Chapter 16 #2
Her emotions rolled clearly over her face—stunned fear, to hurt, then to a cold rage. Her head dipped and I could see in her expression that whatever she had or wanted with him was over.
“Yes, sir.”
The wall shook with the force with the slam of the door, her exit flipping the mood of the room, suffocating me in it.
Rubbing at my head, I stood up, feeling my mind and stomach twist into uncomfortable knots.
Was I really going to let him touch me? How far would I have let it go?
I didn’t even recognize myself. Like something in me was broken.
Wrong. How could I let the man who murdered my friend and kidnapped me do that?
Marching to the table, I swiped the shears from the tray.
A need to cut away whatever was wrong with me.
I took a handful of my long strands, the dull blades hacking through my hair as I grunted in self-loathing and anguish.
Tears spilled down my cheeks as the years of treating my hair like a prized commodity, something to be honored and worshipped, now collided with my self-disgust and vengeance.
“Whoa . . . whoa.” Onyx ripped the scissors from my hands.
“Give them back.” I reached for them, feeling my sanity teetering on the edge, screaming in its final death throes. “Give them to me!” I clawed at his arms, hitting his chest, begging for the wrongness inside me to end.
He held them away, watching me evenly, the calm against the wave of destruction.
“Please!” I pleaded, seeking any empathy he had in his heart. He stood like a barricade against my appeals. “Please . . .” I slumped over, a hiccup in my throat.
He watched me for a moment more, before he pulled out the chair at the desk.
“Sit.” His tone was low, which only made me want to lash out. To be the petulant spoiled child the puppeteer had declared me to be. “Sit,” he said again, finally getting me to move to the chair.
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.”