Splice leaned forward. “You strangle my god with paper and call it structure.”
The goblin lawyer licked his lips. “Even if you were to cede the land, the magical clause would remain intact. The transfer is not merely legal, it’s binding. That is the nature of a magical contingency. Irrevocable, although mutable. Given time. And—”his eyes flicked up warily, as though expecting vines to lash across the desk, “—through legal channels.”
Splice drew a slow breath through his nose. The urge to tear and storm and break burned hot in his chest, but he forced it down. They already eyed him like kudzu waiting to strangle their fine little office. Magical contingencies. Irrevocable, mutable—their words coiled like bindweed. Something meant to be broken, if only he could find the right blade.
His mind snagged on Goldie—the memory of her voice, brisk and bright, talking of digging through vaults and chasing history through dust and ink. It had been several days. Surely she had uncovered something by now.
The thought of her stilled something in him, just for a breath, the way sunlight stilled the restless tremor of leaves. He did not want to think about it. Did not want to name the comfort. But it was air in a stifling room, and it unsettled him almost as much as it steadied him.
He glanced at the tall window. Morning light slanted across the polished floor. He had come here before the office even opened. It was still early. She would still be home.
Splice straightened. “I wish to adjourn this meeting,” he said flatly. “You will be called when I am ready to discuss further.”
The lawyers blinked, mouths opening and closing like fish, then hurried to scoop their papers and retreat.
Alone, Splice rubbed a hand down his face, the vines along his neck twitching with restless agitation. Yes. He would go to her. She would help him break this clause, find the seam in the binding. Once the chain was severed, the rest could follow.
It had to.
Chapter
Twenty-Three
Goldie was still in her robe.Therobe, the good velvet one with feather-lined cuffs and a sash that could make the gods weep if tied just right. The scent of eucalyptus bath oil clung to her skin, sharp and green, threaded with undertones of candle smoke and leftover lust.
She stood barefoot in the kitchen, lazily spooning honey into her tea, her hair pulled into a loose knot that still carried the memory of fingers tugging too hard.
Ezra emerged from the bedroom like a man recovering from war. His dark hair was damp from the shower. A linen shirt hung open over his chest, half-buttoned with the kind of deliberate chaos that suggested he’d forgotten how clothes worked after what they’d done to each other.
The claw marks across his collarbone she’d given him were barely hidden by the fabric. His pants were slightly wrinkled. He looked gloriously wrecked.
“Morning, babe,” he said, voice still husky with sleep and satisfaction, and leaned in to brush a kiss against her mouth.
His lips tasted like toothpaste and smugness. Goldie let him kiss her, but didn’t kiss him back. Not really. Just a soft hum ofacknowledgment, the way you might nod at someone who held the elevator.
“Last night was fun,” he said, reaching past her to snag a slice of toast she’d made for herself. “I’ve got some stuff this weekend, but I’ll hit you up next week, cool?”
He winked. Of course he did.
“Totally,” Goldie said, her voice bright as a bell, already steering him gently toward the door with a hand pressed to the small of his back.
Ezra turned, catching her by the waist and pulling her flush against him. His other hand rose to cradle her jaw, thumb brushing the soft spot just beneath her cheekbone.
The kiss he gave her this time wasn’t lazy. It wasreal. Deep and slow and meant to linger.
When he pulled back, he studied her for a beat too long. His brows furrowed, just slightly. “You okay?”
Goldie gave him her best cat-in-the-sun smile. “Of course.” She rose up on tiptoe to peck the corner of his mouth. “You know me. I’m a walking good time.”
Ezra chuckled, clearly satisfied with that answer, and turned to go. As he stepped through the threshold, she gave his ass a playful swat. “Don’t be a stranger,” she called.
“Never am,” he said, winking like a bastard.
“Asshole,” she responded fondly as the door clicked shut behind him.
Goldie slumped against the door and let herself breathe him out. A forgotten sock lay curled by the coffee table. She considered picking it up, then didn’t.
“Well,” she murmured, finally pushing herself away from the door. “That’ll do.”
