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Fables eternal. I…I…

I’m not sure what we’re talking about anymore, whether it’s the proper definition of intimacy or a new kind, one that brushes my thighs and nudges them apart. His is the type of mouth that makes lovers plead for things they hadn’t expected, entreaties such asFasterandPlease.

“I gather you don’t care for satyr-centric Fables, then,” Puck continues. “You know…” He cups his mouth and whispers conspiratorially, “…the smutty ones.”

I lift my gaze to his, my eyebrows slamming together. “Is that supposed to be uproarious?”

“Are you laughing uproariously?”

Never mind. “As to the matter of physical appetites, I assure you, there’s a disparity between what satyrs like and what I like.”

At least, there must be. Inexperienced as I am, I’m certain his tastes would scarcely align with my own.

Puck’s timbre seeps into my pores. “How lucky for me to be in the presence of such knowledge. Someday, I’ll have to pick your brain, insist that you elaborate on that disparity, seeing as you know so much about it.”

In my periphery, the female’s shadow arches off the ground, her rhythmic bleats intensifying while the males warble in Faeish. They all sound as if they’re being pushed through a sieve, coarse and fragmented.

Pressure toughens in my navel. A savory flavor builds on my tongue, and my pulse leaps with restlessness. Yet I’m unsure if the candid scene is to blame, or if it’s the satyr in front of me causing such havoc.

“I know what you’re thinking, luv,” Puck murmurs. “You know that I know, and I know that you know. But what are you feeling? Shame? Repugnance? Or something else? What might that something else be, hmm? Delicacy? Confusion?”

“You don’t know me. And why are we tarrying here? This is—” I wave in the group’s general direction, “—is none of our business.”

“You’re in Faerie,” he says, as if that explains everything.

And I suppose it does when it comes to this region. Woodland Faeries exploit their sexual escapades. Amongst their kind, they consider exhibition and observation an enticement, not a trespass.

Puck’s right. If this group catches me, they’ll simply keep doing what they’re doing. They might do it more thoroughly, for shock value.

Though, they don’t need to test my resilience or endurance. Puck’s already accomplishing that. I turn, ready to flay him with a comeback—but he’s disappeared. Relief and frustration clash as I evacuate the scene, abandoning the moans and stalking along the path. I glance left and right, following the candlelight spilling onto the route.

Puck pops out from a sapling. “Now you see him.”

I skitter back as he evanesces again. A few steps farther, and he peeks around a tree. “Now you don’t.” Once more, he vaporizes.

I’ve played hide-and-seek with my sisters, but this is far less innocent. I glare, yet for some reason, the sensation of being watched, of being tracked, trickles down my vertebrae. I traverse the passage, listening for his weight and the faintest break in nature.

When I reach the setting where the debauchery had taken place, I halt at the grove’s threshold and scan the area. Puck’s silhouette swings into view. I withhold a yelp, validated when I stand my ground.

In the firelight, he grins. “So you play games, after all.”

That wasn’t a game. That was flamboyance.

I plop my fists on my hips. “You enjoy being a character. One might say you rely on hijinks, clever turns of phrases, and words, words, words to make yourself essential to a scene. I wonder what would happen if you didn’t try so hard and actually kept your mouth closed for more than three minutes.”

Puck stares at me. A flash of resentment slices through his pupils. Or it might be intrigue.

He walks backward while bobbing a finger, luring me into the hollow. Though the prospect of entering this den makes me cringe, I step inside and survey the location, once filled to the brim with nudity and music.

Two chalices stand on a tripod table, red liquid quivering inside the basins. A single chair perches beside the table, as though Puck had known I’d prefer to stand. He takes his time sauntering to the refreshments. Lifting one of the cups to his mouth, he drinks while studying me.

Lowering the chalice, he swipes his tongue across his lips. “There,” he announces. “I counted four minutes without me saying a word. I must confess, I’ve impressed myself. This calls for a celebration. Care for a drink, luv? It’ll relax your tight muscles.”

I cross my arms, the cherry red bodice straining across my chest. “I want my clothes back.”

Puck sighs and drops into the chair. “So many demands from a mortal.”

“And I want my weapons back. And my supply pack, for that matter.”