“Three times,” Splice corrected dryly.
Mycor chuckled, the sound like summer thunder rolling through deep, rich soil. The corners of his mouth curved again, and something fierce and golden clenched in Goldie’s chest.
Still catching her breath, she reached back until her fingers found Splice’s. He laced their hands together without hesitation.
Her other hand sought the Thornfather’s vast palm. She found it waiting, warm and steady. His fingers curled gently around hers like roots embracing earth.
“Pretty great sex, wasn’t it?” she whispered, voice still ragged with wonder, a crooked grin tugging at her lips.
Splice huffed a low laugh and kissed the damp crown of her hair. “Yeah,” he murmured. “Pretty great.”
“Great and more,” the Thornfather rumbled, his voice contented and vast. “I would have you again.”
Goldie let out a strangled, exhausted laugh. “No! I mean—yes!But not right now. Gods, you two are going to kill me, aren’t you?”
Splice’s arm tightened around her. “Not today, dear one,” he said softly, voice rough with tenderness.
The Thornfather’s hand rose, cradling her cheek with reverence. “Rest now, golden flower. You are held.”
And she was, tucked between the god and the graft, wrapped in warmth and wonder, safe and sated in a tangle of roots and limbs and love. The Grove Core thrummed softly within her, around them, a lullaby of leaf and breath and pulse.
Chapter
Thirty-Six
The evening air carried the comforting scent of lilac from the small garden in front of Tamsin’s brownstone. This place, with its stained-glass windows depicting vines and old sigils, had always been a sanctuary for Goldie: the heart of her coven, a space of shared laughter, whispered secrets, and unwavering support.
She had left Splice and Mycor back at Greymarket Towers. Honestly, it had been endearing, the two of them trying to fuss over her. Mycor had very solemnly told her to wash in the pond, and Goldie had just as solemnly informed him in no uncertain terms that she was not about to rinse god-sex off her body in a magical koi pond. The pond itself had burbled in agreement, which somehow made the whole thing hilariously worse.
The ritual had worked, of a sort. Mycor was stronger and more animated than she had ever seen him, but fissures had started creeping back through him almost immediately, black seams sliding across bark that should have been whole.
Watching it hurt more than she wanted to admit.
When she’d slipped away to prepare for her meeting with Tamsin, Splice and Mycor were still deep in conversation—low-voiced, heads bent close, the god’s antlered crown dipping toward his creation like a priest hearing confession. The air between them shimmered faintly, warm and green, humming with that same quiet thread that now lived under Goldie’s skin as well.
As she reached the door, both looked up as one. The god’s eyes glowed slow and gold; Splice’s, sharper and darker, caught the light like polished bark. They’d smiled at her together, and she’d felt it echo through the bond full of a warmth that wasn’t only hers. It hit her like sunlight breaking through leaves: awe, hunger, and affection all braided together.
She smiled back, helplessly, her heart giving a happy little stutter that she could have sworn wasn’t only her own.
So weird.
Weird and hot.
Weird, hot… and now, apparently, hers.
The door swung open almost immediately when she knocked. Tamsin stood framed in the warm light of the entryway, a picture of serene authority. She wore a flowing caftan of brilliant rust, her silver hair coiled into an elegant knot. Her eyes, sharp and intelligent, held a genuine warmth that immediately eased the tension in Goldie’s shoulders.
"Goldie, darling," Tamsin said, her voice calm and melodic. "Come in, please."
She stepped back, holding the door wider.
Goldie offered a grateful, if weary, smile and stepped across the threshold. "I appreciate you seeing me. I know things are a mess at city hall right now."
Tamsin tutted. "It is, yes, but I try to leave city work at the office. Here, I am what’s most important to me: a witch, and one who hopes she can help you, dear."
She ushered Goldie into the parlor. The scent of sandalwood and beeswax hung in the air, a familiar comfort. A low firecrackled in the hearth, casting flickering shadows over the velvet armchairs and shelves groaning with books both scholarly and sacred.
"Sit, please. A glass of my quiet-mind wine? It seems appropriate for the occasion."
