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Later that day, the foal canters up to me while I’m reading. “You talk with a funny accent. Puck says you’re a human,” the little female reports, her eyes sparkling with curiosity. “I’m a filly. But someday, I will be a mare.”

I close the book. “My name’s Juniper.”

“Puck said that, too.”

“Did he now? What else did his snarky lordship tell you?”

The foal chortles and gallops off without answering.

The centaurs know what we’re doing and sometimes gather to observe Puck’s antics and my maneuvers. They’re a regal audience. Their presence makes sense. This is a game after all, widespread through The Solitary Forest.

In between these skirmishes, I keep my distance, marveling at them from afar. They converse in Faeish while stargazing. They frolic as woodland Faeries do. They race, flirt, prance, and guide lovers and mates into secluded spots. They’re promiscuous but less gaudy about it, unlike the debacle I’d witnessed in The Wicked Pines.

I try acclimating myself to the hours here. I attempt to sleep when the Fae sleep, to close my eyes when the sun rises, then open them as it sets. But while cloistered in my yurt, oftentimes I toss and turn in the furs. I worry about Papa Thorne and fret about my sisters.

The most annoying fits of restlessness come whenever I think about Puck.

Where is he sleeping in this place? What does he look like when he dreams? Does he breathe deeply or lightly? Does his heartbeat slow down?

What does he wear?

On a hiss, I mash my face into the pillow. I don’t care what he wears. I don’t care if he’s wondering the same things about me. Anyway, I doubt he is.

For all I know, he vacates the premises while the land slumbers. He leaves and finds a willing nymph or faun to mount. How long do satyrs last without such…recreations…before they succumb to their baser tendencies?

One day, I sneak out of my campsite to find out. Merely for confirmation, to knot this loose end. No other reason.

It doesn’t take long to hunt down his copse draped in willow vines. My feet swish through the grass. I nudge open the leaf curtain—and veer back, wrenching my head to the side and evading the provocative spread of his body.

Naked. That’s how he sleeps.

Oxygen blasts through my lungs, irregular, shaky. I wait, wait, wait. Then I take another peek, careful not to stray anywhere phallic.

Skin and sinew fill my vision. Puck rests on his back, spread out like a messy blanket. One leg is propped up, the other outstretched. One arm is slung over his chest, the other flopping to the side. Red waves cover half his face, trembling with every push of his breath.

A single, tan nipple puckers above the slab of his torso. From the well-defined abdomen, sprigs of crimson hair taper between his hips. Below that, his humanlike thighs transform into thatches of fur at the knees, his limbs ending in hooves.

The sight causes a disruption in the general order of things. My fingers tingle to the point of discomfort.

Fables have mercy. However tempting, I avoid craning my head to peer at the rest, at the masculine part of him concealed behind his upturned thigh.

The unconscious satyr groans and rolls over. The taut swells of his buttocks are as whipcord as the rest of him, fiendish divots flexing into the sides. This scene does something reprehensible to my pulse. I spring away and dash back to my yurt.

Belated shame creeps up on me. Puck hadn’t given me consent to ogle him like that, and I don’t consider myself a degenerate woodland Fae who would do so regardless.

Promptly, the insomnia gets worse. My body self-destructs, warming and aching in ways reminiscent of that time in The Skulk of Foxes, when his very words had penetrated my core.

The same physical sensations disturb me now. I envision the part of him I hadn’t allowed myself to see, imagining its girth, its stiffness.

My hand sinks low, lower still, seeking relief beneath my skirt. As my fingers comb through the damp hair between my legs, his utterances from the pit vibrate in my head—whispered intonations about touching oneself. I think about the depth of his voice, the things he’d described. I follow those words, my palm encasing the sensitive flesh hidden within my thighs. A tiny jolt streaks through me, which multiplies into embers when my wrist rubs that area, creating a tremulous friction.

The ripples cause my lips to part in a soundlessOh.

Lark had gushed to me about this, but…but it’s not…it’s nowhere near…

Wetness coats the inner and outer walls of my center. My digits explore, searching, skimming. They trace the entrance, then—dear Fables—slip inside. I gasp, and my body ignites, seeming to know what it needs, what it wants.

Unbidden, visions of Puck flood my mind. His mouth, moving. His breath, stirring. His face, sleeping. That expanse of skin covering muscle and sinew as he slumbered, the athletic buttocks and that limb blocking his lower body from me—the male shaft that would have been limp, exposed.