Page 90 of Little Red Riding Hood
The Queen was his aunt. She was his fuckingaunt.
She’d known exactly who he was all along.
A soft cry escaped Red’s lips, and he pressed his fist to his mouth.
He’d lived with the Queen for twenty-four winters, thinking he had no family in the world. Every night, he’d curled up in the attic, sleeping above his own flesh and blood. The same woman who’d sneered at his different-coloured eyes, who’d made him feel worthless for something he’d inherited from her own sister.
Queen Schön had known. She’d known every time she’d cast those icy glares his way. Known every time she’d compared him unfavourably to Makellos—his cousin. Known when she’d handed him that golden arrow and sent him to murder his own mother.
Wim’s hand swept across his back in slow, steady strokes. The touch anchored Red to the present, kept him from drowning in the tide of betrayal threatening to pull him under.
“Why did you do it?” Red’s voice betrayed him by breaking. “Why did you leave me on the palace steps?”
Old Oma’s laugh pierced the air, sharp and brittle. “Leave you? Oh, my darling boy.” She shook her head, wisps of grey hair dancing like smoke. “You were stolen from me before I could even give you a name. The Queen’s Shadow appeared to collect you—quite apologetic about the whole thing. Said he couldn’t disobey a direct order. He’d been told to return with the babe before sunrise, and return with the babe he would.” Her tone softened. “But he lingered there, looking at me with expectant eyes. He gave me time to work out how to protect you from the dark magic Schön wields.”
His mother hadn’t left him. Hadn’t abandoned him on the cool palace steps, to be picked at by vultures, should they please.
He’d been wanted, after all.
A tear slid down Red’s face, and his chest tightened as Old Oma moved forward, crouching before him. Her weathered hands cupped his face, and he fought the urge to pull away. The touch felt foreign, wrong—yet somehow familiar, like a half-remembered dream.
“You were born with your father’s beautiful blue eyes.” Her thumb traced his eyebrow, her touch feather-light. “Those eyes made me fall in love with him the day I met him, chopping wood just by my cottage.”
Red’s breath caught. His father—where was he?
But Old Oma’s fingers trailed down to brush against his red cloak, then she said quietly, “I had to give you three things for the spell to work. I chose an eye…” Her finger traced beneath his brown eye. “This cloak…” She tugged gently at the worn fabric. “And my heart.”
Something cracked inside Red’s chest. His hand flew to his chest, where his own heart thundered against his ribs. Three sacrifices. Three pieces of herself, given to protect him from the Queen’s magic.
He peeled his throat open to croak, “You have no heart?” while glancing at Wim, who kept his face impassive.
Old Oma’s fingers wrapped around Red’s wrist, yanking his hand forward to press against her chest. Red waited for the familiar thud of a heartbeat, the rhythm that marked life itself.
Nothing.
His palm met only stillness beneath her skin. No flutter, no pulse, not even the faintest tremor of life.
“How are you still alive?” The words scraped past his lips in a horrified whisper.
A bone-chilling howl split the air, closer than comfort would allow. Red’s spine stiffened at the sound—different from Wim’s howls, darker somehow, as if it carried death within its notes.
“He’s coming!” Oma’s eyes widened with terror. “He’s smelt you!”
Red’s head spun with confusion. “Who?”
But Wim’s growl held recognition. “Your soulstealing beast.” His lips curled back from his teeth. “That’s how you’re still alive.” In one fluid motion, he yanked up his sleeve, revealing his ugly scar that pulsed with an unnatural purple light. “Caught me mid-shift.”
Oma’s fingers traced the air above the mark, her face twisting with understanding. “You’re a wildling.”
“A healer told me that to cure myself, I had to come here and claim your heart.” Wim’s voice held a note of desperation that made Red’s chest ache.
His mother reached for Red, but he jerked away, disgust churning in his gut. “You’re stealing people’s souls? Killing innocent travellers?”
“You don’t understand—”
“What’s there tounderstand?” Red spat out. “You’re using some beast to murder people so you can live without a heart!”
Wim’s hand settled on Red’s shoulder, but he shrugged it off. The cottage walls seemed to press closer, that sweet-rot smell growing stronger until he could taste it on his tongue.
