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His features ignite and darken all at once. Then he moves toward me.

18

The satyr gets on all fours and crawls across the grass, as he’d done when first approaching me hours ago. He stalks my way like a feline, his eyes fastening on to me.

I press myself into the trunk. Yet my limbs spread on reflex, permitting him entrance. The heady aromas of cloves and pine assault my senses, and his nostrils flare, inhaling whatever fragrance drifts from my clothing.

The Fae sidles into the vent of my pitched thighs and pauses. His breath coasts across my jaw, his visage inches from mine. He’s wide and solid, all roguish leathers and provocative red hair.

Maidens would call him sexy. I would call him irritating, maddening.

He entices, “You told me what the Fables have taught you, what they’ve made you think. But what do they make you feel?”

“How do you mean?” I query.

“What do they make you feel?” The satyr leans forward, his head slanting toward my earlobe. “Delirious?” he whispers in one ear. “Blissful?” he whispers in the other.

I shiver. That voice sinks into a wretched, secret place tucked between my thighs. Each word coaxes that spot like a crooked finger, beckoning me to respond.

My pulse speeds up, smashing against my neck. When his mouth parts a fraction, my own lips ache.

It takes a phenomenal amount of resilience to pull myself from the haze. “Why haven’t you been hunting me since The Passel of Boars? Why aren’t you hunting me now?”

Puck tips his head. “Can’t a satyr take a break? Rest his hooves? Unwind his antlers?”

“No. No. And no.”

“Then how about this: Hunt is a relative term,” the Fae intones, his fingernails digging into the grass as if locating its pressure points. “I can hunt you while sitting beside you. I can hunt you while walking beside you. I can hunt you from behind.” He smiles. “Or in front.”

“You can’t strike me down in neutral terrain.”

“Now who said anything about striking anyone down?”

As the riddling satyr pulls back, air gushes into my lungs. I glare while he rises to his hooves and crosses to the willow vines. Before he leaves, Puck clips his chin toward the Book of Fables. “Don’t lose your spot.”

The bastard struts off, callous and unruffled. I remain tacked to the tree, everything he’d said conspiring to burn several holes in my head.

At last, I break from my paralysis, get up, and march after him. Or rather, first I use a leaf to mark the page where I’d left off, then close the book and set it on the grass. AndthenI march after him.

My arms flay to the sides, batting the willow vines out of my way. I stride through, and with each step, I get my bearings. My laces snap around my ankles. Sometimes while hunting, I can tell the mood of my quarry based on its prints—hasty, frightened, or playful. As my boot soles punch the ground, I predict an aggravated trail branding the foundation behind me.

I find Puck sauntering across an arched bridge embroidered in willow leaves. Actually, not embroidered. One of the centaurs has crafted the bridge out of the foliage, a feat that would be unachievable in my world.

Fables curse these knaves and their liberties. Their arrogance. Their superiority. Their entitlement. Their smugness. Their belief that magic makes them better than we are—more empowered. Their inclination to have the last word, walk away, and assume the conversation is done.

It’s not done. Not until I’ve had my turn.

The sun will rise shortly. Until then, the only illumination comes from a few remaining stars, candles lining the walkways, and the creek’s reflective surface, eddying beneath the overpass. The centaurs are still sleeping inside their willow-strewn homes, the residences scattered across the pastures.

Is it possible to speak quietly in Puck’s presence? Is it, when every unstable thing inside me has been making a racket since I met him?

I plant myself on one end of the bridge and speak to his retreating back. “Hey.”

That’s all. I haven’t begun, haven’t retaliated, haven’t given my counter argument. Yet Puck halts at the opposite end. His vest contorts, toned muscles flexing beneath the leather, as if I’ve already given a full, destructive speech.

Turning on his hooves, he stalks my way. I pursue the bridge’s center, swinging my arms as I walk, the planks cracking under my boots. A willow tree fans out above, its boughs forming a parasol of vines. In storybooks, this would be the ideal setting for romance.

A first touch. A first kiss. A confession. An embrace.