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A choppy breath cuts from the opposite end of the water. “So do you.”

The three of us regard one another, the interim so sharp it could amputate a limb.

Predictably, the moment severs like bone as another male timbre bursts into the enclave. “Who the fuck is this?”

On reflex, my eyes launch heavenward. That cursed drawl can only belong to one brother. It is easy to envision the cataclysm of this scene, the unanimous manner in which we glance toward a very large prick clogging the Cascades’ entrance. I picture the mortal’s frown traveling from Puck’s combustible red hair, to the leather ensemble with its surplus of buckles, to the cloven hooves that could snuff an inferno, to the antlers sprawling from his head like the skeletal branches of an oak tree.

Most notable of all, his lack of fucking filter.

I also know Puck well enough to conceptualize the troublemaker’s cocksure squint and quirked brows as he takes the human’s measure.

Now I had been worried about him. For the nightmare my brothers have been through, I would love nothing more than to turn our mortal enemies into carcasses. And for once, I am pacified to see Puck in one piece. Except the imp has inevitably ruined this impulse by opening his mouth to the only male human on earth with the power to eviscerate us.

Cerulean’s sigh drifts from my right. I sense him palming his angular face in abject misery. “This is our other brother.”

“I know who the fuck I am,” Puck bleats like a disgruntled goat. “What about him?”

“Puck—”

“I mean, my days of orgies are through, but this is a new level of kink if you’ve decided to steal another mortal.”

I cannot help it. My lips twitch as I foresee the bottomless hole Puck is digging for himself. Cerulean and I discern the fatal tone masked behind the droll remark. Our oversexed satyr of a brother is hardly serious.

But our guest does not know that.

He doesn’t know that because he doesn’t know Puck.

“Well,” the rogue insists. “Anybody willing to let go of their dick long enough to answer me?”

The mortal’s voice is hewn from stone. “I’m their father.”

Dead. Silence.

At least from Puck.

Meanwhile, waterfalls smash into the whirlpools. Shower alcoves cough up steam. The muggy temperature rises, as though fermenting.

I fold my lips inward. This should not be funny.

It is very funny.

Puck’s dangly earrings tinkle, the only sign that his jaw has unhinged. And it doesn’t take a clairvoyant to know his eyes have leaped out of their sockets, nor that his throat has lost its ability to swallow.

A low, mumbling groan falls from his lips. “Ah, shit.”

“Watch your damn mouth,” the human snaps.

To that, none of us respond. A defenseless garble clots my brother’s tongue. If Puck isn’t careful, he might choke on it.

The prospect strangles my amusement. Cove says I love to hate Puck, as much as I hate to love him. Perhaps she’s right. If this weren’t so, I would not feel his mortification so acutely, just as I feel my own.

Few souls can wipe the smirk off my brother’s face. Fewer can make him doubt himself, believe himself deficient. This is one such moment.

He’s been fearing this meeting. Either he’s making that physically obvious, or Cove’s father possesses her skill for emotional perception.

The man’s tone loses its whittled edge. “Juniper told me about you in the letter my daughters sent. You’re the one she speaks about with such uncharacteristic intensity.”

“I…,” Puck babbles. “I…”