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“Hmm,” Puck muses. “Lucky you, immortals are patient.” He drags his mouth across mine and murmurs, “And I’m not going anywhere.”

I sigh into him. “What are we doing?”

“We’re becoming partners,” he negotiates, plastering me to him. “What say you?”

He means it. And because he means it, I pull back. “How?”

“So we’ve progressed from a list of sexual positions to a list of contingency plans, have we? You would think between my satyrness and your smartyness, the solution would be a given. Did you think I was going to give up on you once we left this dell? Not an option.” His voice flattens, and he slants his knuckles across my chin. “We’ll find a way.”

I think of Cypress’s first warning.If such a connection were to blossom, he would act with his heart before his head.

I think of Cypress’s second warning.We Faeries see many things.

But I also think of what this could mean, what Puck and I might be capable of together. Then I deliberate beyond that. Even if I win, the Faeries will go after another innocent human, and another, and another. This strife will never end unless we find another way.

I shift closer, so that our limbs tangle. “That’s a deal I’m willing to make.”

27

We become a secret. With urgency, we throw ourselves into it, spurning the rules and consuming every window of opportunity afforded to us.

On the pretense of being an impersonal ruler, Puck designates a campsite for me, located near a warren of rabbits and a field of juniper trees. “Wise guy,” I say while admiring the area.

“Hey now,” he defends. “I have no idea what you’re talking about. The trees were here first.”

He’d wanted to give me a vacant cabin, but such comforts would have been seen as preferential. He may reign over his woodland kin, but he can’t control what they think or how they act. Nor would he be expected to try. If we want to protect our bond, he needs to play out this role.

Nevertheless, Puck declares any intervention upon my camp prohibited. With the hunt over and my bargain set, nefarious acts would flout those terms anyway. But Puck doesn’t take chances, and neither do I. One never knows if a bored leprechaun or faun will be in the mood to bait or glamour me.

As an extra precaution, Puck beseeches Sylvan for her help. He hadn’t been sure if she would, but the doe honors me by obliging, bedding down in the vicinity. With her there, Faeries are even less likely to seek me out for a prank.

Cypress delivers my archery and supply pack from The Heart of Willows, along with the scribe’s tome. I keep to the camp half of the time, researching the Fables and comparing my notes to the scribe’s. After discovering the hidden message, I read with fresh eyes, foraging for additional clues—camouflaged notes, coded trails, or anything I hadn’t seen before. I read between the lines and anthologize whatever comes to mind, whatever does or doesn’t add up. I pace and babble to myself, trying to connect the evasive dots. I pull off my spectacles and scrub the fatigue from my eyes.

Meanwhile, the satyr does his own reconnaissance. He revisits the history of his people and charms his kin into telling their tales, their memories of centuries past. He searches for a loophole, a way for us both to win this game.

The other half of the time, we meet in private. As archers and hunters, Puck and I follow one important rule: We cover our tracks. In a vast weald populated by Faeries, we rendezvous in various spots, never meeting in the same area twice.

We walk that perilous line with care, designating halfway points and venturing to them on the cusp of dusk, after we’ve rested but before his kin awaken. Though, sometimes we reunite in broad daylight, with none but the animals to bear witness.

Whenever we reunite, we compare and debate notes. Then we formulate further theories and possibilities…

Well. This isn’t precisely the first thing we do.

***

I step into a shrouded glen. He’s already there, his back facing me, his frame clad in olive leather pants and a tight, matching shirt that clings to his physique. He’s so robust, the fabric threatens to rip at the seams, or perhaps that’s due to the tension in his arms.

We’ll talk first, I tell myself. Of course, we’ll get to the critical things first. They take priority. Naturally, they do.

He whirls when I enter the space. The instant we spot each other, my skin flares, and his eyes glow. He shakes his head and growls, “Fuck it.”

Puck and I drop our bows and pounce.

Ten minutes later, my thighs shake like jelly around his head. His red hair burns brightly between my legs, his antlers perilously close to poking my navel if I don’t calm down.

However, I can’t calm down. I can barely think in a straight line, barely recite the alphabet.

My leggings have been peeled off and chucked to the grass, along with my ankle boots and undergarments. My sweater drapes over my belly, the only thing concealing my tattoo.