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And he knows not to mistake me for an amateur. Because I also know what he’s doing and why he’s doing it. I know when my quarry is aware of my presence.

This target wants to be found.

I step lightly, picking through the dense woodland. I squat behind plump bushes and spidery brambles. I peer through outcroppings and monitor his progress.

He halts in a single beam of Middle Moon light, the spectral glint perching on his shoulders. A breeze rustles the wanton red of his hair. When his head slants a fraction, I imagine that evocative smirk. He knows, that I know, that he knows. Because I’m not the only one hunting.

He keeps going, and I keep following. From leagues behind us, music tapers through the wilderness—the languid strumming and deft plucking of strings. Sounds of the revels pursue us from The Bonfire Glade until those disappear as well.

Fronds and fern trees recede, the landscape unspooling into a compact dell of fruit trees. Branch candles temper to a dim glow in this area. The chief source of illumination comes from the orbs huddled between the leaves—some type of strawberry-shaped Fae fruit, the flesh golden and glittering. They leak warm, gilded shadows onto the ground.

Basil mingles with a candied fragrance wafting from the fruits. Untamed overgrowth surrounds us, with a small oval bed of grass in the center.

I step over a patch of basil, then stop. He’s gone. Yet he’s here.

I twist and flatten myself against a trunk. A ridiculous thrill eddies through me, my mouth lifting. I tuck a lock of hair behind my ear and listen.

Then it really begins. When I hear those hooves, I duck into the nearest shrub. When the satyr hears me, he bounds from one shadow to the next. When he does that, I crawl into a neighboring hedge.

This would be much easier in leggings. A few times, the leaf skirt snags on twigs until I learn to maneuver with the garment. It’s a minor inconvenience. The material camouflages my lower half, the antler band splays from my head, and this midnight escapade sets my heart to pounding.

I’ve hunted to do harm. I’ve hunted to rescue.

I’ve hunted to live. I’ve hunted to save a life.

But I’ve never hunted my own desires.

I’m a mortal, stalking a Fae. I’m a wild one, an earthen creature on the prowl.

We’ve broken the rules of this sacred evening. Only the fauna are allowed to ramble tonight. Yet here we are, hoping they’ll forgive us, pardon our intrusion.

Regardless, I find no traces of animals. No eyes glowing in the muted light, nor agitations in the foliage. No thunk of paws or scratch of talons. The dell is quiet, secluded.

A scintillating ripple of fear tracks down my vertebrae. It’s nothing short of magnetic, this pursuit. Our outlines skate around each other, moving in tandem to one another. His slick figure prances from corner to corner. I spring from recess to recess.

Like the fauna, he moves instinctively. Also like the fauna, I move systematically.

He aims, and I target. And we strike true, finding our mark.

When I maneuver from the dark to snare him, he leaps from the light to catch me. We collide in that oval, in that tiny heart of grass. Encompassed by herbs and several fallen fruit, we grapple for balance, his hands gripping my waist, my fingers clinging to his hips.

“Gotcha,” we pant at the same time.

The word punches out of us, exhilarated, effervescent. For the first time, I hear the smoke of my voice as it mingles with his sultry tenor. Our chests heave, my pulse thrusting against his. My eyes stagger into a set of irises gleaming with every shade of soil.

Puck. My Puck.

Mine for tonight.

We inhale, exhale. And then we chuckle, breathless, delirious.

But the mirth ebbs. In his pupils, I think my own eyes reflect every shade of tree. He dips his head to marvel at my features—my ears, my chin, my mouth. His attention is restless, riveted.

So is mine. From the streaks lining his eyelashes, to the white freckles dotting his nose, to the crook of his lips. This close, I discover a chip in one of his antlers, then gaze at the iron scars on his furred calf.

As my throat bobs, his thumb traces the movement. My eyes drift closed, and my breath quickens, compromised by that touch.

My digits press into the leather breeches hugging his solid hips. Puck hisses, and my eyes flare open just as his clench shut. The sound and sight of him like this probes a tender, palpitating spot between my legs.