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I stall, recognizing the sound of a crossbow—one that belongs to me.

Not only that, but a draft pinches my nostrils with the intoxicating notes of cloves and pine. “My, my, my,” Puck says from behind. “You’ve been a naughty, naughty human.”

9

A set of earrings jingles, the chime shivering up my tailbone.

That cloven weight. That sly pace.

Eventually, I will learn his vagaries and predict his approach. I will practice this art until everything he does and says works against him—and to my benefit.

Until then, I have a problem. It has to do with the concept of proximity. The satyr’s body emits a wall of heat that cages me in. His shadow traps my own, consuming my small frame.

By shifting an inch, I extract myself from the trap. My own shadow maneuvers askance of his. I notice the weapon in his grip, its shape balancing the outline of a bolt.

My upper lip spasms into a snarl. “Give it back.”

Deadly silence. Then a pair of lips dip to my ear, his words coasting across the lobe. “Take it from me.”

My body reacts in an unpardonable way. A brush fire of anger across my jaw. A convulsion up my thighs and a hot rush between them. Hostility festers on my tongue, while another feral sensation contracts below my pelvis.

When the bolt’s tip skims the back of my neckline, my eyelids flutter, and my breasts press hard against the suede bodice. I don’t understand it. As long as I’m near him, I will never understand it.

I turn to face him. Clad in mahogany leathers, Puck stands alone, without an entourage or a loyal doe.

“Where’s your majestic companion?” I question.

Protectiveness hones his gaze. “Not that it’s your business, but Sylvan decides when to keep me company and when I can ride her. In other words, she’s not my familiar or my pet.”

“How dare you. I never said she was.”

“Good to know. Otherwise I would have taken it personally.”

So when he’d called Sylvan through the roots, it hadn’t been a command. It had been a plea.

Puck lowers the crossbow, the ridges of his arm slackening. The bolts’ iron tips have been eradicated, replaced by steel. Now only do I recall the bastard mentioning an alternative to his archery, but this is how he’s able to wield it without his power subsiding. He’s castrated my weaponry!

Rage tightens my stance. I glower at a set of features wrought from the pages of a storybook, from a cautionary tale about monsters that seduce and cajole, where one can’t tell the difference between a moan of pleasure and one of agony.

Those folklorish eyes twinkle with menace as they sketch my face. “Do you know what happens to mortals who pounce upon a Fae’s antlers?”

An anticipatory knot rolls down my throat. So he’s still vexed about my stunt after I’d jumped from that tree and landed on top of him. “The Fables say—”

He holds up a finger. “I’m not asking what they say. I’m asking if you know.”

“If I answer correctly—”

“Ah, ah, ah,” he husks. “Winning back your bow will take more than a paltry round of trivia.”

“How much more? Haven’t you done enough while holding it hostage?”

“You’re mad at me for repurposing your toy. I understand.” His pupils gleam. “Unfortunately for you, I don’t give a Fabled fuck.”

“I did what I had to do. That’s what this hunt is about, isn’t it? It’s called defending myself.”

“And this—” he points at his face, “—is called having a fit.”

What a prat. “You had me treed. I needed to ambush you.”