Page 12 of Scarlett’s Wicked Wolf (Filthy Fairy-tales #1)

Scarlett

The house smells like thyme and clean wood smoke again. It took three days to get there—three days of salt and sweeping, of washing the blood from the floorboards and coaxing the wards back into their hum. The spiral in the heart-plank has cooled to its usual amber sheen.

When the knock comes, the wards recognize it first. The hum shifts, soft and low—welcoming, not warning.

Reid looks up from where he’s stacking logs. Grandma’s crochet needle stills mid-stitch. My pulse stumbles.

“She’s here,” Grandma says quietly.

Reid comes to stand beside me and squeezes my hand.

The door opens, and Arya stands on the threshold, framed by early dusk.

Her hair—red like mine, only deeper—catches the candlelight and glows.

Her eyes are wary and bright, green laced with gold.

She’s wrapped in a wool coat; one hand curved protectively over the swell of her belly.

Gregor fills the space behind her, a quiet mountain of a man, his hand resting at her back.

She isn’t my mirror; she’s my echo.

We both laugh-sob and move at the same time.

We meet in the middle of the rug, faces in each other’s shoulders as we hug. She smells like cinnamon with a hint of something wild at the edges—this woman who was a stranger, then a friend, and now a sister.

“I didn’t know,” she says into my hair.

“Me neither,” I whisper into her neck. “But I think I always felt you. Like someone missing from a story I thought I knew.”

We pull back, studying each other.

She touches my cheek, tentative. “Hi, sister.”

Those two words undo me, and tears spill down my cheeks. “Hey, sis.”

“I’m messy,” Arya blurts, dashing away her tears. “I miss birthdays and step on toes and call at bad hours. And now I’m carrying this little one”—she pats her swollen belly—“I’ll probably screw up even more. But I try hard, and I love loud.” She tips her head. “That sound good?”

I laugh. “Well, I have visions and can shift into a wolf, so that sounds perfect.”

Gregor clears his throat softly in the doorway. “We brought stew,” he says, holding a crock pot like an offering.

Grandma’s face melts into a smile that’s too full of things to name. “Then come in. I’ll make tea.”

We gather around the table—Reid beside me, Gregor beside Arya, Grandma between us like a hinge holding two worlds together as she pours tea. Reid’s hand finds mine under the table, solid and sure, and the cottage feels fuller than it ever has.

“It’s good to see you in this house,” Grandma says to Arya, her hands not quite as steady as her voice.

Arya smiles. “You didn’t know either?”

Grandma shakes her head. “Not until Fenric told us why he was hunting Scarlett.”

Arya’s eyes find mine. “He said we share blood?”

I nod. “Our father tied Fenric to his line. You avoided his vengeance when you changed, and I became his target. He was patient. Purposeful.”

Arya exhales. “I’m sorry for what you went through. But I’m not sorry it brought me a sister.”

Grandma folds her hands in her lap as she sits at the table, her gaze soft as she looks at Arya. “And a grandma. We may not be related by blood, but I consider you a granddaughter by choice.”

“Stop,” she whispers, laughing as she wipes a tear from her cheek. “Pregnant, remember? Hormone overload.” She sobers as she levels her gaze at me. “You did it, didn’t you? You unmade the curse.”

“Not unmade,” I say, glancing at the spiral hidden beneath the rug. “Rewrote. The magic took the debt back to its source.”

Reid rises to rifle through the cupboards, and when he comes back, he sets a small bowl of honey between us. “Tea’s better with sweetness.”

Gregor grins. “And maybe a little whiskey later.”

Grandma snorts. “Not before supper.”

Arya chuckles. “That’s why I brought stew.”

When the pot opens, the cottage fills with the scent of garlic and rosemary, along with a hint of magic that smells suspiciously like home. We eat at the table, passing bread and butter and laughter back and forth.

After supper, when the plates are stacked, Arya and I slip out to the porch. The moon hangs low and pale above the trees; the forest silvered and watchful.

“I keep waiting for this to feel strange,” she says, waving a finger between us. “It doesn’t.”

“No,” I agree. “It feels like something that was supposed to happen a long time ago.”

She leans on the railing, eyes following the glow of the wards along the fence line. “He—our father—did terrible things.”

“He’s… dead?”

“Yes.” Arya nods, her eyes full of heavy memories. “I’ll tell you the story one day. But whatever he was, part of him made us. And you fixed what he broke. That’s more grace than I think I’d have managed.”

“I didn’t do it alone,” I say. “Reid stood with me. Grandma’s magic. The house. Even Fenric—I think, deep down, he wanted to be free.”

Arya nods. “Maybe that’s the real end of it then. The blood-debt is done. We can start with something clean.”

“We can start from here.”

She glances sideways, smiling. “Sunday dinners? Alternating houses?”

I laugh. “Only if you promise to bring Gregor’s stew.”

“Deal.” She squeezes my hand. Her grip is strong, grounding. “I’m so glad we found each other.”

“So am I,” I whisper.

The wards hum in agreement.

Inside, Reid’s laugh rumbles low and steady. Grandma hums an old lullaby as she tidies, and Gregor’s deep voice answers her with a gruff, half-sung line.

For the first time, Ruby Cottage doesn’t feel like the edge of the world.

It feels like the center of it.