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For us, it’s the stage for yet another verbal duel.

I can hunt you while sitting beside you. I can hunt you while walking beside you.

Well. So can I.

We pause beneath the canopy. Under my breath, I promise him, “You’re not the only one hunting someone. Watch your back, satyr. I won’t make it easy for you.”

And he tosses back, “Now who says I expect it to be easy?”

And I fire back, “And who says I care what you expect?”

Because a mysterious, mystical animal isn’t the only target I’m after. I’m still hunting this satyr, the way he’s hunting me. That hasn’t changed. If he wants to bait me, I’ll turn his words against him.

Overhead, a current rustles the branches. Below, the water lashes over stones. Around us, willow roots claw deep into the earth.

The waistband of my leggings cinches as tight as his own clothing. His scent and heat mingle with my temper. Any moment, I’m going to shout. And I never shout.

At my response, Puck’s countenance breaks down before reinforcing itself. “She won’t make it easy, she says.” He gives that mock consideration. “Oh, but she never has.” Then he dips his head, his tenor a low scrape of sound. “When we combated in the woods, I knew what you were about, hunting me back, tit-for-bloody-tat. In fact, your skills were effortless. So effortless that I know this much: You won’t need to guess how to strike me down. You won’t need to analyze my weak spots to target me. You won’t even need to reach inside my head to penetrate those spots—because you’re already there. You’re there, taking up space in every corner. Every thought, every question, every grudge, every regret, every dream, every nightmare, every fantasy, every secret, every bad habit, every memory, and every fucking hope I have—it’s all you.

“There’s no point in me hiding, because there’s nothing of me you can’t access. There’s nothing you can’t take from me, except for one thing: my instincts.

“Awareness and action are two different skills, luv. That means you’ll never know how I’ll retaliate or what I’ll do next, no matter how much you burrow into my skull. You might think you can predict my moves, but your bolt will always be a moment too late. And that’s what it’s like to lose the hunt, huntress.That’swhat it’s like to be wrong.”

My tongue fails to produce sound. Yet my teeth grate—outrage, longing, and an unforgivable jolt of heat sizzling me to the core. I’m feverish and livid, hot and wistful and shaking.

Puck murmurs a vow of his own. “You won’t make it easy? Rest assured, neither will I.”

And he doesn’t. And I don’t.

As the days unfold, we stalk one another. It’s not about killing, and not only because we’re restricted here. As Puck had said, the term hunt is relative, so we bend the rules. Instead of bloodshed, hunting one another is about being caught off guard. It’s about traps and snares, each of us attempting to cage the other, to incapacitate or immobilize.

This keeps the game in motion. This also means getting creative.

Cunning Puck attempts that in spades, luring me by imitating foreign animal calls or baiting me with intellectual debates so that I’ll lose my defenses, so that I won’t see the net coming.

However, I do see it coming. Still, it’s a challenge not to give in, because he knows what will draw me.

I stash myself in a thicket and aim for his antlers, intending to pin him against a tree. He dodges my pursuit with agile limbs, slick as he pleases. I fashion snares from branches and nets from vines, and he sidesteps them while tut-tutting me.

The satyr hunts with the zeal of a loose cannon, putting his heart into it. Whereas I hunt with my head, vigilant of his strategies. We each make mistakes that cost us the catch. Nevertheless, we refuse to underestimate the other, and that makes for a robust hunt.

What would happen if this were a partnership? If we were a team with a common goal?

The equines don’t seem to mind my presence. Cypress has told them about my favor and his compensation. As for Puck, he’s ruler and can roost wherever he wants.

When we’re not hunting each other, we’re still aware of each other.

Sometimes Puck catches me staring. He does so without having to look my way, his mouth crooking across his astute profile.

Sometimes I catch him staring. And I stare right back until his pupils swell.

Sometimes I feel that gaze in my knees. Sometimes I hope my gaze has the same debilitating impact.

Sometimes I wonder what sort of hunt this truly is. Sometimes I contemplate his question about the Fables:What do they make you feel?

I begin paying new attention to him. Over the rim of my book, my attention migrates toward fragments I hadn’t noticed before. He makes Cypress laugh. He makes another male blush. He tends to his longbow beside the stream, oiling the yew while chatting with a female about the politics of distant Fae courts.

He plays with a foal. The centaur youth releases a whinnying giggle and bucks around him, the plaited cord of her chartreuse tail lashing about.