Page 56 of Little Red Riding Hood
Indeed, the wine seller looked desperate for a sale. “Interested in something to drink, gentlemen?”
They ended up with two bottles of rich red wine, criminally expensive. When was the last time Red had tasted proper wine? At the palace, he mainly drank ale with the servants.
“This is mad.” Red cradled one bottle, giddy with their extravagance. “We’re in the middle of a famine, buying wine like water!”
Wim, tucking the second bottle into his pack alongside their other meagre treasures, winked at him. “A little madness makes life worth living, don’t you think? Especially in times like these.”
The setting sun painted Wim’s skin in amber and gold, softening his rough edges and catching his chestnut hair, turning the strands into liquid copper. Wim caught Red’s eye, his broad smile splitting his face in two, and Red’s chest tightened with an ache so sweet it bordered on painful.
Madness. This was madness, indeed.
What are you doing to me, wolf?
The sun hung low on the horizon as they searched for a suitable camping spot. Really, they should’ve pressed on, made up for lost time at the market, but Red’s feet refused to cooperate. Even with his new boots, the day of walking had taken its toll. Besides, they had market spoils to indulge in.
So when they reached a clearing with mossy ground, Red slung down their market basket with glee. Wim built a fire while Red sorted their purchases, laying out the ingredients like precious gems. The flames caught quickly, and soon Wim was chopping vegetables and tossing them into their pot with flourishes.
Every few moments, Wim’s gaze flickered to Red, dark and intense. Heat crept up Red’s neck each time their eyes met. The way Wim watched him made Red feel like prey about to be pounced upon—the kind to be savoured. His insides twisted with a delicious sort of anxiety, so he busied himself sneaking sips from one of the bottles of wine. Red knew little about wine, but it tasted sweet enough, and it quickly warmed him throughout.
The aroma of searing venison filled the air, followed by the earthy scent of mushrooms and garlic. Wim ladled the steaming stew into wooden bowls. “Done.”
Red took a bite and closed his eyes. The venison melted on his tongue, perfectly cooked and seasoned. “This is… incredible. I’ve never tasted anything like it, even from the palace kitchen.” Even if it had tasted of dirt, Red would have lied, but he didn’t need to.
With an air of triumph, Wim uncorked the second of their wine bottles and took a long drink before passing it to Red. They passed the bottle back and forth, trading sips between bites.
“Where did you learn to cook like this?” Red asked, scraping his bowl clean.
“Had plenty of practice, feeding the pack.” Wim’s eyes caught the firelight. “Though I must say, I’ve never had someone practically purr over my cooking before.”
A cough spluttered out of Red, and he grabbed the wine bottle, taking another deep drink. He poured too quickly, and the cool liquid spilt down his neck.
Wim’s laugh rumbled through the clearing as he reached across, thumb brushing against Red’s neck to wipe away the spilled wine. The touch lingered, and Red’s breath caught in his throat.
“Such a pretty little mess you are,” Wim’s said, so low it was almost a growl.
There was that word again that Wim was so fond of,pretty. Red had enjoyed hearing it before, enjoyed the fantasy of it. This time, though, it twisted in his chest, sharp and unexpected, like thorns catching on silk.
Red jerked back, wine sloshing in the bottle. It had already gone to his head, and so his words were slightly slurred when he said, “You don’t need to lie to me, you know.”
Wim’s hand froze mid-air, brow furrowing. “What?”
“About…” Red gestured vaguely at his face, heat creeping up his cheeks that had nothing to do with the wine. “This. You don’t need to keep pretending I’m pretty. I know I’m anything but, and I’ve made my peace with that now.”
The playful atmosphere vanished. Wim’s expression darkened, and he shifted closer. Capturing Red’s small chin with one hand, he forced him to look at him. “Who told you that?”
Red’s fingers tightened around the bottle. “What do you mean? I own a mirror.” His voice came out brittle, and he hated it. “But the Queen made sure I knew exactly what she thought about my…imperfections.”
“Your eyes?” Wim’s tone held a dangerous edge.
“Yes. She likes this one.” He pointed to his blue eye—the ocean on a bright summer’s day. “But this one, she says, is the colour of a dirty puddle.”
“She’s the monster, not you.” Wim growled—a sound that made Red flinch despite the gentleness of the fingers still cradling his face. “A creature like that has no right to wear a crown.”
The wine loosened Red’s lips even further, and he found himself saying, “My earliest memory of the Queen is of her ordering me to close my eyes whenever I was in her presence.”
A harsh breath hissed through Wim’s teeth, his eyes blazing with such intensity that the reflected firelight seemed to dance with his rage.
“It was mortifying. Then at last, I grew my hair long, and with my hood up as well, I was able to hide my eyes when needed.” Almost instinctively, Red went to tilt his head down, but Wim held his chin firm.
