Page 43 of Little Red Riding Hood (The GriMM Tales #1)

Silken strands glistened in the dim, murky twilight that somehow penetrated the dense canopy, stretching from branch to branch in intricate patterns. Not the delicate webs of ordinary spiders, but massive, rope-thick tapestries that hung like ghostly curtains across their path.

“Don’t touch them,” Wim warned, voice low and tense.

The darkness above them shifted, and as Red’s eyes adjusted, he saw them—dozens of tiny pinpricks reflecting what little light remained, like malignant stars scattered across a black velvet sky.

Not celestial bodies, but spiders the size of dinner plates, their segmented legs twitching with anticipation.

One descended on a silken thread, dangling just above their heads, mandibles clicking wetly.

Red stifled a cry, pressing himself against Wim’s side as they carefully navigated beneath the arachnid sentinels. The creatures tracked their movement, rotating in unison like macabre puppets on invisible strings.

“They’re herding us,” Wim muttered, his free hand resting on his knife. “Driving us deeper.”

“Deeper toward what?” Red’s voice trembled despite his efforts to steady it.

The answer came in the form of a low, wet squelching sound from the path ahead. The forest floor undulated, not with vines this time, but with pale, bloated forms—maggots the length of Red’s forearm, their translucent bodies pulsing as they feasted on something large and recently deceased .

The stench hit them a moment later—the unmistakable reek of putrefaction. Red gagged, pressing his sleeve against his mouth as they skirted the writhing mass. On the ground lay what had once been some sort of animal, now unrecognizable beneath the undulating carpet of scavengers.

“The forest is feeding,” Wim observed grimly. “And we’re trespassing at dinner time.”

A particularly massive maggot raised its blind head toward them, sensing their warmth.

It lurched in their direction with surprising speed, leaving a glistening trail of slime in its wake.

Wim’s boot came down hard, crushing it with a horrible wet sound.

The rest of the brood stirred, disturbed by the death of their kin.

“We need to move,” Wim urged, pulling Red away from the increasingly agitated swarm. “Now.”

They quickened their pace, weaving between the trees as more vines attempted to snare their ankles. The forest was alive with malevolence, each element working in concert to impede their progress or drive them into greater danger.

A low moan echoed through the trees—not wind, but something that mimicked human suffering with chilling accuracy. It was joined by another, then another, until a chorus of phantom wails surrounded them from all sides.

“Ignore it,” Wim growled, his grip on Red’s hand tightening. “This forest plays tricks on the mind. It feeds on fear.”

But Red couldn’t help glancing over his shoulder, half expecting to see ghostly figures pursuing them through the gloom. Instead, he spotted movement at ground level—more of the bloated maggots, following their trail in a grotesque procession.

Red poured all his energy into staying close to Wim, matching each of his quick strides with a wide step of his own. Thank goodness Wim was here with him, that he wasn’t going through this alone.

But with each unsteady breath, with each sidelong glance at Wim, anticipation built within Red .

At what point was their game of ‘pretend’ supposed to end? Was Red going to finally get to the house after all this time, only for Wim to push him to the ground then tie him to a tree?

If he made to attack, Red would have to shoot him.

As if you could really do that, you fool.

Red swallowed, clutching Wim’s sleeve even tighter.

Only moments left until you lose him.

Wim must have been thinking the same thing—he tugged Red’s hand off his shirt sleeve to interlace their fingers, squeezing their hands tightly together.

Red squeezed back so hard his joints ached, pouring every unspoken word into that desperate grip.

Their fingers remained locked together as they navigated deeper into the Dark Forest’s belly, speaking only in hushed murmurs when absolutely necessary.

The forest pressed closer, darker, colder with each step.

They followed the winding path marked on Red’s map, occasionally forced to detour around massive spider webs or pulsating colonies of maggots. Twice more, the sentient vines attempted to ensnare them, Red having to dive and duck out of their reach while Wim slashed at the more persistent tendrils.

The forest constricted around them, the trees growing closer together until they had to turn sideways to slip between the massive trunks. The air grew thick with spores that drifted like snow, coating their clothing in a fine, ashen powder that smelled of grave dirt.

What felt like hours passed in that horrible silent march through the darkness, until a rough, cobblestone path emerged before them—a narrow strip of dead earth winding between rows of black-spotted toadstools.

The mushrooms oozed a viscous purple fluid that pooled in the divots of exposed tree roots.

They pressed onward, trusting the path to lead them. The vines grew thicker here, pulsing with a life of their own, retreating just enough to allow passage before closing ranks behind them.

And then, suddenly, the path widened. The oppressive canopy parted just enough to allow a single shaft of sickly green light to illuminate what lay ahead. Bones and trinkets hung from branches on tattered ribbons, clicking together in the stale air like macabre wind chimes.

And at the end of this grotesque gallery…

There it was.

Old Oma’s house: The Witch’s Abode .

The cottage was a hunched, twisted thing with moss-covered walls and a chimney belching dark smoke into the perpetual twilight. Windows like hollow eyes stared back at them, and Red’s stomach lurched at the sight of what looked like bloodstains where a doorstep should have been.

“Well…” Red cleared his throat. “No sign of any light. Doesn’t look like anyone’s home. Let’s try again later.”

Wim did not respond to his humour.

“What’s your plan, then?” Wim dropped Red’s hand, causing a surge of anxiety to assault his stomach. “To get inside, I mean?”

“Oh… umm…”

Red had imagined climbing a tree and shooting her when she hung up her laundry or something, but the witch didn’t seem like the sort.

He looked down at the basket he’d somehow managed to keep hold of through their harrowing journey.

It was a miracle it had survived—the handle was frayed where a vine had nearly snatched it away, and several of the blooms were crushed.

Still, some of the chrysanthemums and pansies remained, their vibrant colours a stark contrast to the gloom surrounding them.

Red had clutched that basket like a talisman through the forest’s horrors, refusing to let go even when the spiders descended or the maggots surged toward them. Something about abandoning it felt like surrendering completely to the darkness.

“I’ll knock on the door and pretend to be selling flowers!”

Wim’s laughter cut through the eerie silence. “Selling flowers? To a witch? That’s your grand scheme? ”

Red’s cheeks burned. The basket suddenly felt childish in his hands, the bright petals garish against the forest’s gloom. “Well, I don’t see you coming up with anything better.”

Wim’s tone took on an edge. “Because I actually planned for this moment.”

The words stung more than they should have. Red’s fingers tightened around the basket handle, his other hand inching towards his bow. Every movement Wim made now seemed threatening—the way he shifted his weight, how his shoulders tensed, the gleam in his eyes.

This is it. He’s going to attack. He’s going to transform and tear you apart right here.

Wim’s arm shot out suddenly and Red stumbled backwards, heart racing, bow half drawn before he could think.

The hurt that flashed across Wim’s face made Red’s chest ache. Wim had only been reaching for his pack, movements slow and deliberate now as he withdrew something that caught the dim light.

“Just grabbing this,” Wim said softly, holding up a leather cord strung with tiny, pearl-white teeth. “My milk teeth. Saved them all this time.” His thumb traced one of the small fangs. “Waiting for…”

My mate.

Red’s bow lowered, shame flooding through him. The delicate, precious necklace hung from Wim’s finger.

“Why are you showing me them?” Red asked, hardly daring to breathe, his heart pounding rabbit-fast. Was Wim…? Did this mean…?

“I’m going to use it to bait Oma into opening the door. Wildling teeth have magical properties.”

Red’s heart plummeted so fast a wave of nausea punched through his gut.

Of course. Of course Wim hadn’t meant… More heat flooded his cheeks as mortification crashed into him.

How could he have been so stupid? To think that Wim would choose this moment, standing before a vile witch’s house, to make some grand romantic gesture ?

His throat closed up, chest tight with humiliation. He’d nearly reached for the necklace, like some lovestruck fool. Thank god he hadn’t actually stretched out his hand—that would have been unbearable.

Red turned away, pretending to adjust his cloak while he blinked back the sting in his eyes. When he trusted his voice wouldn’t crack, he managed, “No, you can’t risk those. They’re too precious.”

“They’re just teeth,” Wim said, as gentle as a whisper.

“But they’re not, are they?” Red’s fingers twisted in his cloak. “You’ll need them one day.” Once you’re back with your pack, free from your beast, and free to find your true love.

“Only plan we’ve got.” Wim tucked the necklace into his palm. “Better than peddling flowers to a witch, at least.”

Red couldn’t even muster the energy to be properly offended.

His gaze fixed on the cottage door, that bloodstained step.

This was where their pretending must end, wasn’t it?

This moment. This choice. The culmination of their careful dance of ‘just travelling companions’ rather than enemies turned lovers turned rival witch assassins.

The cottage loomed before them, patient as a spider in its web. Red’s chest ached with words he couldn’t say, promises he couldn’t make. They both had their missions. No amount of wishing could change that.

Wim moved toward the door, necklace dangling from his fingers, and Red followed, diving ahead so he was in front.

A rumbled chuckle burst out from Wim. “Always rushing headfirst into danger, aren’t you, sweetheart?”

Red shot him a look over his shoulder. “Well, one of us has to be brave.”

“Is that what you call it?” Wim’s voice held that dangerous edge that always made Red’s stomach flip. “I’d call it being an impossible brat.”

They reached the door. Lightheadedness struck Red like a thunderbolt .

They were out of time.

Clearly, their unspoken plan was to knock on the door and… see what happened. See if Red could nock an arrow and shoot her through the heart before Wim had time to shift and lunge for her chest.

Wim looked down at the necklace in his palm. Looked at Red with the saddest puppy dog eyes. Looked at the weathered, dark oak door.

Then Wim’s large hand—that same hand that had stroked Red’s, traced every part of his skin, held him clutched tight against him at night—reached for the black metal doorknocker.

No.

“Wait!”

The word escaped before Red could stop it. His chest squeezed tight as Wim paused, those dark eyes fixed on him with an intensity that made breathing difficult.

“You should be the one to kill her.” The words tumbled out in a rush, shocking Red even as he spoke them. But as soon as they left his lips, he knew they were true. “Take her heart. Take your cure.”

Wim’s expression shifted, something raw and vulnerable crossing his features. “Red—”

“No, listen.” Red’s hands found Wim’s chest, pressing against the solid warmth there.

“The Queen sent me because she thinks this witch is causing the famine. But… we don’t know that for certain, do we?

” It pained him to admit it, after all these miles.

“It’s just her suspicion. But your illness—that’s real. I’ve seen what it does to you.”

“The famine is killing people,” Wim said softly. “Children are starving.”

“And if we’re wrong about the witch? If killing her changes nothing?” Red’s fingers curled into Wim’s shirt. “But we know her heart could cure you. You could go home, be with your pack again. With Tobias and Astrid.”

Wim caught Red’s hands in his own, thumb tracing circles on Red’s palm. He looked deeply at Red, his gaze the most sincere thing. “No.”

“What do you mean, no?”

“You had the right of it, before.” Wim spoke hoarsely, as if every word cost him. “If killing the witch might end the famine, even the smallest chance… you’ve got to take that shot. Can’t put my needs first. Not with so many folk starving.”

“But—”

“My pack can manage without me.” Wim pressed their foreheads together. “Those little ones in Falchovari might not last the winter.”

Red wanted to argue, to shake sense into him. But Wim’s logic pierced through his desperate need to protect him. How many times had Red walked through the Royal City, seeing hollow-cheeked children begging in the streets? How many graves had been dug in the past month alone?

Still, the thought of Wim living with his curse, slowly losing himself to the beast within… “There has to be another—”

A sharp crack split the air. Red and Wim sprang apart as the door creaked open on its own, revealing only darkness beyond.

“My, my…” A voice like splintering ice slithered from the shadows. “What an interesting pair you two make.”

Red’s blood froze. His fingers found Wim’s sleeve again, gripping tight as that ancient voice continued:

“Do come in, dears. I’ve been expecting you.”