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Hundreds of guests await their ruler’s response. Puck skims his audience and tosses up his hands, “Why the fuck not?”

Other than Foxglove and Tinder, a chorus of elation surges through the glade. My proposition excites them, catering to their sportive nature. Cypress lifts his brow, impressed.

Amidst the hoopla, Puck gives me a wry bow. To them, it’s mockery and perhaps pity. To me, it’s an alliance.

Under my skirt, my knees threaten to give out.

The Middle Moon Feast continues. Again, Cypress’s gaze clicks between Puck and me, monitoring us.

A brawny leprechaun elbows me, saying, “A fine hunt you were, lass.”

A nymph fluffs my hair as she passes, then winks.

A disgruntled brownie clears my plate.

I approach the bonfire while a pair of devilish eyes trail my movements. Coronas of orange warm my leaf skirt and unshod toes. I’m unafraid of the flames, although my captors had initially meant to toss me inside the blaze. I have plenty of other things to fear. There’s no room left for more.

I welcome the heat. I crane back my head, spread my arms, and let it seep inside. Among my enemies, I do this.

Perhaps because of that, because I don’t act timid, they leave me alone. My tears might have delighted them, but my rapture has the same influence. They like when this world seduces mortals, whether or not by enchantment.

When my head lowers, he’s there. Across the bonfire, he’s there still watching, still waiting.

My loose hair tickles my clavicles. My skirt brushes my thighs.

The Faeries flirt with each other in low tones, or dare one another to do daring things, or reminisce about their favorite fauna. I hear them express awe for bears, admiration for foxes, affection for rabbits.

Outside this glade, the animals roam. Outside this glade is where I want to be.

I’m not alone in this. Puck might dress the part of a ruler, but the role will never suit him. Not because he isn’t strong or smart enough, nor devoted enough. I’ve learned how much he loves this world. But this satyr belongs to the branches and roots. He belongs to the does, hinds, and stags. He belongs to the earth.

He’s the soil. I’m the fire.

We Faeries see many things.

But they don’t see. Not right now. Not this evening. They’re too giddy, too drunk, too self-absorbed, too tempted by others to see. They’ve stolen into their own lusty corners. They’ve set their sights on other diversions.

And I’m done with rationalizing, done with thinking. For tonight, I’m so very done.

Puck is, too.

We belong away from here, in a place where they can’t find us. We belong in a corner where we can strip ourselves bare, down to the flesh. We belong naked in the grass, his body on top of mine, his body filling mine.

I want that. I want this.

Which is why he turns, saunters through the archway, and exits the glade. Which is why I follow him.

And so it begins—a forbidden type of hunt.

25

I wait the appropriate amount of time. Then I wait for the optimal moment when the sloppy Faeries start singing about their fauna, getting lost in themselves and the Middle Moon. After that, I exit through a slot of fronds.

It doesn’t take long to catch sight of him. The satyr detours off the main path and weaves through shadows. His black silhouette slips in and out of shrubbery, the ferns tapping his arms. He blends into the wild until all that’s visible are the sharp bones of his antlers—a Solitary stag of the weald.

Yet he’s left an evident trail.

I know how this Fae moves. I know how he struts across this land. I know how the foliage bends around him. I know the depth and size of his hoof prints. I know the patterns of his tracks and the pace of his swagger.