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However, a faun rummages through a cornucopia of fruits and extends a blushing orb sprouting florets instead of stems. Puck’s index finger wags covertly. While laughing with a group of brownies, he swings that digit back and forth along the edge of his goblet. I catch the pantomimed warning and politely decline the fruit.

The satyr and I continue this charade until I’ve ladened my plate with harmless options, and my neighbors have grown bored of testing my tastebuds. En masse, they dismiss my presence and rise to enjoy the music.

Cypress had vanished the moment Puck appeared by my side. Now I see the centaur has confined himself to his brethren. Every so often, he casts furtive glances between the satyr and me.

Meanwhile, Puck holds court with a group that eyes him like a succulent roast. A pretty male faun wiggles onto Puck’s lap. A female satyr with elk antlers tucks a lock of red behind Puck’s pointed ear, then pops a turquoise berry into his mouth.

He chews slowly, deliberately, while looking at me. The rotations of his mouth have a palpable effect, reaching across the divide to probe my inner flesh. I squirm, but the friction doesn’t help.

Another berry goes into Puck’s mouth. This time, the floozy, female satyr dabs juice from the crook of his lips.

I snatch my fork and spear the flaky crust of a pie. Steam blasts from vents, and the crust crumbles to reveal a whole lemon inside. A river of butter and sugar drains from the pie, then dissolves on my palate as I slip the fork into my mouth. I feel his attention, his gaze on the tip of my tongue, where the sharpness of citrus and sweetness of sugar blend together.

My chest pumps. I flit my gaze to where Puck lounges, one arm slung across the table, his fingers suffocating the stem of a goblet.

He stares, watches, waits for more. The faun and female satyr are gone.

The ghost of a smile threatens to expose me. I choose my fare wisely, savor it thoroughly.

My younger sister is skilled in the art of temptation. I’m not. Yet based on the heat of his gaze, the obsessive clutch of his fingers around the goblet, it doesn’t matter.

I refuse to bat my lashes, simper, or swoon. But I know how to eat.

When I sink my teeth into the crisp skin of a rabbit, syrup glaze dribbles at the corner of my mouth. I lick the remnants clean, wetting my lips. A glossy cherry is next, trembling on my tongue before I purse my mouth around it and bite.

The bonfire thrashes. It flings orange hues across the glade.

I don’t have to look. I know the weight of those eyes, the slashes of white and black lining them. I know his breathing has quickened. I know he’s coming close to snapping that goblet in half.

I know he got his leg caught in a mortal trap when he was a child. I know he did it to rescue a deer.

I know he has a soft spot for baby boars and a camaraderie with foxes.

I know he plays with centaur foals and makes them giggle. I know his best friend is a centaur, too.

I know he plays the cello because the skill is hands-on, earned instead of inherited by magic. I know the music reminds him of roots—immersive, resilient, and profound. I know he plays with his eyes clenched shut.

I know he wants to know what I think, rather than what I can recite. I know he wants more from me, all of me, every inch of me.

I know he’s vicious. I know more than that, better than that. I know it now.

By the time I pluck a nectarine slice swimming in cream from a bowl, I detect a goblet turning over, liquid splashing onto the table. Despite the boisterous music, I hear this.

A huntress knows the sound of her prey.

Because yes, I’m still hunting him. Because like he’d said, hunt is a relative term.

I swallow the cream, vanilla spilling down my throat. I catch his entertained expression, a proper reaction from a sordid Fae, which won’t alert anyone. For all they know, he’s attempting to intimidate me while I eat, to make me blush for his own gratification. But the covert drag of his thumb across the rim of his drinking vessel says otherwise.

This is perilous. However subtle, we’re playing a terrible game in plain sight.

I turn away and finish the rest of my meal.

The Middle Moon bleeds pearlescent light into the glade. Platters and cutlery flash along the banquet table. Candles bloom from the trees.

It’s midnight.

My pulse hammers. Puck gives me an imperceptible nod, anticipating whatever I have in mind. With that, he rises, and the music halts.