Page 73 of White Raven

I lowered myself down, my shoulders tense as he silently stood behind me. Softly, his fingers slid over my scalp, threading through my strands, shooting shivers over my skin. The potency of his touch became soothing as he repeated the action over and over, laying my tangled and dirty hair down flat, the ends reaching the floor. I bit down on my lip. The need to burst into tears dug my nails into my palms. I understood that with this one action, something fundamental would change in me. My childhood, the very foundation I was raised to believe. The bubble I had been living in was being cut away.

It wasn’t about the hair, but what it stood for.

The sound of the rusty shears slicing through the air squeezed my lids together. My heart choked in my throat, but the panic stayed at a simmer. The strange comfort of his presence, his silence, pacified my craze, quieting the voices crying out in fear. Thrashing against the change inevitably coming.

His fingers dragged through my hair, mollifying the anxiety, yet my heart still pounded. A different type of alarm dizzied my head, making it hard for me to breathe. His hand slid up the back of my neck, tipping my head forward, his large warm palm wrapping around as he pruned off the final section.

He had to feel the shiver run through me, the way I swallowed roughly at his touch.

“Done,” he said, setting the scissors down. He took everything off the silver tray, lifting it up to me. A gasp caught in my throat, seeing my hazy reflection in the metal, the lamp on the table glowing over my likeness.

The blunt ends of my hair reached just below my breast. I tugged on a strand, my hand falling away where it used to continue on. It was the length I saw on so many women here. Long enough to braid, but not long enough to be a symbol of wealth, status, and beauty.

My gaze lowered to the mountain of hair on the floor and quickly turned away. The need to cry burned my throat as I turned my head from side to side, feeling as if it would float away, liberated from the heavy weight it had carried for so long.

Sliding my hands through the silver locks, the strands shimmered under the candlelight. He watched me intently, his emotions unreadable, his throat bobbing. “It looks awful, doesn’t it?”

“No,” he rasped, shaking his head. “That’s not what—” He cleared his throat. He turned to the table, picking up the fresh water bowl. “It’s functional. You can tie it back easier.”

My shoulders sagged at his analytical response, my ego needing comfort, even if it was a lie.

“Here.” He shoved the rag and bowl at me, dropping it in my hands. “Clean yourself up before the water gets cold. Then eat the stew before that does too.” He seized the mead Frida had supplied, dispensing heavy pours into two mugs.

He downed his in one gulp, before pouring himself another and moving to the hearth.

“Aren’t you going to eat?” I dipped the cloth in the lukewarm water, scrubbing at the dirt and blood covering my face.

“I will,” he muttered, staring at the low fire, his attention far away.

I finished cleaning as well as I could, before moving to the watery cabbage stew. It slid unpleasantly down my throat, the remnants of flavorless broth coating my tongue. I soon forsook the stew, moving to the mead. The silence between us, wrapped around the room, made me stir in my seat, downing more of the liquor.

“Onyx . . .” My voice came out in a whisper. The intimacy of his name sounded like a scream in the room, a plea for more than his attention.

His head snapped over his shoulder, his jaw clenching down, ire firing his dark eyes. I could hear his demand never to call him with such familiarity again. Instead, he twisted his head back to the fire, his shoulders rigid.

“Get some sleep, we leave in a few hours.”

CHAPTER 17

The sunset hanging just above the horizon grew murkier the farther we ventured north. Fog clung to the trees, the darkness crawling in around me like a cloak. When we first entered the Dusk Realm, I found the twilight frightening. Now I longed for the glow of the sunset, which painted the sky in various yellows, reds, blues, and purples. This far north, darkness blanketed everything, shadowing the definition of the landscape and anything hiding in it.

Onyx never let down his guard, one hand on the reins and the other on the sickle, his head tilting at every sound.

The warmth and solidness of his frame behind me, the long tedious hours the draugrhest kept a steady pace, had me struggling to stay awake. I fought against it, my knuckles cracking around the knife handle in my grip. When he handed me a blade that morning as we left Blackwater, I understood the danger we were heading into. He would not willingly give me means to stab him, unless the risk outside of us was greater.

A clicking purr came from Fluffy’s head: Munch circling around and burrowing deeper between the horse’s ears, using his mane as a blanket. Fluffy neighed, shaking his head hard, trying to jiggle the thing off.

“Stop it.” I tapped on the back of his neck. “He’s sleeping peacefully.”

Fluffy pulled against the reins, trying to reach back and bite my leg.

“Hey!” I kicked back at his sharp mouth.

“How about both of you stop,” Onyx said, like an annoyed parent. The entire trip had been the same cycle of us fighting like two kids. Several times Fluffy tried to eat Munch, and when I stopped him, he nipped at me, which had me kicking back until Onyx had to intercede.

“He started it!” I pointed at the horse. Fluffy huffed, baring his fangs, his eyes narrowing as he peered back at me.

“Seriously?” Onyx sighed again.