Page 31 of Little Red Riding Hood (The GriMM Tales #1)
Red drew back his bowstring as a third bandit lunged at him with a rusted sword.
At this distance, Red could see every detail of the man’s face—the crooked teeth, the week-old stubble, the whites of his eyes.
The arrow felt wrong in his fingers, too close, too personal.
But there was no time for doubt. Red released the string.
The arrow struck true, burying itself in the bandit’s throat.
Blood sprayed across Red’s face as the man crumpled, gurgling his last breath mere inches from Red’s feet.
Red stumbled backwards, tripping over the dead bandit at his feet. His bow clattered to the ground as rough hands seized him from behind. Instinctively, he knew who’d caught him—Eyepatch.
Terror clawed up Red’s throat, threatening to choke him.
His body remembered those same hands pinning him down before, remembered the helplessness, the violation of being touched against his will.
The world narrowed to pinpricks of sensation—the blade’s cold bite, the nauseating press of Eyepatch’s body against his back, the stench of his foul breath.
No! Not again. Heart stuttering, Red’s legs turned to water beneath him, and only Eyepatch’s bruising grip kept him upright.
Across the clearing, Wim had one of the remaining bandits trapped in his jaws. The man thrashed and screamed, blood seeping from puncture wounds in his shoulder.
Red’s eyes locked onto Wim’s. The wolf paused, his ears flattened against his skull, a deep growl rumbling through his chest.
“Well, well.” Eyepatch’s gravelly voice sent shivers down Red’s spine. “You’re this one’s friend, aren’t you? The brute the merchant described? A real life wildling! I bet your pelt would fetch me a pretty penny. ”
Wim’s growl grew louder, his teeth sinking deeper into his captive’s flesh. The bandit’s screams reached a fever pitch.
“Drop him,” Eyepatch commanded, pressing the blade harder against Red’s skin. A warm trickle of blood rolled down Red’s neck. “Or I’ll paint the ground with your friend’s blood.”
Red’s breath came in sharp gasps. His legs trembled as Eyepatch’s free hand slid up his thigh, squeezing painfully.
“Once I’m done skinning you,” Eyepatch purred. “I’ll take my time with this odd little thing…”
Something shifted in Wim’s eyes. The warm amber Red had grown familiar with disappeared, replaced by something savage. The wolf’s hackles rose, his muscles bunching beneath his fur. Blood dripped from his muzzle as he released his victim, who crawled away whimpering.
His already massive form seemed to grow larger, his teeth longer, his claws sharper. The air around him crackled with violent energy.
This wasn’t Wim anymore—that feral creature that lurked beneath his skin was back.
The monster that had torn those villagers apart.
It was as if Eyepatch could sense it as well—his grip loosened, the blade trembling against Red’s throat. The bandit’s swagger evaporated as Wim stalked forward, each step deliberate and predatory. Saliva dripped from the wolf’s jaws, mixing with blood on the forest floor.
“Stay back!” Eyepatch growled out. His fingers dug painfully into Red’s arm as he dragged them both backwards. “I’ll kill him! I swear I’ll—”
The wolf’s muscles coiled. In the split second before he launched, Red caught a glimpse of those large, fearsome eyes—no trace remained of the man who’d held him through the cold night, who’d cooked him countless meals and teased him about his howl.
Red dropped his weight, twisting free as Wim struck.
The knife sliced a shallow line across his collarbone as he fell, but he barely noticed the sting.
Eyepatch’s scream pierced the night as Wim’s teeth found his throat.
The sound cut off in a wet gurgle, replaced by the crack of bone and tear of flesh.
Blood sprayed in an arc, coating the ground, the trees, Red’s face. Eyepatch’s body convulsed, his good eye wide with terror as he choked on his own blood.
“You… monster…” The words bubbled from his ruined throat, barely intelligible.
Wim’s jaws clenched. One sharp twist, and Eyepatch went limp.
The remaining bandits broke, scattered into the darkness, crashing through undergrowth in their desperation to escape. Their panicked cries faded into the distance, leaving only the sound of Red’s ragged breathing and the wet drip of blood from Wim’s muzzle.
“Wim?” Red’s voice quivered as the blood-soaked wolf prowled towards him. Those savage eyes fixed on him, muscles bunching beneath matted fur.
The wolf pounced, knocking Red onto his back. The air rushed out of his lungs as sharp teeth hovered inches from his throat, hot breath washing over his skin.
“It’s me.” Red forced himself to meet that feral gaze. “Your Red. Your Little Red. You saved me, now please… come back to me.”
The wolf froze. Recognition flickered in those golden depths. “ Mine ,” he growled, then the massive form shuddered, and suddenly Wim was there, human and naked, crushing Red beneath his weight.
“God, Red.” Wim’s hands roamed frantically over Red’s body, checking for injuries. His fingers found the shallow cut across Red’s collarbone, and his expression darkened. Without hesitation, he lowered his head and ran his tongue along the wound. The sting immediately lessened.
“It’s only a scratch,” Red whispered. “Thanks to you.”
Wim continued to lap at the wound, slow and deliberate.
Each stroke sent shivers down Red’s spine that had nothing to do with healing.
The wet heat of his mouth lingered longer than necessary, trailing past the cut and down Red’s neck.
Red’s fingers tangled in Wim’s hair before he remembered where they were—surrounded by corpses in a blood-soaked clearing.
He pushed gently at Wim’s shoulders. “We need to go. The others might return.”
Wim pushed himself up, retrieving the blankets and Red’s cloak from where they’d fallen. His hands trembled as he wrapped the crimson fabric around Red’s shoulders.
Red clutched the familiar material, breathing in its scent. The weight of it settled something inside him, like finding a missing piece of himself.
“Wait.” Wim’s hand stilled on the cloak’s clasp, and his brow furrowed. “This catch is damaged.”
Red glanced down to see the ornate silver fastening hanging askew, its delicate hinge bent at an odd angle, broken during the earlier scuffle.
“Here, let me see.”
Before Red could object, Wim reached up and unfastened the cloak,
“Damn,” he muttered, fingers tracing the intricate floral design.
“I don’t know how to fix something so fine.
” Wim studied the clasp intently, running his thumb along the delicate metalwork.
His brow creased in concentration as he prodded the hinge with a calloused fingertip.
“I think I can bend it back into place,” he murmured. “Just need to get the angle right...”
Red watched, mesmerized, as Wim set to work.
The wolf’s massive hands seemed too large and rough for such a delicate task, yet they moved with deft precision.
Wim’s tongue poked out between his lips as he carefully manipulated the clasp.
A few strands of chestnut hair had fallen across Wim’s forehead, dampened by sweat and streaked with drying blood.
Red’s fingers twitched with the urge to brush them aside, to map the sharp angles of Wim’s face and commit every detail to memory.
When had this wild, feral creature become so captivating? Just minutes ago, Red had witnessed the brutal, animalistic violence Wim was capable of. He’d seen the way Wim tore into Eye-patch, all semblance of humanity stripped away as the wolf claimed his prey.
And yet, here he knelt in the aftermath, tenderly repairing Red’s most treasured possession with those same deadly hands.
Wim exhaled a soft grunt of satisfaction as the clasp finally clicked back into place. “There. Good as new.”
A large lopsided grin formed on Wim’s face, and Red went to his tiptoes to kiss Wim’s cheek. “My hero,” he said, not quite as teasingly as he intended.
As they prepared to leave, Red couldn’t help but smirk.
“Good thing you wouldn’t make that promise about not killing anyone, isn’t it?”
Wim’s lips quirked. “Next time someone puts a blade to you, I’ll be sure to mind my manners.” His fingers ghosted over the cut on Red’s neck, touch feather-light yet possessive. “Rather live with the guilt than without you, sweetheart.”
Those words shouldn’t have made Red’s heart stutter—not here, surrounded by death, with blood cooling on his skin—but they did. And that terrified him more than any blade at his throat.