“Try me,” he says, voice thick. Like the words are spoken through molasses.
“Can you …” I break his stare, looking down at the shears in my hand as a lump forms in the back of my throat that’s hard to swallow past. “Can you cut my hair?”
The words hang in the air between us, like they’re suspended on the end of strings. When I can’t take the silence anymore—my cheeks so hot I’m certain they’re blazing redder than the crackling embers—I see the tips of his boots kiss my toes.
I hadn’t even noticed him stand.
He reaches down, easing the shears from my tight grip.
Clearing my throat, I step around him, lowering onto the log he was sitting on a moment ago and pushing my hair back from my shoulders. I brushed it inside, got all the tangles out until it was a sheet of golden silk, then vomited into the sink, Cainon’s past words pinching bits of my breath until I felt like I was going to pass out.
You will never cut this, do you understand?
I realized Rhordyn is right.
I’m not the same person I was. I have new scars and cracks in places that weren’t there before. The soles of my feet are splintered from a field of thistles I sprinted through to get here.
I no longer enjoy weaving my fingers through the heavy lengths, or draw safety and satisfaction from it hanging around me like a shield. Instead, it reminds me of ugly things that made my skin crawl. Made me feel powerless and trapped. Like my voice had been snipped.
Like my body was no longermine.
I hate it.
I want it gone.
Rhordyn crouches before me, and I dash a tear from my cheek, dropping my stare to the ground.
“How short?”
“I don’t care.”
He reaches forward, hooking his finger around a thick length of hair and pulling it over my shoulder so it’s draped between us like a tether. “Are you sure?”
I nod, swatting another tear like it’s an annoying bug that won’t stop crawling down my cheek.
Positive.
“You don’t look sure, Milaje.”
“Do it,” I rasp, and risk a glance at his eyes.
Silver.
Breathtakingly silver.
That single look plunders my soul and takes my breath away. Challenges me to hold it.
He lifts the shears and cuts.
A soft wave of relief splashes upon me, and I release a shuddered sigh as a two-foot rope of hair flops limply in his hand.
“This okay?”
I nod, reaching up to pinch the shorter piece, rubbing my thumb back and forth across the severed ends …
This is perfect.
“Keep going.”
