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He prattles whenever he’s unsure of himself. “If you’re so busy, where are the rest of your clothes?” I ask.

“I lost them.”

A laugh bursts from me. “You’re impossible.”

“If I am, that makes the payoff more enticing. Don’t you think?”

“And you’re conceited.”

“And that makes my redemption more engrossing. Don’t you agree?”

My mirth disintegrates as abruptly as the music had. “I don’t know what I think or agree with anymore.”

Puck’s voice thickens. “Neither do I.”

Those offenses had just come out, my confession and his reply. I’m no longer surprised by this. Moreover, I’ll have won or failed come eventide. I don’t have a name for this culmination of emotions. It’s a hodgepodge of terror, guilt, rage, desperation, resignation, hope, despair, frustration, incompetence, and resistance.

It’s Puck’s fault and the Faeries’ fault. It’s also my fault for being inadequate to the tasks thus far.

Still, I’ve never failed my family and won’t allow myself to. But what am I overlooking? Where’s the missing link?

“What did you mean, when you asked what I feel about the Fables?” I inquire.

Bracing the cello against the stump, Puck rises and saunters toward me. “You know what I meant. Back in The Wicked Pines, you were right about valuing the words of others, even though they don’t come from oneself. I hadn’t thought about it that way, but while I endorse the occasional quote, I want to know what you think. While I value what you think, I want to know what you feel.”

I force myself to remain still. “This change of heart is awfully sudden.”

Puck halts, looming over me like an oak tree—an enigmatic, imposing figure. “I would say it’s nine years in the making.”

“What brought this on?”

“You did, and I did, and we did.”

My pulse has neglected to calm down since I got here. His riddling words don’t help the matter. Me, and him, and us? So we’re both to blame? How did this change happen? When, exactly? What’s transpiring between us?

“Always analyzing. Always spoiling for explanations,” Puck says. “Always smart, perceptive, observant.”

“I know who and what I am,” I snap. “I don’t need you to appraise me.”

“I’m glad of it. But remember when I said hunt is a relative term? It can be translated in many ways. Such as this…” He steps forward, his smooth torso grazing my sweater. “The farther you run toward something, the farther you run from something else.”

“I should go.”

I step around Puck. He whirls with me, his digits brushing my elbow. I freeze long enough for him to shift and block my path. Supple leather accentuates his hips, the breeches slung indecently low. The waistband leaves little to the imagination, the slopes of a V peeking from the pants.

“I didn’t expose your hiding spot in the elms because I didn’t want you to lose. I was trying to figure out how to keep you in one piece before it was too late,” he says. “Tinder was there, and he couldn’t know I was playing both sides. Cypress is another story, but suffice it to say, I was a misbehaving ruler.

“When we combatted in the wild, all the way to The Fauna Timbers, I held back because I didn’t want to hurt you. Yet I prolonged the battle because I didn’t want it to end, because I wanted to be near you, because I wanted to know how good you were—and fuck, you were good. I drew it out because I wanted to see my world as you saw it, to discover it as you discovered it. I wanted to be close to you, no matter how torn I was. You broke me long ago, but I just couldn’t break you back.”

I’m speechless. The confessions bring me up short, as much as the ragged texture of his breath. The heat of him. The wafting nips of spices and evergreens. Regardless, I’ve had enough of this particular game, and it seems he has as well.

“In the pit, I used my hands instead of magic to fix your shoulder because I wanted to touch you,” he continues. “Later, I detailed the pleasures of touching yourself because I wanted it to be true for you. I wanted you to find that magic, to give yourself bliss. And selfishly, I wanted to be the reason you did it. I wanted my words thrusting inside you. I wanted to give you everything.” His eyes peg me in place. “So have you touched yourself yet?”

I shiver, because he knows. He doesn’t need to ask. “Yes.”

His teeth flash, as do his eyes. “How did it feel?”

Immaculate. Staggering. “Powerful,” I answer.