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The bears grunt from their territory, the feral sounds indicating it’s time to go before they take the buck’s presence as an intrusion or a potential quarry. This similarity between my world and Puck’s fills me with reassurance. The fauna are mystical, but they retain territoriality and hierarchy here, equally resplendent and grisly.

The deer’s antlers blaze with flames in spite of the downpour. The animal’s towering height must account for how quickly it has reached us across the forest. It shifts, enabling us to mount. Once Puck settles behind me, securing his arms around my middle, the creature shudders back into its massive form. It grows tall enough to cover more leagues, yet small enough for us sit without tumbling off his sides.

I find myself hovering a considerable distance from the ground, nearly to the tops of the trees. Excitement flutters through me. The buck leaps into a gallop, causing the wind to buffet our hair as the animal surges forward. At this range, I have a clear prospect of the valley, with its assortment of candlelit trees and the mountain range pulsating with light beneath sheets of late afternoon rain.

I inhale Puck’s scent mixed with crisp precipitation and the deer’s wet fur. Its antlers are a vast fortress of bone, its crown a blazing torch. I’d like to whoop as Lark would or sigh as Cove would.

Instead, I marvel in silence. And perhaps I smile.

Puck rests his chin on my shoulder and identifies every landmark I point out. In this way, he gives me a tour from a panoramic perspective. Miles pass in a fraction of the time it would have taken to cross The Solitary Forest on foot, embarking from the southeast to the north.

On the way, we detour to retrieve my archery and pack from The Gang of Elks. At last, our trio arrives at The Herd of Deer just prior to evening. His log cabin glows from the inside, orange simmering from its womb. I savor the view, a familiar nostalgia stirring from within, akin to how I feel about my family’s house.

I can belong in two places, if I want to. But do I?

The deer shrinks, enabling us to dismount, then trots to the field where its kin reside. I grab fistfuls of my skirt and dash to the rear expanse. Hinds with waterfalls springing from their crowns nibble on vegetation. Stags with seedlings encrusting their antlers take shelter under broadleaf canopies.

A doe with shamrock antlers lounges beneath one of the oaks, a fresh bandage dressing her wound, likely provided by Puck or Cypress.

“Sylvan!” I sink to the grass and sling my arms around the deer. She nudges me with her muzzle, the affectionate gesture squeezing a place in my chest.

Puck kneels and cups Sylvan’s cheek. “There’s my favorite doe.” He glances around, then whispers to her, “Don’t go bragging about that.” He knocks his head my way. “Not like this overachiever.”

I smack his arm. We stay with her for a few minutes until I begin shivering. The doe is faring well, and the herd is with her.

Puck takes my hand. We run to the cabin, rain pelting us from a slanted angle. The fireplace kindles to life, puddles of gold filling the interior as we spill inside. My cloak is still hanging on the wall peg, where I’d left it the last time I was here. Cypress must have overlooked it when collecting my possessions.

Puck closes the door. My teeth clatter, and I unlace my boots while the satyr tracks up the stairs. He returns several heartbeats later with spare clothes, tossing me a small pile. “They’ll dwarf you, but they’re warm and smell like me.”

The rascal. He just can’t resist teasing, even when he’s serious. Puck moves without hesitation, unbuckling his vest and shrugging it off. I go still, immobile as the muscles carved into his torso contract, skin and sinew bathed in fiery hues. With the blaze as our only source of illumination, shadows and scorching light enhance his body. The tan nipples and taut ribcage, the square jaw and sopping red hair.

And lower. Fables eternal, he twists and drags his breeches down his limbs, his buttocks dimpled and flexing only inches from me. His spine curls, and beads of water slide down his frame, into the divots of his lower back.

And I. Can’t. Move.

True, I’ve seen him naked multiple times. I’ve felt that solid body against mine, thrusting into me.

And true, we’d kissed in the rain. And true, we as good as admitted we love each other.

But this is a new sort of intimacy. I don’t know how to proceed, and with Puck disrobed like this, he’s not making it any easier. I lack the faculties to pace myself, much less to pronounce a single, comprehensible word. Fables, there’s so much of him, all that soused, masculine flesh.

When he bends and steps into fresh pants dyed the color of cider, my nipples pit against my sweater. Of course, Puck chooses that moment to wheel toward me. His gaze drops to my chest, catching those nipples in the act. They’re so stiff, even the thickest wool clothing wouldn’t succeed in concealing them.

Puck’s eyes swell. His attention trails from the green hair plastered to my cheeks to my bare toes. I’m dripping all over his floor, clutching the garments he’s given me.

Inside, logs crackle and hiss. Outside, the storm batters the windows and roof.

We idle in the foyer, bordered by an open doorway. He grabs the overhead lintel with both hands and leans forward, knolls of muscle bunching across his arms. The position urges those pants to slump lower down his waist. Another pearl of water sizzles into the path of red sprigs descending between his pelvic bones.

Poised like this, he flaunts all that roguish splendor, emanating sexuality. I gawk. Then I scowl, my body humming with frustration. Dammit, he’s doing this on purpose.

“What are you hungry for?” Puck murmurs.

My eyes lurch from his mouth to those evil eyes. “Thirsty.”

His lips slant. Fondness, amusement, and something altogether wicked flit across his visage. He releases the lintel and juts his chin toward the living room while sauntering past me. “Make yourself at home, luv.”

Puck disappears into the kitchen, taking his scent and half-clad body with him. I hustle out of my clothes and into the dry ones. It’s a miracle he owns a textile other than leather in his wardrobe. The loose cotton vest falls to my knees. The pants sag around my frame, puddling at my ankles; I cuff them about four times before they suit my height.