid, stupid, stupid . If he hadn’t drunk so much wine, if he hadn’t let his guard down, if he hadn’t been so desperate for Wim’s touch that the wolf left to fetch him water…

And now he’d lost the one thing he’d sworn to keep safe, the one treasure he’d managed to hold onto through all these winters.

He watched, helpless and shivering, as his cloak was tossed carelessly into their pile of stolen goods. The rich red fabric seemed to mock him, a reminder of every foolish decision that had led to this moment.

“These boots look nice and new too,” one of the bandits said, grabbing Red’s ankle.

“No!” Red cried. He hadn’t even realised he had one thing still left to lose.

They ignored his pleas and stripped the boots from his feet, leaving him bound and shivering in just his shirt and breeches.

Eyepatch’s boot connected with Red’s ribs, sending him sprawling face first into the dirt. His teeth sliced into his bottom lip, and copper flooded his mouth. Pain bloomed across his side as he struggled to draw breath against the dirty ground.

“Not so mouthy now, are you?” Eyepatch sneered.

The merchant’s boots crunched through the leaves as he approached.

“Look at him. Pathetic.” He crouched down beside Red, fingers gripping Red’s chin and forcing his head up.

“Your brute’s abandoned you, boy. Can’t say I blame him.

Who’d want a freak with ugly eyes?” His thumb brushed Red’s cheekbone.

“Though I suppose some might pay good coin for something… unusual.”

Red jerked his face away, spitting blood onto the merchant’s boots. The merchant recoiled with a curse, wiping his boots on Red’s shirt.

“That beast of yours probably realised what an ugly little thing you are and ran for the hills.” The merchant’s lips curled into a cruel smile.

The merchant’s words burrowed deep. It was as if he somehow knew Red’s deepest insecurity, knew the very thing that had made the Queen despise him, and that had kept him from finding friendship or acceptance within the palace walls.

And the man was right, Wim had clearly left him, repulsed by Red’s advances.

Maybe he’d sobered up enough to realise what Red truly was—damaged, broken, unworthy—just like everyone else eventually did.

You’re nothing but an ugly, unwanted orphan. Unlovable.

The voice in his head sounded like the Queen’s, cold and cutting. She’d been right all along. He’d never belonged anywhere. Not in the palace, not by Wim’s side.

The Queen had seen it, Makellos had seen it, and now Wim had finally seen it too.

“Right!” Eyepatch cut through Red’s spiral of self-loathing. “Pack it up, we’re moving out.”

Footsteps crunched through leaves, growing fainter. No one spared him a backwards glance as they melted back into the shadows, leaving him bound and alone by the dying fire. The noises faded into the night.

And then the silence pressed in, suffocating.

He’d failed. Failed the Queen’s mission. Failed to save Falchovari from its famine. Failed himself.

Red lay still, tasting blood and dirt, waiting until the last footstep disappeared.

Then his shoulders shook as the first sob tore from his throat. Another followed, then another, until he was crying properly. The sobs tore free from his throat, harsh and ugly in the empty night. The tears carved hot trails down his cheeks as he curled into himself on the frozen ground.

He’d just lay down here, bound, until he starved to death, then the birds could pick at his flesh.

At least he’d be of some use then.