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I hate that he’s also sneering like I’m to blame for this garden, like I had any choice about what humans did to his kin.

I didn’t hurt them. It wasn’t me.

And I hate my tattoo. I hate that he’d condemn me more if he were to discover the marking. I hate that I would even care what he thinks, when it shouldn’t matter.

He. Does. Not. Matter.

“Such a tirade from such a reserved female,” Puck muses. “And don’t beat a dead horse by insisting I don’t know you. I have some history to fall back on, but even if I didn’t, your uptight attitude leaves little to the imagination.”

I draw on the arrow. “How clever to describe me without actually describing me.”

“I’m more interested in how you’d describe yourself.”

“Why would you be invested in that? I’m nothing but a toy to you.”

“And like any self-respecting Fae, I appraise the quality of my toys.” The satyr drags a pink tongue across his incisors. “I also tinker with my food before I eat it. Habit, you see. Why else would I have ignored your hiding spot in the elms while you played spy?”

He’d known I was hiding? Like the centaur, Puck had known I was there, eavesdropping?

“You’re supposed to be hunting me,” I say. “Are appraisal and concealment part of the rules?”

Puck steps back, the better to regard me. “You really can’t stand unanswered questions, can you? Don’t see the value in an open-ended thought?”

“Can’t bear to be trapped by facts?”

“Facts,” he scoffs. “Those pesky little buggers. Facts are relative.”

“I disagree.”

“Good,” the bastard says. “By the way, Iamhunting you.” He closes in once more, swinging the bow from side-to-side, in an exaggerated motion. “This is me, hunting you. And what are you doing? Protecting yourself? Yes, I’m aware of that. Except you’ve spent so much time running without actually doing any hunting of your own. You were tasked to track an untrackable animal.”

I broaden my stance. “Once I’m done with my current pest, I shall.”

A slow, conniving grin. “That’s the spirit, luv,” he condescends, strutting forward until the arrow grazes his leather vest. “So deal with me.”

That husky tone brings me up short. My gaze strays to the hard contours of his neck. Indeed, it’s a pleasant-looking neck. Too bad it’s attached to such an unpleasant face.

My weapon—his weapon—is primed to release. But Puck has disengaged, lowering the crossbow to his side.

I won’t shoot anyone like this. I won’t shoot if not to defend myself.

He knows this, so what’s his ploy this time? Why does he sound like he’s just consumed several pints of mulled wine? Why do I feel the heady rush of it?

Why is he looking at me like…that?

My erratic breathing rustles the neckline of my cloak. I swallow, then open my mouth to retort—and an oink peals through The Fauna Timbers. The rusty octave is familiar yet otherworldly, extending for what seems like miles. Puck and I swerve, the arrow and bolt poised toward the creature at our feet.

Peridot gem eyes. Triangular ears. Round snout. Four limbs. Straight tail.

It’s a baby boar. Short fuzz coats its pigmy body, streaked in brown and black. But the animal bears no tusks yet.

The satyr and I disarm in unison. The male shoat watches us, snorting inquisitively now that it’s got our attention.

My pulse slows, warmth rushing through me. Without preamble, I pitch to the ground, prop on bended knees, and marvel at the piglet’s peridot orbs.

“Hello, there,” I say. “Are you lost? Where did you come from?”

A masculine outline lowers itself beside me. “He must have strayed from his farrow in The Passel of Boars,” Puck says.