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Fairy Tale Retellings, Book Two (standalone)

Historical Romance (Medieval)

Date Published: 04-10-2024

Little Red Riding Hood reimagined with a dark and realistic twist.

Princess Blanchette’s world shatters when the Black Wolf tears apart her castle and everything she holds dear. All she clings to is the vow she made to her grandmother on her deathbed.

Hailed as the people’s champion, Sir Rowan Dietrich liberates the capital in a quest for vengeance. He takes Winslowe Castle with an army at his back and his wolf, Smoke, at his side.

United by a shared cause and powerful attraction, Rowan and Blanchette embark on a journey of self-discovery and redemption—a path filled with loss, transformation, and ultimately, the healing power of love.

Can Norland’s resplendent princess, with her captivating beauty and spirit, tame the fabled Black Wolf?

Inspired by the fairy tale Little Red Riding Hood, Red Kingdom is a passionate historical romance about the enduring quest for love and the longing for a world at harmony.

*Red Kingdom is a standalone installment in a series of reimagined classic fairy tales. Due to adult content and themes, it is not intended for readers under the age of 18.

What you can expect from Red Kingdom...

Dark, Medieval Setting

Enemies to Lovers

Slow Burn

Broken Alpha Hero

Strong Heroine

Wolf Companion

He Falls First

Redemption

Warring Kingdoms

Excerpts from Red Kingdom

Blanchette spots the Black Wolf during the siege

Death at her feet. Death in her home. Death in the air.

Death screamed in every corner of her mind.

Then she saw him.

Rowan Dietrich, the fabled Black Wolf of Norland, strode through her castle like a waking nightmare. His armor was crudely made, black as the surrounding night, the helm’s dark metal twisted into the shape of a wolf’s snarling head. But the most striking thing about him was his height. He towered above the other fighters and battled with a chilling methodicalness. How he moved and fought frightened Blanchette the greatest.

He looked collected. Even mildly amused. As if this were nothing more than a game. Blood soaked his sword as the blade whirled, whipped, slashed, and claimed lives in a macabre dance of death. And that wolf clung to his heels, its muzzle wet with blood, snarling and leaping at any man who dared come close to its master.

Monster. Demons.

The Black Wolf of Norland had always had a mist of legend around him. She remembered the stories her mother and governess had often whispered after the feasts and in the dark of the night.

“To me,” the Black Wolf called to a soldier a few yards away, his deep voice effortlessly carrying above the tumult. He didn’t need to yell, not even over the mayhem. The force of his tone was enough.

One of her father’s guards raised his blade, but too slowly. Rowan Dietrich’s longsword cut his head off, then came flashing back in a terrible two-handed slash that took another soldier in the leg.

With quivering anger, she realized that this man—this wolf, this beast—was the reason the sky was falling on her family. She clutched the dagger, wishing she could stand a chance against him. How good and right it would feel to plunge the blade deep into his heart and avenge what would likely be the end of her family’s dynasty.

Of course, she’d never survive him or his demon wolf. And if she was ever to avenge her family, if she was to keep her promise, survival meant everything.

Rowan saves Blanchette

Rowan Dietrich, the Black Wolf of Norland, withdrew his sword from the back of the man’s head. The six other brigands slunk backward and fumbled for their weapons. The horses were going crazy at the sight and scent of the wolf Smoke—stomping their hooves, rearing up on powerful hind legs. Except for Sunbeam. He remained silent and still, blending into the dark canopy of trees.

From the corner of his eye, Rowan glanced at Blanchette; her dress was torn and dirty, and she fumbled in the dirt, struggling to rise to her feet.

Anger twisted inside him, red and hot.

I shall kill them all for this.

One brigand, greasy-haired and pockmarked, dashed at him from the left. Rowan swept his sword in an arc and felt the satisfying squelch of steel sliding through flesh, muscle, and tendon.

Movement from his peripheral vision. Blanchette rushed forward and retrieved the fallen axe. Rowan ran toward another brigand. The man staggered back, nocked an arrow, and let it fly.

It took Rowan in the forearm. Several moments passed before the pain struck him. Then he strode forward, a growl in his throat, as the bowman withdrew a second arrow from his quiver and nocked it again.

He raised to shoot—but Blanchette was there, bless the little idiot, both of her hands wielding the axe. She gave a war cry and swiped at the man’s midsection. The metal sank in deep, and then she pulled it free with another gut-wrenching cry.

The man crumpled and fell. Blanchette locked Rowan’s gaze. Dirt and blood speckled her face.

There were five more brigands. Smoke leaped at one of them, his snarl a thunderclap, his dagger-like teeth tearing into the man’s throat. Blood pumped from the gash and soaked Smoke’s muzzle. Then the wolf squared himself in front of Rowan and Blanchette, his fierce growl rising in the darkness.

The last three men backed away slowly, their eyes riveted on the wolf and his gore-stained snout. They turned and ran like bats escaping hell. Smoke pounced and wrapped his jaws around one of the men’s napes. He dug his fingers into the dirt and leaves, screaming for his mother, blood and flesh coming loose as Smoke worked at his neck until he was silent.

Rowan and Blanchette finished off the last two men.

Then she wandered into the clearing like a woman wading through a dream. The red riding cloak streamed behind her.

She stood like that for a long stretch of silence. Tears and blood and dirt covered her face.

She looked fierce. Primal. Breathtaking.

That tragic vision took his breath away.

Smoke threw back his blood-soaked muzzle and howled at the full moon. The eerie sound shivered through the night.

“I wouldn’t linger long, Your Grace,” Rowan spat as he glanced at the arrow sticking out of his forearm and the seven dead bodies. “There are wolves in these woods, and worse.”

Rowan teaches Blanchette how to shoot a longbow

Rowan stepped close to Blanchette, and suddenly, the training yard seemed to shrink. He stood over her, his eyes sparkling in the light, the sun’s rays gleaming in his hair’s deep black.

“Have you shot a longbow before?” he asked, his voice a sultry rumble that Blanchette felt move through her bones.

“No,” she said, shuffling back just an inch. Dark memories came tumbling like water through a dam. “But I’ve used a dagger. An axe too,” she added with a nervous chuckle, thinking of that night in the woods.

He closed the space she’d just gained. They were chest to chest, face-to-face, and nearly touching. Blanchette tried to take a deep breath, but her lungs felt tight. Her throat too. Her heart raced in her ears. She was sure he’d hear the sound. He looked down at her for several more moments of jittery silence. “The night of the attack. That was the first time you killed someone.” It wasn’t a question. But she nodded anyway.

“Here,” he said, handing the longbow to her. It fit her much better than Mary. But why did her hand feel so damn clumsy as he wrapped it around the wood and carefully positioned her fingers?

“Keep your elbow up and your gaze on the target. Your eyes will send the arrow where it needs to go.”

Blanchette felt heat emanating from Rowan’s body as he stood behind her, guiding her posture. They fit together perfectly. His breath tickled her neck as he whispered, “That’s it. Now, draw back the string and let it fly.”

As she released the arrow, she couldn’t believe how smooth the motion felt, almost like an extension of her own body. It sailed through the air, hitting the target with a satisfying thump. She turned to Rowan with a smile, and he grinned back at her.

He looked handsome… achingly wholesome, with a boyish look of triumph on his face.

“You’re a natural,” he said, his voice low and husky. “But we can always work on improving.”

Blanchette’s heart skipped a beat as Rowan’s hand rested on her hip. He reached for another arrow. She could feel the heat of his body against her back, and the soft hairs on her arms stood up in anticipation. The hard ridge of his arousal strained against her bottom.

“This time, try to focus on your breathing,” he said, his breath hot against her ear. “In... and out...” How in God’s name? she inwardly screamed. She felt close to fainting. Her skin tightened at the sound of his voice, the way he spoke those words against her neck as if they meant something else entirely.

She was acutely aware of every inch of her body, how her skin felt against the fabric of her dress, how her hair brushed against her cheeks in the cool breeze.

Blanchette felt the warmth of his body enveloping her. She could smell his scent—sandalwood and sweat and leather and something indefinable that made her heart race. She was growing wet down there, between her hot thighs.

“You are very good with her. Mary, I mean.”

He hesitated, then met her eyes. “When she was a babe, I was the only one who could put her to sleep. Not Beatrice or the wet nurse. I’d sing to her… I still remember how it felt, her little hand gripping my finger…” His confession faded into silence. Then he shook his head. “It doesn’t matter now.”

“But it does, Rowan. It matters more than anything. She yearns to be close to you. You—”

“Must keep your elbow up,” he whispered close to her ear, his body brushing against hers, his arousal pushing against her hip. She grew wetter, hotter, and little currents sang in her veins. “Yes, right there, Your Grace.”

Blanchette turned to face him. She was met with a gaze filled with a fiery intensity she’d never seen before. She could feel her cheeks flushing as she realized just how close they stood. They were practically one. His hand still rested on her hip, and she could feel the warmth of his fingers seeping through the fabric of her dress.

Rowan’s eyes roamed over her face, taking in every feature, every curve, every nuance of expression. It was as if he was seeing her for the first time and couldn’t look away. Their eyes locked for several weightless moments.

She parted her lips and expelled a long-drawn-out breath.

He studied her mouth.

Kiss me…

“You ready?”

She nodded.

But ready for what?

Blanchette closed her eyes, letting Rowan’s words wash over her. She could feel her body relaxing under his gentle touch and guidance, and she took a deep breath in, holding it for a moment before letting it out slowly. He placed his large hand across her abdomen and applied gentle pressure.

“Good,” Rowan murmured. “Now, draw back... and let go.”

Let go.

But if I let go, I shall fall…

Rowan meets Smoke, his black wolf

More black came out of the black. It was a giant wolf, its yellow eyes shining like lanterns. The firelight danced across its sleek, dark coat, making parts of it look almost blue-black. The wolf angled its large head toward the crackling meat and sniffed at the air. Drool ran from its jaws and splattered on the snowy ground.

The beast was beautiful in its dark stillness.

Rowan should have wielded his sword and threatened the intruder back into the darkness from whence it came. Instead, he felt himself rising to his feet slowly; his hand reached for the rabbit, moving like an alien thing independent of the rest of him. He tore off a dripping limb. Grease ran down the leg. He felt it dampen his fingers and slide down his palm as he lifted the morsel in midair. The wolf lowered its head again and cautiously stepped forward, those glowing eyes never parting from his.

Another sniff. Slaver dripped from its jaws. Its teeth were long and dagger-like.

The wolf emitted a low, rich growl that reminded Rowan of rolling thunder. That sound rose from the darkness, then dropped away as if fading into the very night. The wolf stalked forward with slow and measured steps, the hunger in its eyes a tangible force. Snow dusted its dark coat, clashing against the fur, melting within moments from the wolf’s body heat. It raised a paw and growled again.

“Here, mon ami,” he whispered, outstretching his hand to offer the rabbit leg. “No need to be afraid,” he said more to himself.

With a few cautious steps, he closed the distance between them. Rowan dropped the meat and released his breath. The beast devoured the meat as he knew it would. He licked his mouth, those dagger-like teeth flashing. Long tendrils of slaver dripped to the ground.

Rowan glanced at the pommel of his sword—at the snarling wolf’s head. He held out his hand and waited. The wolf took another step forward, his teeth bared, then lowered his muzzle to his knuckles. He sniffed at his flesh, then stared up at him. Slowly, Rowan tore another limb from the rabbit and fed it to him from his hand.

He took it quickly.

The wolf was starving and all alone.

Rowan lowered onto the ground again, his back resting against a tall oak tree. He unskewered the rabbit with his sword and broke off chunks for him and the wolf. As the night deepened, he heard his voice filling the silence.

“Where’s your pack?” he asked, his voice slurred. He realized the ale had gone to his head. The world around him felt unsteady. “My pack’s also gone,” he said, pointing his flask toward the gray wolf embroidered on his tunic.

He plucked another leg from the rabbit and felt the grease slide down his fingers. The wolf sat up, attentive, his eerie eyes glowing. Slaver ran from his jaws. Rowan carefully leaned forward and fed him the morsel from his hand. He licked his fingers clean, those intelligent, piercing eyes never leaving his own.

“I suppose the pack shall grow soon enough,” he said, taking a piece of meat for himself. “She’s heavy with child.”

He raised his flask in a silent toast, then drank.

He offered the wolf another fat morsel. He ate it straight from his hand again, then nibbled his palm. He rubbed the wolf’s ears with his other hand, shocked into a sudden silence by how quickly he’d trusted him.

A black wolf has come to me in my blackest of nights.

Hesitantly, Rowan tracked his hand over the wolf’s smooth, dark coat. The fur seemed to drink in the firelight; he watched, mesmerized, as the flames danced across it.

“I see them… I see them every night and every day,” he said, whispering to no one. “I see them even now.” Rowan cocked his head back and looked up into a dark ash tree. A body, its face swollen and purple, hung from the end of a noose. It swayed eerily in the breeze, and the smoke from the fire obscured its features. Rowan blinked once, twice. It was gone as quickly as it’d appeared.

“What should I do? Go back to the king? What kind of knight—what kind of man, what kind of father—would that make me?”

The wolf said nothing. Of course. Just stared at him with those glowing eyes.

Then the wolf lay down and made himself at home beside Rowan’s boots. His eyes darted back to the sigil on his banner: a gray wolf howling against a white field.

Rowan exhaled a breath, then watched as the wolf’s eyelids grew heavy and closed. He rested his massive head on its front paws. Rowan watched the steady rise and fall of his back… watched through the smoke as the flames waved in the darkness.

Black smoke distorted the wolf lying beside him.

“Smoke,” he said aloud, talking to no one.

And the Black Wolf of Norland was born.

Rowan takes Blanchette captive

The Black Wolf rose to his full six-foot-five height. He swooped forward in a rush of movement and grabbed Blanchette’s trembling hand, which was half-buried under the red cloak. He held it up in midair as if he meant to kiss it before a first dance… but turned it slightly instead, so the signet ring twinkled traitorously in the morning light.

Blanchette felt her throat fall into her stomach. He started to slip the ring off her finger, but she jumped out of his wretched reach. She felt his eyes burning down at her, into her, and she returned the glare with equal hatred.

“You really are the princess.”

He knew. They all knew.

And she felt liberated by that fact. “You stole everything from me, everything that I loved! You are worse than the stories say… no, you aren’t a wolf. You are a monster.”

The Black Wolf stared down at her for a long stretch of silence.

And he did not speak.

Everyone in the room seemed to hold their breaths; even the wind beyond the home ceased its rattling. After what felt like a lifetime, he said simply and with quiet authority, “I am neither wolf nor monster. I am Rowan Dietrich, and you are my prisoner.”

She darted toward the door, her injured leg screaming from pain.

Rowan said in a low, stern voice, “Seize her.”

It happened in a flash of movement. One of his soldiers grabbed her arms and clasped them behind her back. The wolf went wild, snarling and snapping at her ankles in a mad frenzy. Its growl was thunder, volcanic and deep and black as the night.

She squirmed as they tied restraints around her wrists. When all her efforts failed, she contented herself with spitting in the Black Wolf’s looming face.

She thought he might strike her. Instead, he gave a dark, rumbling laugh void of humor or mirth. Chills raced down her spine. He wiped away the spit with a gloved finger, his gaze staring her down like daggers. Tears pricked her eyes, but she blinked them back, refusing to shed them in the face of her enemy.

His voice was calm and steady, though an undercurrent of hatred spilled through his words. “You’ll live to regret that, Princess.” He turned his eyes on his men as she struggled against their iron hold. “Load her up,” he said, speaking like she was another piece of cargo or plunder.

“Kill me and be done with it!” she screamed at him from the chamber of her raw throat and heart. “Kill me and be cursed!” She kicked at the soldiers, watching through a curtain of tears that blurred the towering monster in front of her. One soldier groaned and yelled a curse as her knee slammed into his groin.

“Feral bitch!”

The Black Wolf merely gave another rolling laugh.

“Kill me! Do it!” Blanchette’s cry almost sounded like a plea. The self-loathing that filled her brought bile to her throat. She felt it bubble up and spill over her lips. Her breaths shortened, and a trembling rage shook her to the marrow of her bones.

Even worse, she felt her grandmother’s disappointment from beyond her grave.

“Black Wolf! Kill me as you murdered my brother!”

That provoked a reaction from him. His eyes hardened into two ice chips. Blanchette shivered from their coolness. “I didn’t lay a finger on your brother. Of that, my hands are clean. I am no murderer. I am a liberator.”

“Liberator? Clean?” Her anger mounted to a boil, and she shook from the force of it. “There is nothing clean about you. You have lived as a monster and shall die as one, maybe by my hand. The only thing you inspire in others is treachery. That’s the name of your legacy since you left my father’s army!”

“Maybe I shall die at your hand. But not today.” He turned to Jonathan; his mouth set into a wolfish grin. “Gag her and arrest this traitor. Bring his child to the orphanage but see that no harm comes to him. He’s a ward of Norland now,” he commanded his men in a growl that rang true to his name. A soldier forced a musty, damp cloth between her teeth and vomit-covered lips, silencing her.

About the Author

I live in Sunny California with my dashing husband, who inspires my romance novels every day!

Writing has always been an integral part of my identity. Before I physically learned how to write, I'd narrate stories to my mom, and she'd record them for me.

I graduated from Chapman’s film school, where I often received the feedback on my scripts, “Your stories and characters are great, but this reads like a novel!” That’s when I realized my true calling.

In my free time, I frequent reptile expos, lift double my body’s weight, and indulge in dinosaur trivia.

I'm passionate about writing stories that explore what it means to be human and to be loved. My books focus on hope, courage, and redemption in the face of adversity.

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