There is blood on the Wolf’s teeth, but it is not Little Red’s; and there is blood on the axe, but it is not the Wolf’s. No – the blood is the same on both, and it is the Huntsman’s blood, because Little Red has no wish to see her Wolf slain and his pelt laid out before the village as a trophy. Indeed she does not.
Little Red has better things to do with the Wolf than see him dead.
Little Red prefers a living Wolf, because a living Wolf can hunt her through the forest on the full-moon nights, howling his triumph to the skies when she finally catches him. A living Wolf can curl around her, fur against her bare skin, and keep her warm on winter nights and summer nights alike. A living Wolf can set his teeth against her throat until her breath comes harsh and loud, and never draw blood nor leave a single mark without her will.
A living Wolf can fuck her, hard and glorious, upon the ancient bed in Grandmother’s House, until her screams and his howls cannot be distinguished, and the creatures of the forest slink into their dens and hide for fear of hunters. A living Wolf can lick between her legs with his long, long tongue until she has lost all semblance of coherency, until her words have turned to moans, her moans to whimpers, her whimpers to hoarse and unvoiced screams of pleasure.
Little Red has no great love for Huntsmen. All of it is given to the Wolf.