Goldie almost blacked out at the sound of his voice.Yes. Yes, gods, yes. Take me. Sow me. Grow something in me that never dies.
She swayed forward, already falling, when Splice’s hand caught the base of her spine, anchoring her. He leaned in close, his lips brushing her ear.
“Breathe in,” he murmured. “Remember the floor. The air. Your name.”
Goldie dragged in a sharp breath, awareness of where she was crashing back into her skin. Splice’s gaze was fixed on her, concerned and unmistakably human.
“I’m good,” she whispered, her throat dry. “I think.”
Splice’s voice was gentle. “Stay with me. Just breathe.”
And she did.Inhale. Exhale.She didn’t pull away.
Splice stepped forward, spine straightening, jaw locking like he was bracing for something heavy. When he spoke again, his tone was formal, reverent, and bound tight with restraint.
“Mycor. I have brought her to you, as asked.”
The Thornfather didn’t move. He only looked at her.
Goldie’s breath caught. His gaze was like being watered—like he was pouring something into her just by seeing her, filling all the hollow places she hadn’t realized were empty.
But as she looked back, struggling to wrestle her body out of its wild ache, she saw it.
The fire beneath his bark-etched skin wasn’t steady; it guttered. Veins of green light stuttered with streaks of dull brown. Leaves curled brittle at the edges of his shoulders. His crown of blossoms shivered with unnatural brilliance, petals already beginning to spot and darken.
Desire surged hot through her, but it twisted now with dread. He was beautiful. He was terrible. And he was sick.
The air thickened. Mycor stepped forward, and Splice’s hand braced firmly at the small of her back.
His voice dropped. “Careful. His life is calling to the life in you. It’ll make you want things you don’t mean to want. Don’t let him touch you unless you truly want him to.”
As if in response to his words, heat surged through her body, raw and primal, every nerve leaning toward the god. Lust rolled over her in a tide, overwhelming, ancient, not entirely her own. The nearness of the god stole her breath, and for one treacherous heartbeat, she wanted nothing more than to step forward, to be claimed by the roots and the fire beneath his skin.
Mycor lifted a hand. His fingers tasted the air beside her cheek. “You shine. Through the land that is now mine, I taste you. Your blood, your fear… your desire.”
His eyes gleamed, suddenly hungry. “You are wet for me, little witch. I can smell it in the roots. I can feel it in the ground.”
Goldie’s lips parted. She swayed forward without thought, arms rising in surrender, aching to be taken, to be rooted and split apart.
Splice made a sound, but she barely heard him. All she wanted was to close the distance, to let the god claim her, buryhimself in her, flood her until she couldn’t remember her own name.
The god’s fingers stroked her skin, and Goldie almost passed out at the tide of desire that flooded over her?—
Fire seared through her leggings. Not the sweet heat of lust, but a jagged, blistering one. The bead in her pocket pulsed once, twice, then flared like a coal struggling to breathe. Pain tore through the pleasure, sharp enough to make her gasp.
Splice’s body snapped taut. “What are you holding?” His voice was hard now, sharp enough to cut.
Goldie couldn’t answer. Her hand was moving to the hip of her leggings, diving into her pocket. The bead seared her fingertips as she drew it out.
Splice lunged a step closer. “Goldie?—”
Mycor, hunger and fury colliding in his gaze, clamped his hand suddenly down over hers.
The moss beneath their feet screamed, high and keening. Vines writhed at the skylight, thrashing like serpents. Light fractured and bent sideways, green-gold and blinding, as if the world itself had split open.
A crack sounded in her mind, jagged and final, and in that instant the world snapped open.
—By blood we claim, by name we bind?—
