He bowed his head, voice cracking. “It was a mistake. It will not happen again.”
Mycor did not speak. The gaze that held Splice was not harsh, nor judging, simply vast. In it was an ancient stillness that stole Splice’s breath.
Splice began to fold beneath the weight of it, clarity as sharp as an axe. He was a graft. And deadwood could be cut away. He could be unmade as quickly as he had been made if his god willed it. If his god had decided he had grown too far from his original cutting.
Splice steadied his breath and bowed his head, awaiting the judgment of his god.I have failed in my purpose,he thought.If I am to be unmade, let it be swift.
"Stay with her."
Splice’s head snapped up, pulse hammering. Had he misheard? But Mycor’s gaze was fixed on him, green-lit and fathomless. Not angry. Quiet. Infinitely measuring.
“She is touched,” the Thornfather said, voice like wind through ancient branches. “Where she walks, the roots sing. Where her blood falls, the land stirs awake.”
He stepped closer, vines whispering across stone. “I charge you with this: watch her. Guard her. She draws attention to things that have long remained buried.”
Relief unfurled in Splice’s chest. No uprooting. No fire. Only the impossible weight of trust—to protect the very thing that was unraveling him.
Then a chill traced up his spine. “Attention?” he asked, barely above a breath. “Mycor… to what?”
“Something was broken,” Mycor intoned. “It must be witnessed. Repaired.”
Frustration twisted low in his gut. “I don’t understand.”
The Thornfather inclined his head. “It is a seed,” the god murmured. “Grow it.”
“Yes, Mycor,” he whispered. He rose slowly, limbs trembling, relief settling around him like a weight. Perhaps he had not been condemned. Perhaps he had been spared, had gotten away with?—
“A word of caution, my Splice,” Mycor whispered, his words threading the air like roots through stone.
Splice stilled, the breath catching in his throat.
“She is a catalyst, and your desire is a spark held to dry tinder,” his god intoned. “Act not from fear of my judgment, but with respect for the inferno you might unleash.”
Splice’s throat worked, a tremor running through him. Every instinct screamed to bow, to beg, to swear he would not fail again, but the words tangled in his chest. He could only stand there, hollowed and burning, the truth of his god’s warning taking root in the space where shame had lived.
“Understood,” he managed.
He bowed low, then he turned and fled, heartwood hammering like a trapped thing, each step echoing with the weight of what had been given and what might one day burn him alive.
Chapter
Seventeen
After Splice fled her apartment, the evening unraveled spectacularly. Jem settled onto the couch, clutching a throw pillow to her chest and chattering endlessly about everything and nothing, while Goldie methodically polished off glass after glass of wine, grim and determined to dull the sharp edges of embarrassment and confusion.
Later, a knock at the door brought Nell, standing in the hallway with another bottle of wine and a gentle, concerned expression.
A terrible TV movie flickered on. Conversations meandered. Wine flowed. Goldie kept drinking.
Eventually, Goldie declared she was drunk, needed to be alone, and, no, she didn't want anyone to stay, thank you very much. With fragile smiles and quick goodbyes, she sent them off. She collapsed onto the bed, fully clothed, pillow over her face.
She woke up in the middle of the night sweating, flushed, and replaying it—all of it—on an endless, depraved loop: His mouth. His breath. His cock in her mouth. His vines inside her.
In desperation, she yanked her vibrator out of the bedside drawer like a woman possessed, flopped onto her back, and tried to exorcise the horny out of her system.
The orgasm was fine. Quick. Mechanical. Zero stars for aftercare. It helped, but only barely, and afterward, she just lay there, panting and annoyed andstill thinking about him.
She punched her mattress three times like it owed her money, rolled over, and gave up.
