Page 122

Tinder snatches throwing stars from the harness at his thigh. His marten tail flits, and his orange eyes gleam with several fluctuating emotions—hurt, betrayal, disillusionment—as he aims for the satyr.

“Puck!” I shriek.

Hooves pound, a massive equine body storming into the scene. With a deafening roar, Cypress smashes his way through the quagmire, his livid features strung tightly. He nocks his longbow, the arrow plumes glowing. Tinder swivels and casts himself evasively to the ground before he can throw the first star, so that Cypress’s weapon misses the youth’s leg.

The brownies have scattered, taking shelter in the bushes. The centaur bucks his hindquarters, punching a dryad in the chest.

Damnation! I scout the area for something, anything to help the equine and satyr. Then I freeze, the tip of an arrowhead nipping at my ribs.

“Care to give up?” Foxglove says, targeting my side while regarding Puck.

The satyr goes still, his chest puffing. Cypress falters, enabling a trio of leprechauns to confiscate his bow and harness him in restraints.

Puck’s expression contorts. He catches my eye, his fists on the brink of causing mayhem.

The intensity of a satyr’s devotion will be intrinsic, as heightened as their senses. Therefore, they shall be prone to rashness and mishaps. That will render them vulnerable.

Covertly, I shake my head. Puck hesitates, then lowers his archery and sneers, “My, my, my. I do fancy surprises, but this is a tad overdone.”

“Is it?” the nymph questions. “Funny you would say that, considering everything that’s occurred since The Wild Peak. We began to sense a certain trend between rulers and humans.”

My gaze jumps between them. What is she talking about?

“I was merely having fun with the scholarly huntress,” Puck deflects. “What can I say? I have a thing for reading spectacles.”

“Nice try.” The female arches a brow, a gradient of yellows and greens dusting her upper eyelids. “Tragically, though, we’ve realized how much fun you’ve been having with this human.”

She uses the arrow to pat my backside. Somewhere within me must dwell a bit of Lark’s moxie. Either that, or I’ve had enough.

My fist flies, ramming into the Fae’s perfect cheekbone. Her head cracks sideways. She hisses and rights herself, backhanding me across the face so hard my body staggers and hits the grass.

Puck roars and surges toward me, but a troop of satyrs and fauns shackle his arms. One of the fauns uses a staff, delivering a blow to the back of Puck’s thighs. Cypress growls, struggling against his restraints as Puck’s knees slam into the ground.

“Stop!” I scream. The nymph’s foot lands on my profile, shoving my face into the dirt until I’m gagging. I hack and wriggle, wads of soil clotting my mouth. Any more of this, and she’ll cut off my oxygen supply.

The Faeries grab Puck’s hair by the roots and jerk him upright, forcing him to watch. The nymph’s weight bears down on me while I paw and scratch at her limbs. As long as she’s not fully inside the ring, it can’t trap her. I grapple for her calves, hoping to either free myself or yank her into this snare with me, but her limbs have been molded from marble. She’s too strong for me.

“Yes, I’m sure your prick was having fun,” she tells Puck, indifferent to my scraping fingernails. “With your prowess, I imagine she was an enthusiastic conquest—a little human pleasure toy—and who can fault you there? However, you left out the part where this dalliance evolved. We’re concerned your heart has gotten carried away. Poor timing, gorgeous.”

“You can’t rig the game like this,” I cough out. “We made a bargain.”

“You were still given the time you asked for,” Tinder assures me, falling in line with Foxglove. “You just didn’t make use of it.”

Fables curse them! They glamoured me into this ring, where I slept through my deadline.

Except… Unfortunately for these lots, they’re not the only culture skilled in twisting their words. I remember the phrasing of my deal, the verbiage I’d painstakingly strung together for the feast. “I didn’t sleep through my time,” I expel into the dirt. “At the feast, I asked for a week of my life—mylife,” I stress. “Not yours or anyone else’s.”

Three days had passed before I’d stumbled into this ring, and while three weeks might have lapsed for them, it has only been an additional three days for me. That means I have one day left.

A scheming grin wreathes across Puck’s face. Cypress quits struggling. Tinder blinks, and Foxglove’s foot eases from my profile. Anger crinkles the Faeries’ features as they process this error.

“Fine,” the nymph grumbles. “We’ll wait it out. As for Puck, he can join you in the nest.”

“Clever, indeed,” Puck compliments, because the consequences of entering a Fae ring aren’t exclusive to humans. It impacts the Folk as well, which is a crafty way for them to punish or trick one another.

“And what if I refuse?” the satyr asks.

Foxglove releases my face, so that I flop onto my back and suck up air. Calmly, she aims the bow at my heart. “Ask me that again,” she dares him. “I promise, I’ll have an answer for you.”