Page 66 of Little Red Riding Hood
The remaining bandits broke, scattered into the darkness, crashing through undergrowth in their desperation to escape. Their panicked cries faded into the distance, leaving only the sound of Red’s ragged breathing and the wet drip of blood from Wim’s muzzle.
“Wim?” Red’s voice quivered as the blood-soaked wolf prowled towards him. Those savage eyes fixed on him, muscles bunching beneath matted fur.
The wolf pounced, knocking Red onto his back. The air rushed out of his lungs as sharp teeth hovered inches from his throat, hot breath washing over his skin.
“It’s me.” Red forced himself to meet that feral gaze. “Your Red. Your Little Red. You saved me, now please… come back to me.”
The wolf froze. Recognition flickered in those golden depths. “Mine,” he growled, then the massive form shuddered, and suddenly Wim was there, human and naked, crushing Red beneath his weight.
“God, Red.” Wim’s hands roamed frantically over Red’s body, checking for injuries. His fingers found the shallow cut across Red’s collarbone, and his expression darkened. Without hesitation, he lowered his head and ran his tongue along the wound. The sting immediately lessened.
“It’s only a scratch,” Red whispered. “Thanks to you.”
Wim continued to lap at the wound, slow and deliberate. Each stroke sent shivers down Red’s spine that had nothing to do with healing. The wet heat of his mouth lingered longer than necessary, trailing past the cut and down Red’s neck. Red’s fingers tangled inWim’s hair before he remembered where they were—surrounded by corpses in a blood-soaked clearing. He pushed gently at Wim’s shoulders. “We need to go. The others might return.”
Wim pushed himself up, retrieving the blankets and Red’s cloak from where they’d fallen. His hands trembled as he wrapped the crimson fabric around Red’s shoulders.
Red clutched the familiar material, breathing in its scent. The weight of it settled something inside him, like finding a missing piece of himself.
“Wait.” Wim’s hand stilled on the cloak’s clasp, and his brow furrowed. “This catch is damaged.”
Red glanced down to see the ornate silver fastening hanging askew, its delicate hinge bent at an odd angle, broken during the earlier scuffle.
“Here, let me see.”
Before Red could object, Wim reached up and unfastened the cloak,
“Damn,” he muttered, fingers tracing the intricate floral design. “I don’t know how to fix something so fine.” Wim studied the clasp intently, running his thumb along the delicate metalwork. His brow creased in concentration as he prodded the hinge with a calloused fingertip. “I think I can bend it back into place,” he murmured. “Just need to get the angle right...”
Red watched, mesmerized, as Wim set to work. The wolf’s massive hands seemed too large and rough for such a delicate task, yet they moved with deft precision. Wim’s tongue poked out between his lips as he carefully manipulated the clasp. A few strands of chestnut hair had fallen across Wim’s forehead, dampened by sweat and streaked with drying blood. Red’s fingers twitched with the urge to brush them aside, to map the sharp angles of Wim’s face and commit every detail to memory.
When had this wild, feral creature become so captivating? Just minutes ago, Red had witnessed the brutal, animalistic violenceWim was capable of. He’d seen the way Wim tore into Eye-patch, all semblance of humanity stripped away as the wolf claimed his prey.
And yet, here he knelt in the aftermath, tenderly repairing Red’s most treasured possession with those same deadly hands.
Wim exhaled a soft grunt of satisfaction as the clasp finally clicked back into place. “There. Good as new.”
A large lopsided grin formed on Wim’s face, and Red went to his tiptoes to kiss Wim’s cheek. “My hero,” he said, not quite as teasingly as he intended.
As they prepared to leave, Red couldn’t help but smirk.
“Good thing you wouldn’t make that promise about not killing anyone, isn’t it?”
Wim’s lips quirked. “Next time someone puts a blade to you, I’ll be sure to mind my manners.” His fingers ghosted over the cut on Red’s neck, touch feather-light yet possessive. “Rather live with the guilt than without you, sweetheart.”
Those words shouldn’t have made Red’s heart stutter—not here, surrounded by death, with blood cooling on his skin—but they did. And that terrified him more than any blade at his throat.
Fifteen
“Wim, stop!” Red exclaimed, laughing to the point of hysteria.
He lay flat on his back, the wolf having deposited him on the forest floor a few moments ago, after the long ride away from the bandits.
Now Wim was nuzzling his furry snout into the crook of his neck, tickling him with his whiskers.
“Stop!” Red screamed again, through peals of laughter. Wim was laughing too—a deep, rumbling sound that vibrated through his chest and against Red’s body.
Perhaps the night’s events had sent them both slightly mad—the fear, the fighting, the frantic escape—but here they were, giggling like children, alive andtogether. The relief of it all bubbled up inside Red’s chest like sparkling wine.
