Page 7 of Little Red Riding Hood (The GriMM Tales #1)

Four

“ S lave traders?! ”

Startled, Red gaped at the wolf as though he were spouting nonsense, despite having heard numerous accounts of the savage custom.

Although officially prohibited, Her Majesty had of course turned a blind eye to the escalating practice of capturing elves from the northern kingdom of Varinien to sell on the black market.

Red had seen a few of them himself, working in The Royal City, their delicate frames crumbling under iron shackles until they were nothing but hollow-eyed ghosts.

“Slavers? Here? In this forest?”

“How else do you expect them to get past the border?”

Red would have glared at Wim, but then he heard it—the subtle clink of bells in the near distance. “Why do they announce themselves with that sound?”

“Makes folk scatter. Tells everyone to clear off unless they fancy getting skewered. They’re counting on us running scared.”

Well, we better get going then.

“But we won’t be.” Wim took a step away from Red, surveying both edges of the path.

“We… won’t?”

Wim’s piercing gaze locked onto Red, the wolf’s eyes narrowing with a challenge that made the hairs on the back of Red’s neck prickle. “Up for a spot of mischief, sweetheart? ”

Surely he can’t mean…

No. Absolutely not. What a terrible idea, surely ending in our untimely demise.

Red opened his mouth to assure Wim he would be taking part in no such hijinks with slave traders of all people, then the challenge in the wolf’s eyes deepened, outright daring Red to refuse.

But Red was on a royal quest, and the adventurers in Auntie Anne’s stolen library books wouldn’t have shied away from danger. Plus, if he could shoot a few of the traders with his bow, he could prove to Wim he wasn’t a useless idiot who needed constant support.

“Of course,” Red said smoothly. “I live for mischief.”

Wim’s brows shot up as a surprised cough spluttered from his throat. He smiled—and could Red see a hint of… admiration in his eyes? The thought warmed his belly more than he’d like to admit.

Deep voice laced with sarcasm, Wim said, “Well, colour me surprised, sweetheart. Follow me, then.”

Glancing behind him, likely to confirm Red was indeed trailing him rather than frozen in place with trepidation, Wim guided them off the broad track, slipping between a pair of overgrown blackberry bushes.

The dense foliage closed in around them, filtering out what little sunlight managed to penetrate the forest canopy. The scent of damp earth and decaying leaves filled the air, enveloping them in a secluded pocket of wilderness.

“Keep close,” Wim whispered, his breath warm against Red’s ear. “They’ll be passing by any moment now.”

Red nodded, trying to focus on the approaching danger rather than the proximity of the wolf. The jangling of bells grew louder, accompanied by the creak of wagon wheels and the occasional snap of a whip.

“What’s the plan?” Red whispered, attempting to sound confident despite his racing heart.

“We watch first. Count their numbers.” Wim’s voice was all business now, his eyes fixed on the path beyond their hiding spot. “If there’s only a few, we might be able to free whoever they’ve captured.”

Red swallowed hard. This was real. They were about to confront actual slave traders. His fingers instinctively reached for his bow.

Suddenly, Wim pulled Red deeper into the bush as the sounds grew louder. Their bodies pressed together in the cramped space, and Red found himself pinned between the dense foliage and Wim’s solid chest.

“Don’t move,” Wim murmured, his voice a low rumble that Red could feel vibrating through his own body.

The closeness was… unexpected. Red could feel the steady rise and fall of Wim’s chest against his back, the wolf’s heartbeat surprisingly calm compared to his own frantic pulse. The heat radiating from Wim’s body seemed to engulf him, making it difficult to concentrate on anything else.

As they waited in tense silence, Red became acutely aware of every point of contact between them—Wim’s broad chest against his, the firm grip of Wim’s hand on his waist steadying him, their legs pressed together in the confined space.

With each breath, the air between them grew thick with tension, Red’s stomach coiling tighter and tighter.

Wim shifted slightly, adjusting his position, and his breath ghosted across the nape of Red’s neck, sending an involuntary shiver down his spine.

“Cold?” Wim whispered, his lips so close to Red’s ear that he could feel them moving.

“N-no,” Red managed, grateful that Wim couldn’t see his face flushing.

The wolf reached over Red’s head, plucking something from the bush.

“Well, would you look at that,” he rumbled, rough and husky.

“Two lone blackberries left.” He shuffled back slightly, his eyes locking onto Red’s as he brought his hand down, a mischievous glint sparking in his gaze.

“Sweet, ripe, and just begging to be… devoured. ”

Red stared at Wim. What in the ever-loving fuck?

Was he only talking about the berries? What was going on? Shouldn’t they be focused on their ambushing plan presently? Red schooled his expression while he racked his brain for a witty response that was appropriately neutral. The wolf was simply joking with him, and Red would think nothing of—

Wim pressed a berry to Red’s closed lips.

The tiny, dark purple fruit’s juice spilled as Wim’s calloused thumb gently squeezed it. The tart scent of the berry mingled with the earthy musk of Wim’s skin, creating an intoxicating aroma that made Red’s head spin.

Don’t react. Don’t you dare react, Red scolded himself, even as his traitorous heart raced.

The warmth of Wim’s finger radiated against his lips, sending a shiver down his spine that he desperately hoped the wolf couldn’t detect with his keen senses.

He’s just offering you food again, you fool.

So you don’t faint on him, remember? Red’s rational mind insisted.

But another part of him, a part he usually kept locked away, whispered dangerous possibilities.

What if he parted his lips? What if he allowed himself to taste not just the berry, but the salt of Wim’s skin?

Red swallowed hard, his throat suddenly dry. He was acutely aware of how close they stood, of the heat emanating from the larger man’s body, of those intense eyes watching every miniscule detail of his expression.

The moment stretched, taut as a bowstring, waiting for Red to make his move.

But Red wasn’t going to move a single inch. Because he wasn’t about to make a fool of himself. Not after his previous attempts to flirt with others, which had all failed, each more spectacularly than the last.

“Halt! Ten-minute break! ”

The shout, deep and coarse, jolted Red. He’d managed to tune the slave traders’ carts out, so focused on that damned berry, and now the slavers were right next to them, by the sound of things.

With a wink, Wim removed the fruit—and that lovely warm hand—popping the tiny berry into his own mouth.

“But… How did you know they were going to stop?” Red whispered.

“Heard them say it. But it’s fine luck that they’ve stopped right beside our bush, aye, sweetheart?”

Why was the way Wim said ‘our’ doing funny things to Red’s heart? More to the point, why did Red agree to this ridiculous plan he hadn’t even heard the details of yet?

“Look.” Wim lightly pushed him forward, to a slight gap between the leaves.

Red peered through, his heart plummeting at the sight before him.

Eight humans stood around two horse-drawn carts, their appearances as vile as their trade.

Matted hair hung in greasy clumps around their unwashed faces, and their clothes were stained with sweat and grime.

When they spoke, their voices were harsh and guttural, thick with unfamiliar accents.

But it was the carts that truly made Red’s stomach churn.

Each one held a large metal cage, and within those cages…

Red had to stifle a gasp. Elves. Dozens of them, crammed together like animals.

They were a touch smaller than your average human, with delicate pointed ears and round faces that should have been full of life.

Instead, their cheeks were hollow with hunger, their eyes wide with fear.

As Red watched, one of the traders rattled the bars of a cage, laughing cruelly as the elves inside whimpered and huddled closer together. Their thin arms wrapped around each other, seeking comfort where there was none to be found.

Red felt bile rise in his throat. He’d heard rumours of such cruelty, but to see it with his own eyes…

But what exactly did Wim have in mind when he’d said, ‘mischief?’ The wolf could certainly hold his own, but there were eight of them, and they had numerous sharp weapons strapped around them…

“You look terrified,” Wim hissed in his ear.

“I’m certainly not!” Red retorted. “But… what are we… Surely you don’t mean to kill them all? You might get one down, but the others will be on you!”

“Aww, didn’t know you cared so much, sweetheart.”

“I’m concerned for my safety!” Red had whispered it too loudly—Wim slapped his large hand over Red’s mouth to silence him. Wrenching the offending limb off his face lest he get distracted again, Red spat, “That’s all!”

On the road, the slavers chatted loudly, going about their business with merry tunes.

One man, gangly with a patchy blond beard, marched towards the bush.

Red flinched, taking a step back, but Wim caught him, softly laughing in his ear.

The slaver shuffled down his breeches, then his drawers, before relieving himself.

Right outside their bush.

Lovely.

Red stared at the earthy ground, ready to jump out of the way of any trickle of urine that coursed their way.

“Right then, sweetheart. Listen closely, and I’ll tell you the plan…”