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I writhe on the ground, my naked limbs falling widely apart. The satyr clamps his hands around my thighs, spreading me open while his tongue lashes at my core, stroking the private crest rising from the thatch of hair. With each teasing lick, the peak swells. It pulses, aches. It scales higher, higher—an excruciating crawl to an unreachable summit.

Thankfully, my companion’s weary of drawing blood. Experience has taught him which angles will prevent his antlers from clipping my skin.

Puck hums into my walls, open and wet for him. He laps up the moisture, his mouth pulling tremors out of me. My cries shred through the wild. At one point, this forces him to cover my lips with his palm.

I whine and groan into his hand, my hips bucking, demanding. He makes an appreciative noise against my center. His tongue rides up the drenched slit, then lunges inside me in a devastating sequence of pumps.

I had assumed it would feel similar to when I’d used my fingers, or perhaps when his length had filled me. But his tongue is different. So defiantly different.

It’s utter chaos. I grapple for leverage—the grass, tree roots, his scalp. Finally, I go still and stifle my breath, which allows me to feel his ministrations even more.

He strays again, strapping his lips around that sensitive little bud and sucking. And even his hand can’t block the cacophony, an unearthly climax tearing me in half. I break down, calling out like a wild creature.

***

When the stress threatens to puncture a hole in my head, he finds me hunched into a ball at my camp. Crouching before me, Puck unfurls my limbs and extends a hand. “Come with me.”

In a pasture, he challenges me and Cypress to an archery contest. Blackbirds with iridescent beaks swing through the branches. Squirrels shrink to the size of pinecones and nest up there, munching on nuts.

The satyr, centaur, and I line up—their longbows versus my crossbow. We loose our weapons. Puck wins the first round. By the next bout, my joints have relaxed, as well as my aim. I focus on the markers engraved into the tree trunks and claim the following round. Then Cypress outshines us both, striking true for the final three stretches.

My sisters accuse me of being a sore loser. But I don’t feel that way at the moment. Tonight, I’m simply content to let it fly.

As far as appearances go, it’s a fine ploy. The contest engages the Solitaries who gather on the fringes to watch. The exposure distracts them from keeping a closer eye on us.

Cypress pretends to store his arrows in his quiver. Only the centaur notices me mouthing covertly to Puck,Thank you. Only the centaur notices the confidential—and intimate—nod Puck gives me. Only the centaur turns away, doing so abruptly.

And so, I’m only the one who notices the bob of Cypress’s throat and his fixed grip on his weapon.

***

Puck takes me to The Clan of Badgers, excited about introducing me to “all the nocturnal badgery.” They live in an expanse of hickory trees. As always, a nimbus of candlelight pours onto the shaggy trunks and broadleaves.

As we watch the critters digging for supper, I gawk at their honeydew-colored tails.

One of the badgers shifts to the size of a pony and trots up to us. It rolls on the ground and makes itself comfortable, and Puck ruffles its fluffy tail.

I find courage to do the same, smiling as the animal wiggles against my touch. All the while, I feel the satyr’s attention on me.

After the badger scampers away, Puck and I exchange tidbits about the creatures, the characteristics and habitats from his land and mine, the things we’d known and hadn’t known.

“I rescued a badger once,” I tell him. “The little one had been so dehydrated, I’d had to feed it every two hours for days.”

I hadn’t let it show in front of my sisters, but I was terrified the cub wouldn’t survive.

“But it did,” Puck predicts.

I glance sideways at him. “It did.”

***

I race from his grasp, dashing through the trees with my blouse unbuttoned, my hair untethered, and my skirt flying around my limbs. He chases me through dew-covered foliage, condensation spattering with our movements.

When a scream resonates through the wild, we halt and listen. Puck and I stare at one another as the cavernous yip travels from the west.

We smirk and blurt out in unison, “Foxes.”

***