You regret taking this path. It’s dark and ominous. Your red cloak is thin, and you shiver at the cold.

Still, granny is sick, and needs her treats. You keep going. You’re a good girl and good girls do what they’re told to do. Your mama was quite firm in telling you that granny needs her honey cakes. To deny her that over a little chill would be failure and you can’t fail. That would be bad. That would make you a bad girl.

You look out, weary of wolves, and find him instead. He’s got black hair and sharp eyes and when he opens his mouth to speak, you notice his canines are particularly sharp.

“Hello,” he croons, looking all too pleased by your isolation, excited even. “What’s a little thing like you doing alone, out here?”

Something under your skin prickles sharply. Fear. Distrust. Weariness. He smiles and his teeth glint with spittle. You try to keep your nerve. He’s dressed like a lumberjack and he’s smiling so broadly. You’re sure he’s a nice man. Everyone has niceness in them.

“I’m going to my granny’s,” you tell him innocently. “She’s sick.”

The man gasps, his pink mouth rounding out in what should look like upset—but has the same smugness of his greeting. His eyes are a sunken, pallid grey and they shine with mirth.

“She’s sick?” He repeats, in soft horror, but his voice curls into a growl. You look at his clothes. They’re creaseless. A lumberjack with no axe. You don’t know whether to be pleased or not about that. “That’s terrible. And you’re going to visit her…with some goodies?”

His eyes drift to the basket in your hand. Your throat dries a little. You can only muster a nod and squeak out that you’ve got some honey cakes. He takes a step forward.

“That’s very sweet of you,” he compliments, stalking a little closer. “You’re a very sweet, very good girl, aren’t you? Walking out in the cold, in this awful, dark forest with treats for your granny…”

You clutch the basket a little harder. His throat bobs, like his mouth is watering and there’s something ravenous in his gaze.

“Can I have a bite?” He whispers, his calloused fingers curling over the handle of the basket and it slips from your hand into his own.

And his eyes, devastatingly sharp, with something of a wolf in them—are trained on you.