Bait for the Wolves

1 I woke up inside a fairy tale gone rancid. My mother had vanished without a trace three weeks ago, leaving me behind in a cramped timber cabin at the edge of the woods to nurse my bedridden grandmother. "Take this bottle of blackberry wine to the hunter," Grandmother rasped from beneath a mound of moth-eaten quilts, her fingers trembling as she pointed toward the door. "Make sure you thank him, child. If it weren't for his rifle, the beasts would have torn us to pieces by now." I gave her an obedient nod, tucked the heavy glass bottle into my wicker basket, and pulled my scarlet hood low over my brow before heading into the settlement. The morning fog hung thick over the pines, smelling of wet earth and copper. But just as I reached the hunter’s porch, my knuckles raised to knock, I caught sight of something through the hairline gap in the weathered planks. Inside the dim cabin, a massive gray wolf was painstakingly pulling on the flayed skin of Harris the hunter. I spun on my heel without thinking. Before my boot could even hit the gravel, an icy hand clamped down on my shoulder with the force of an iron vise. A voice brushed against the nape of my neck, softer than a falling pine needle, carrying the distinct cadence of a death sentence. "Little Red." The breath backed up into my throat. "Were you looking for me?" A violent white flash went off behind my eyes. A full-body shiver racked me, raising goosebumps along my bare arms like needles. "Grandmother wanted me to bring you this wine, Mr. Harris," I said slowly, turning around by millimeters, forcing every muscle in my face into the docile, wide-eyed smile of a grateful orphan. "We... we can’t thank you enough for saving our lives." Harris’s eyes drifted toward me with agonizing slowness. His pupils weren't round. They were narrowed slits—amber and predatory—staring unblinkingly, measuring the exact location of my pulse like a beast waiting in the brush. I dropped my gaze, my neck stiffening as I thrust the wicker basket between us. Harris didn’t take it. "No need for thanks," he murmured, his voice sounding like two dry river stones grinding together. "Vicious, ravenous things, wolves. Scum like that deserves to be dragged through the square and skinned raw. A lesson for the rest of them." His thumb dug a fraction deeper into the tendon of my collarbone. "Don’t you agree?" My mouth went bone dry. What was I supposed to say? Who badmouths their own kind with that much vitriol? I offered a strained, meaningless murmur and shifted my weight, desperate to pull away. But the pressure on my shoulder didn't budge. Instead, under the inescapable weight of his palm, my feet began scuffing backward, step by forced step, toward the threshold of his darkened house. "Come on inside, Little Red. Have a seat." Harris leaned down, his mouth grazing the shell of my ear. The terrifying thing wasn't the words. It was the wet, guttural sound of him swallowing his saliva. The image hit me like physical trauma: serrated fangs splintering bone, crushing wet muscle, gulping down warm flesh until nothing remained. My heart slammed against my ribs so violently it felt lodged in my windpipe. I am not dying here. I gathered every ounce of strength in my legs, preparing to tear myself out of his grip even if it meant leaving a strip of skin behind. Just then, out of the corner of my eye, I spotted a patrol of hunters cutting through the mist down the main road. I threw my head back and screamed: "Samuel!" 2 The lead hunter stopped dead in his tracks. Samuel turned his head slowly, his posture dripping with the kind of lazy arrogance only the town's most lethal marksman could afford. Harris had an arm locked tight around my ribs from behind, a calloused palm clamped over my lower jaw to stifle my voice. To anyone with eyes, it was obvious what was about to happen behind that heavy oak door. Samuel wasn't the type to play neighborhood watch. He lived for his own skin. But when his gaze locked onto mine—finding the raw, unadorned panic screaming in my eyes—his jaw ticked. He crossed his arms over his chest, his lean frame shifting against his rifle sling. "Thought we had plans at the tavern," he drawled, his tone bored, almost dismissive. "Get your ass over here." A lone wolf doesn't pick a fight with an armed pack. Harris hesitated for two excruciating heartbeats, then his fingers uncurled. The moment the weight vanished from my shoulder, I scrambled forward, practically dropping to my hands and knees before sprinting across the clearing to fall in beside Samuel. Within a dozen yards, the suffocating heat of Harris's stare faded into the fog. Samuel and I fell to the rear of the patrol. I was just beginning to drag air back into my lungs when Samuel turned his head and gave me an unabashed, head-to-toe inventory. "Hey," he muttered under his breath, mostly to himself. "You even legal?" The rest tumbled out in a sharp, derisive murmur: "Face like an altar boy and legs that pale... walking around in shorts like you're begging for trouble." The words blurred together beneath the roaring in my ears, but I caught the tone. I nodded, half a beat too late. "I'm of age," I whispered defensively. Samuel rolled his eyes, a dry scoff escaping his throat. "Then keep up." 3 The tavern was an assault on the senses. The door swung shut behind us, trapping a haze of stale ale, grease, unfiltered tobacco, and heavy male sweat. The air was so thick it felt chewable. I instinctively held my breath, ducking my chin as we navigated the crowded floor. Every scrap of conversation seemed laced with rough, drunken filth, and as I walked past the wooden trestles, I could feel the stares dragging across my bare calves like sticky fingers. I let my guard down for a single second near a crowded booth. A thick, hairy hand reached out and brought an open palm down hard across my rear. The smack echoed over the din. I jumped out of my skin, gasping as a chorus of crude jeers erupted around the table. The man responsible was a barrel-chested trapper named Paul. He leaned back against the bench, winking and whistling through the gap in his teeth. "They don't serve cider to schoolboys, sweetheart," Paul sneered. Arrogant bastard. I swallowed the humiliation, biting my tongue, and kept moving. Samuel, however, came to a dead halt. He turned around slowly, a dangerous, lazy tilt to his mouth as he looked down at the trapper. His voice was almost conversational. "You tired of having that right hand, Paul?" Paul’s smirk evaporated. He blinked, the alcohol clearing from his blood in a single, cold rush. There wasn't a man in this valley who didn't know Samuel was the quickest trigger and the most unstable bastard in town. Paul stammered a frantic apology, pressing his hands flat against the beer-soaked table. Samuel didn't offer a second glance. He pivoted and led the way toward a corner booth tucked away in the shadows. He grabbed a pint of draft, tipped his head back, and drained it in three long swallows, wiping the foam from his bottom lip with the back of his wrist. "Alright," he said, setting the glass down with a heavy thud. "What's the play?" He looked down at my hands, which were unconsciously twisting the hem of my cotton shirt into knots. "You were creeping around Harris's porch like a stray dog," Samuel remarked, his voice dropping into that amused, cutting register. "The man offers you a seat, and you act like he’s holding a butcher’s knife to your throat. Rude little brat." He cracked open a second bottle, took a swig, and leaned in. "Anyone watching would think he had a wolf under his floorboards." My throat tightened. You have no idea how right you are. I looked around the room. Too many ears. Too many wandering eyes. I reached out, my fingers catching the coarse fabric of his jacket sleeve. "Can we talk somewhere else?" 4 Samuel froze. His green eyes narrowed, scanning my face with a sharp, calculating intensity. When he found nothing in my expression but stark desperation, he let out a low chuckle. "Follow me." I trailed him blindly toward the back corridor, expecting an empty alley or an office, right until he shoved me into the single-occupancy washroom and slid the brass bolt home. The space was relatively clean for a backwoods dive, but the metallic smell of lye and damp porcelain still wrinkled my nose. I took a breath, ready to get this over with—ready to tell him what I saw through the cracked door. Before I could form the first syllable, Samuel loomed over me. Standing well over six feet, his broad shoulders blocked out the overhead bulb entirely. His jade eyes bore straight into mine, capturing my startled reflection in their centers. "Into me that bad?" he murmured, an insolent smirk spreading across his lips. "Going through all that trouble to get my attention outside, and now you’re dragging me into a stall? Want me to take you right here?" He whistled under his breath, playful and completely depraved. "Fine by me. Let's get to it." I stared at him, dumbfounded. What the hell is wrong with this guy? Before I could back up, his dry, calloused fingers gripped my jaw, forcing my head back against the painted partition. "Why'd you yell my name?" Samuel whispered, his gaze dropping to my mouth. "Why follow me here like a stray? Why look at me with those damn eyes every time I turn around? I'm curious. When did you get so hung up on me?" The questions came too fast, entirely detached from reality. "I'm not—" Samuel gave a soft, dangerous laugh. "Because if this is all in my head," he murmured, his thumb stroking my cheekbone, "I'm walking out that door, and I won't say another word to you as long as you live." No. Not yet. If he walked out, I was dead meat in the dark. Panicking, my hands shot out, clutching the lapels of his leather vest. That single movement was like dropping a match into an open kerosene can. Samuel's eyes darkened, the amusement vanishing into something far more primal. "I gave you an exit," he rasped. In the span of a heartbeat, his leather belt whipped free from his loops. Before I could scream, the thick cowhide was folded and shoved between my teeth, binding tightly behind my head to choke off any sound. A rough, scarred hand slid up under the hem of my shirt, his fingers brushing my ribs. "First time shouldn't be in a dive bar toilet," Samuel whispered into my hair, completely detached from the panic shaking my limbs. "But baby... you're practically begging for it." I fought him. I twisted, kicking against the partition, but in the cramped quarters of the stall, my struggles only made him laugh—a low, satisfied vibration against my throat that took my panic for frantic anticipation. "Easy now," he murmured against my ear. "Be good. I'll take care of you." Then his hands traveled lower, discovering the reality of what was tucked beneath my shorts. His breath caught. The mockery in his eyes curdled into a sudden, dark possessiveness, followed by a crude, filthy observation that stripped away whatever dignity I had left. A helpless tremor ran through me from the core outward. 5 A hunter’s hands are built for holding recoil and scaling wet rock faces. The skin on Samuel’s palms was thick with ridges of callus. Every press, every firm, calculated stroke against my sensitive skin left behind a stinging burn. He knew leverage; he knew anatomy; he knew exactly where to press to turn resistance into helpless, shuddering paralysis. Outside the thin door, boots scuffled on the tavern floorboards. Glasses clinked. Laughter rose and fell. The terror of discovery kept my jaws clamped hard onto the leather belt until the leather tasted of salt and saliva. When it was over, Samuel leaned against the sink, lighting a rolled cigarette with shaking fingers. He watched me through the rising blue smoke as I slumped against the porcelain, my legs completely shot. The stall was a disaster. Samuel had used my discarded shirt as a rag to wipe down the mess, and the fabric was now entirely unwearable. He exhaled a long stream of gray smoke, his brows furrowing as if he were an exhausted parent dealing with an unruly toddler. "Are you made of water or something?" I stared at the floor tiles, too drained to respond. The man was clinically unhinged. Whispering filth in my ear one second, treating me like an inconvenience the next. I bit my lower lip so hard it bled. Who caused this in the first place? I wouldn't be able to walk without a limp for the next three days. Seeing that I wasn't moving, Samuel’s expression softened marginally. He knelt, pulling my thin undershirt down to cover my hips. "Stay put," he said, his voice dropping into something resembling genuine gentleness. "I'll go find you some dry clothes. Don't open the door for anyone." He brushed the sweat-dampened hair from my forehead, exposing my bare skin to the chill of the room, and pressed a light, surprisingly tender kiss against my hairline. "Wait for me." The bolt clicked back into place, and the door swung shut. Silence fell over the stall. I let out a long, shuddering breath, leaned my head back against the cold tank, and forced my mind to assemble the pieces. 6 The simulation trial I had been pulled into was titled Guess Who I Am—a twisted fusion of gothic dark folklore and a high-stakes Werewolf deduction game. By daylight, I was bound to the role of Little Red Riding Hood. By nightfall, I was an active player on the board. According to the realm’s lore, the entity running this trial summoned a nine-player game once every five years. Only the nine chosen residents knew the game existed, bound by a mental lock that made it impossible to speak of the trial to ordinary townsfolk. And Little Red Riding Hood was one of the nine. The stakes were binary: if the Werewolf faction won, every living soul in the valley would be butchered down to the marrow. If the Town—the Villagers and the Roles—managed to exile the wolves, the pack was banished from the borders for five years. It was an inherently rigged system. Every five years, the wolves were handed a free license to slaughter. Digging through the world's lore revealed that centuries ago, the founding monarch of this kingdom had betrayed an ancient covenant with the Wolf King, and this recurring curse was the blood-price levied upon the descendants. A rotten king. A cursed valley. I rubbed my temples, pulling up the mechanics. Each of the nine chosen players carried a golden crescent moon mark upon their forehead, visible only to one another. I had one. Samuel had one. That was the sole reason I had called his name in the street. Before the trial began, I had burned a single-use tactical item—the All-Seeing Loupe—to inspect one player's alignment. Samuel was the Seer. That was why I trusted him unconditionally. That was why, between ragged breaths on the floor of this stall, I had broken down everything I saw on Harris’s porch, begging him to lead the vote against Harris at the table tonight. Samuel had listened with a detached, cold expression, never stopping his hands. Why should I believe you? he had murmured. I had no counter. The setup was a standard "Slaughter the Faction" board: nine players total. Three Werewolves, three Villagers, one Seer, one Witch, one Hunter. When I entered the simulation this morning, Day One was already underway. The town’s sole wholesale wine merchant had dropped dead in his cellar at dawn. The townsfolk assumed it was a sudden heart attack, but my interface confirmed it: Night One, wolf kill. Three wolves versus two remaining villagers. If the wolves eliminated the remaining villagers back-to-back, the Town fell immediately, and my physical body would be erased from existence. I needed Samuel on my side. My eyelids were growing heavy from exhaustion when the washroom latch gave a sharp click. The door creaked open. I snapped awake, expecting Samuel with a dry change of clothes. It wasn't Samuel. Standing in the doorway was Father Alden, clad in the heavy black cassock of the parish priest. His sharp, austere features were cast in shadow, dark eyelashes veiling half of his obsidian irises. The other half was fixed dead upon my state: bare legs, bruised thighs, and flushed skin. It didn't take an investigator to know what had transpired inside this stall ten minutes ago. The town’s most notoriously celibate priest didn't turn away. Instead, he stepped inside, closing the door behind him with a terrifying, deliberate quiet. His voice carried the weight of a stone dropping into a well. "A child whose tears look so pure, so fragile..." Alden whispered, his eyes scanning the ruin of me. "Why does your soul house the filth of an unrepentant whore?" 7 Father Alden didn't leave me in the tavern. He dragged me out the back entrance and threw me into his private carriage. By the time the wheels ground to a halt outside my grandmother's cabin, dusk had settled over the trees. The moment the carriage door opened, I scrambled out, half-limping, half-running across the dirt yard and ducking straight into my bedroom before my grandmother could even wheel herself to the front porch. "Alden?" I heard her call out, her voice cracked with age. "Where is the child? Did you find him?" Alden stood by the carriage, his right hand subtly slipping behind his back. The edge of his lace cuff was still damp with my saliva from when I had fought him in the dark interior of the coach—though in the dimming twilight, no one could see. "He's already inside, madam," Alden replied smoothly, his tone devoid of warmth. Grandmother muttered a string of half-hearted scoldings about my lack of manners, then offered the priest profuse apologies. "Thank you for bringing him back to me, Father. If the wolves had taken him again... God knows what I would have done." Inside the bedroom, I was submerged in the zinc wash-tub, scrubbing my skin until it was raw, keeping my ears trained on the voices outside. Hearing Alden's pious, measured comfort made me grind my molars together. In that carriage, he had pinned my wrists with coarse hemp rope. He had pulled an ebony quill dipped in holy water from his coat, drawing slow, punishing strokes across the bruises on my chest, chanting baptismal verses in a voice that never wavered: “I cleanse thee in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost...” The ride was short. The quill had barely reached my floating ribs before the carriage hit the cottage drive. The moment he cut the cords, blind with rage, I had lunged forward and sunk my teeth deep into the meat of his hand. I bit hard. But halfway through, through the haze of my anger, my peripheral vision caught the sudden, unmistakable tenting of his heavy black cassock. I had let go instantly, recoiling like I’d touched a live wire. The air in that carriage had turned suffocatingly thick. Alden had looked down at the bleeding puncture marks on his skin, his eyes swirling with an abyssal, terrifying dark. "The cost of making me break my vows," he had murmured, "is a debt a fallen little thing like you cannot afford." Remembering the faint golden crescent on Alden's forehead made my chest tighten. My gut told me he wasn't Town. But without proof, intuition was useless. Exhausted, I dragged myself out of the tub and collapsed onto the straw mattress, waiting for the trial to begin. Sleep claimed me before I could prepare. Midnight struck. A bank of dark clouds devoured the moon. A sharp tug on my consciousness pulled me awake, and when my eyes opened, the wooden rafters of the cabin were gone. I was sitting in the center of the tavern. The room had been cleared of patrons. In the middle of the floor stood an elongated rectangular table surrounded by nine high-backed wooden chairs. Every figure seated at the table wore a featureless porcelain white mask. I clutched the edge of my tunic. The rules of this simulation differed slightly from the parlor game: the daily gathering and voting phase took place right at midnight, after a day of gathering clues, immediately before the night phase commenced. A cold, synthetic voice echoed from the rafters: “Players, present your statements in numerical order and cast your vote for exile.” The fog of war had officially descended. Who among us wore the wolf's teeth? 8 I cast a discreet glance down the table. Four players sat on the left, four on the right—numbered 1 through 8. The high-backed chair at the foot of the table was completely empty. That belonged to Player 9, the dead wine merchant. Directly across from me sat Player 6. Even behind the porcelain mask, those vivid, insolent green eyes were impossible to mistake: Samuel. I was Player 3. He was Player 6. Thinking about what had happened in that washroom stall, my palms broke into a cold sweat. Player 1 opened the floor. A clean, cultured tenor drifted from beneath the mask. "Solid Town card here. The Seer is welcome to check me tonight. I didn’t turn up anything definitive during the day, but purely by seating logic, there’s bound to be at least one wolf between 3, 4, and 5." My breath hitched at being singled out, but the rules forbade speaking out of turn. Player 2 spoke next. Father Alden’s voice was unmistakable, carrying the hollow resonance of a cathedral vault. "By the Holy Father, I stand firmly with the Town." Then the spotlight shifted to me. I took a deep breath, steadying my vocal cords. "I am Town. More importantly, I gathered concrete evidence on the wolf faction during daylight hours. I urge every Town member to unite their votes on Player 8." Player 8 was Harris. A subtle shift rippled down the table. Player 4 spoke up: "I don't buy three consecutive Villagers sitting side by side. There’s a wolf in that cluster. As for me, I’m clean Town. I suggest the Seer scan the first three seats tonight. And to Player 3: you'd better provide solid details during free discussion. If you're a wolf pushing a mislynch, you're handing them the game." 9 Player 5 delivered a brief, dry defense, claiming a simple Town alignment. Then, every mask turned toward Seat 6. Beneath my porcelain facade, my heart was hammering against my ribs, silently begging Samuel to follow through. Samuel’s long fingers drummed a slow, lazy rhythm against the timber table. He let out a low, amused huff, leaning back in his chair. "I'm the Seer," he stated flatly. "Checked Player 8 last night. Pure wolf." It was a blatant lie. Samuel hadn't checked Harris; he had inspected Player 1 and told me earlier that 1 was clean. "If the pack comes for my throat tonight, I expect the Witch to drop an antidote on my head," Samuel continued, his green eyes scanning the table with casual disdain. "We execute Seat 8 before the sun goes down." Across the table, Harris's breathing turned ragged. The veins along his neck bulged against his collar, his shoulders shaking with the urge to break protocol and shout. Player 7 spoke quickly: "I'm Town." The floor finally opened to Player 8. Harris practically lunged out of his seat. "Seat 6 is a fake Seer! Don't listen to a damn word he says! Him and Seat 3 are running a pack scheme! I am Town! You vote me out, and our margin for error drops to zero!" A heavy hesitation settled over the room. He wasn't wrong about the mathematics. If Seat 8 was a mislynched Villager, the wolves only needed one more kill tonight to wipe out the Town faction entirely. I leaned forward, my voice cutting through the doubt. "Seat 8 is a wolf! I saw it with my own eyes this morning! He was pulling on a hunter’s flayed skin to walk among the living!" Harris opened his mouth to scream, but the mechanical voice severed the air: “Voting commences. Five seconds.” Player 1: Abstained. Player 2 (Alden): Voted Player 3 (Me). Player 3 (Me): Voted Player 8 (Harris). Player 4: Voted Player 8 (Harris). Player 5: Abstained. Player 6 (Samuel): Voted Player 8 (Harris). Player 7: Abstained. Player 8 (Harris): Voted Player 3 (Me). Three votes to two. “Player 8 is exiled.” “Identity revealed: Player 8 was a Werewolf.” “The game continues.” A collective breath left the table. The Town had secured a critical execution. Before anyone could celebrate, the voice thundered down again: “Night falls. All players, close your eyes.” “Werewolves, open your eyes.” A pause of absolute, freezing void. “Dawn has broken.” My eyes snapped open. A cold sweat broke across the small of my back. Across from me, the porcelain mask on Player 6 was shattered in half. Samuel was slumped over the timber, blood pooling across the grain. The Witch had held the antidote. Samuel was dead. 10 I gasped, shooting upright in my bed back at the cottage. The scent of pine needles and damp plaster rushed back into my lungs. Samuel was out. The board was pulled into a precarious deadlock: two wolves, two villagers, one witch, one hunter. Before the projection dissolved in the tavern, the system had broadcast an emergency rule update: “Werewolves are now permitted to eliminate one opposing faction player during the daylight hours. Proceed with caution.” A day kill and a night kill? Why not just hand the wolves the keys to the valley and be done with it? I swung my legs over the edge of the mattress, my mouth parched. I crossed the room on silent feet, pouring a tin cup of water from the pitcher. I downed it in several frantic gulps, my mind racing through the seating chart. I turned around to head back to bed—and froze. The door to my grandmother’s room stood slightly ajar. The morning breeze crept through the floorboards, cold as a tomb. Grandmother lay propped up on her pillows. Her milky, cataracts-clouded eyes were fixed directly upon me in the dark. My gaze drifted upward. The linen headscarf she wore to hide her thinning gray hair had been cast aside on the nightstand. Right in the center of her withered, age-spotted forehead sat a glowing, golden crescent moon. My skull felt like it had been struck by lightning. Grandmother... was a player? The new rule flashed through my brain: Werewolves may execute one target during the day. Grandmother’s wrinkled lips parted, curling into an eerie, toothless smile. Just as I prepared myself to be ripped apart where I stood, her dry voice floated through the crack: "Go to sleep, Little Red."