Page 38 of Little Red Riding Hood (The GriMM Tales #1)

Sixteen

Wim

W im couldn’t sleep.

Red’s slight form curled against his chest, their naked bodies still sticky with dried sweat. His Little Red’s breathing had finally evened out, the occasional hitched breath the only remnant of earlier tears.

Wim’s arms tightened around Red, guilt churning in his gut like acid.

The memory of those tears… god, he’d done that—made Red cry.

His fingers traced where bruises surely bloomed across Red’s hips, marks left by his own desperate hands.

He’d claimed Red so thoroughly, marked him inside and out—and fuck , he’d been so close to biting his neck and declaring him his mate.

A soft whimper escaped Red’s throat. Wim pressed his lips to Red’s temple, breathing in their mingled scents. Wild berries and woodsmoke, mixed with the musk of their coupling. The beast in his chest purred with satisfaction at how thoroughly their scents had merged.

But that satisfaction twisted into shame as Red shifted closer, seeking Wim’s warmth even in sleep. Such trust. Such vulnerability. And here he was, holding Red close, all the while—

No. He couldn’t think about that. Not with Red’s heartbeat steady against his chest. Not with the memory of Red’s breathless cries still echoing in his mind. Not when his own heart felt ready to burst from the tenderness of it all.

God, but he’d been beautiful. The way Red had come apart beneath him, all that fierce pride melting into raw need. The sounds he’d made when Wim had finally pushed inside him. How he’d trusted Wim completely, letting him take control.

“Oh wolf, what big eyes you have!”

The playful words haunted him now. Red had looked up at him with such open affection, such joy. No fear. No hesitation. Just pure, devastating trust.

And Wim had taken everything Red offered… gorged himself on it like the beast he was.

His eyes fixed on the golden arrow, sticking slightly out of his quiver.

Moonlight caught its surface, making it gleam like a taunt.

That fucking arrow. The Queen’s vile manipulation wrapped in gold, sent with her little soldier who’d do anything for a scrap of praise after her cruel treatment of him.

Wim’s jaw clenched. The Queen. Of course she’d chosen Red for this task.

Who better than the orphan desperate for her approval, in some sort of strange, twisted way?

Wildlings knew well the pain she could inflict—how many of their kind had she had hunted?

How many packs destroyed because they didn’t fit her idea of perfection?

And now she’d sent his Red on this suicidal mission with a pretty golden arrow and pretty golden lies.

Red mumbled something in his sleep, pressing closer. A possessive surge went through Wim as Red’s fingers curled against his chest. How many times had Red done this as a child, reaching for comfort that never came? The thought of Red alone in that castle, surrounded by the Queen’s poison…

“I’ve got you,” Wim whispered, though Red couldn’t hear. His thumb brushed Red’s split lip—now healed by his wolf’s lick. Just hours ago, he’d kissed that mouth, swallowed Red’s moans, whispered promises he had no right to make.

“Make me yours.”

Red’s desperate plea echoed in his mind. And oh, how Wim had wanted to. Still wanted to. The beast inside Wim howled at him to wake Red up, offer him those promises of forever, mark him as his mate, to—

The arrow caught the fading moonlight again. Wim’s chest tightened until he could barely breathe.

Carefully, so carefully, Wim extracted himself from Red’s embrace.

His Little Red made a soft sound of protest that nearly broke Wim’s resolve, but he managed to slip free without waking him.

He pulled one of their blankets over Red’s bare form, trying not to let his gaze linger on the marks he’d left across that pale skin.

The arrow seemed to mock him as he approached the quiver. His fingers trembled as he drew it out, its weight somehow both lighter and heavier than he’d expected. The metal was cool against his palm, but something about it made his wolf bristle with unease.

He had to know. Had to be certain.

Wim grabbed his breeches and shirt, pulling them on with trembling hands. A final glance at Red—still curled on his side, looking so young in sleep—then he stalked into the forest, the golden arrow clutched in his fist.

When he was far enough that his movements wouldn’t wake Red, Wim held the arrow up to the first light of dawn.

His enhanced vision caught every detail of its craftsmanship, every delicate etching in the gold.

But beyond that surface beauty, his senses detected…

nothing. No magical signature. No enchantment.

Nothing that would mark it as special beyond its precious metal.

Wildlings could often sense enchantments, could taste them in the air like approaching storms. Yet this arrow gave off nothing—which was strange in itself. Red had said the Queen had spoken of its power with such conviction.

Just another of the Queen’s lies, then ?

Rage burst through him like wildfire. He slammed the arrow against a nearby boulder, again and again, trying to snap the shaft, to bend its perfect shape. But the metal held firm, unmarked by his assault.

Of course it wouldn’t break. Of course the Queen would make her pretty lies unbreakable.

Wim stared at the unblemished gold, suspicion growing. Gold was one of the softest metals—it should have bent or dented easily under his strength. The Queen must have done something to it, some magic so subtle even his wildling senses couldn’t detect it.

His fist clenched around the arrow until his knuckles went white. The memory of Red’s conviction burned in his mind: “Children are dying! The crops won’t grow, the animals are sick—”

And here was Wim—no better, really—desperate to believe his own pretty lies about magical cures.

A wave of nausea rolled through him, replaced by pure, molten rage.

His feral sickness began to rear its head, and it took all of Wim’s strength to push it back down, channelling his anger into the arrow.

He struck it against the rock once more, with every inch of his might.

The clang echoed through the trees, but the gold remained pristine, untarnished.

Like the Queen herself—beautiful and untouchable while everything around her rotted.

His chest heaved as he stared at the arrow. Such a small thing, to cause so much pain. To make Red’s eyes light up with purpose, to give him hope.

Wim’s stomach lurched. He doubled over, bile rising in his throat. “What is this, then, Wim? Enlighten me?”

What was it? Everything. Nothing. A dream he couldn’t keep.

His wolf whined, remembering how perfectly Red had fit in his arms, how right it had felt to finally have him. But the memory of Red’s tears afterward, of his broken voice asking why Wim wouldn’t ask him to stay with him…

The arrow slipped from his grip, landing in the dirt. Wim stared at it, at its perfect golden surface still gleaming in the moonlight. He could leave it here. Let the forest swallow it. Take Red far away from the Queen’s machinations, from Old Oma, from everything.

But Red would never forgive him.

His Little Red, with his fierce heart and unwavering loyalty. Who’d rather freeze than admit weakness. Who’d kill to protect strangers. Who’d given himself to Wim so completely, trusting him with everything…

Mine-claim-mark-mate .

The beast howled inside him, fighting against the inevitable truth: no matter how great the pull towards each other, he and Red were doomed.

The sun crept higher in the sky, every inch of its movement taking them towards their inevitable ending.

Because… for how long could they possibly continue to journey together? With Red so smart, it was only a matter of time before he realised that they were both heading to Old Oma’s. And when he did, Wim would see the same gut-wrenching look of betrayal on Red’s face as he saw last night.

Wim picked up the arrow. Its weight settled in his palm like a death sentence.

He struck it against the boulder again, and again, and again.