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Stella took one look, turned, and fled.

Silvester could have caught her immediately. Her legs were short, and his were long. But what was the fun of that? Especially when the chase left so much to be enjoyed.

Stella’s hair billowed behind her like a silk sheet, and when she turned to look at him over her shoulder, her freckles stood out like cinnamon sugar. Like something that needed licking. Kissing.

He loped after her, herding her to the end of the garden, until she dashed behind the gazebo.

Silvester strode around the structure, sword at the ready, peacefully ready to die.

Which was exactly what happened.

Stella had jumped up to stand on the edge of the gazebo floor, which protruded beyond the rails. When he rounded the corner, she poked him in the shoulder.

“You’re dead,” she whispered.

“Did you lose your voice due to shouting in Latin?”

Stella put a finger to her lips and pointed inside the gazebo. A boy was sprawled on his back, fast asleep, with an ancient bulldog draped over his stomach and Specs nestled in the shelter of his neck.

“That is adorable,” Silvester said, coming closer.

She frowned at him. “Don’t use that word. I loathe it.”

“Why?”

“Overused and misunderstood.” She dropped her sword to the grass and then sat down on the edge of the gazebo, putting her just at his eye level.

She was a little sweaty, and her hair appeared to have doubled in size: curls and waves billowed around her shoulders. Her freckles stood out as if they’d been gilded deeper gold by the sun.

“You’re dead,” Stella repeated, twinkling at him through her adorable spectacles. “We should return and inform the others that my army has triumphed.”

“I must pay obeisance to the winner first. I gather you will receive a crown of laurel, although I’m not sure about a purple, gold-embroidered toga.”

“Exactly. So—”

He swallowed her protest with his mouth, since her eyes were not protesting. Sure enough, she opened her lips and melted toward him. She tasted like grass and salt and Stella.

“Hell,” he muttered sometime later, his voice ragged. She had one arm around his neck, the other caressing his bare shoulder. He had stopped himself from groping her only by flattening his palms on the floorboards to either side of her. “I really did miss you in the last month.”

It was only because he was looking right into her eyes that he saw a flicker of . . . something. She pulled back. “Let me down, please.”

Instead he crowded closer, pushing her legs apart. “No. What did I say wrong this time? I missed you.”

“You didn’t miss me except as a chess partner,” she replied. “You left the city with Yasmin, remember? You might also remind yourself that I know you, Silvester.”

“What does that mean?”

“You’re not overly bothered by ethics when you want something. At this moment, I have allowed you to kiss me, against all prudence and common sense. You want me. So you’ll say anything to get what you want.”

Silvester froze. “That seems unnecessarily harsh.”

She tapped him on the chin with one finger. “But true. You cut corners, Silvester. You buy gold and then invoke the gold standard. You play games that you know how to win, whether in a scavenger hunt or in kissing me.”

“Are you a game? Because if you are, I don’t know how to win, Stella.”

“I suppose kissing is the game.” She didn’t seem to realize that one of her hands had returned to caressing his shoulder. “Which, by the way, you clearly know how to win.”

“I like this game,” Silvester said, grinning at her.