Lindsay Buroker: Forged in Blood II

“You do not wish to cut it?” Sicarius asked.

“Oh, I’ve dreamed of cutting it since I met you. I don’t want you to think it’s some kind of requirement though, that I’m only willing to be seen in public with men with tidy locks.”

“I understand. Shall we do it in your room?”

Amaranthe suspected they were talking about more than haircuts, but either way, her answer was, “Yes.”

She lifted her head, and he helped her up. He handed her the scissors and gestured for her to lead the way. She opened the door to her room and walked about, lighting lamps. It had grown dim while he’d been reading.

Though comfortable, with a large bed, a desk, and a private tub and lavatory, it was a single room, and she grew aware of the fact that the bed dominated it.

Amaranthe avoided looking at it and pulled out the chair at the desk. “Have a seat.”

Sicarius removed his shirt. The lantern light drew attention to his lean, powerful back and torso, the valleys between his muscles delineated by shadow, the bronze contoured flesh taut even when he was relaxed.

“Uhm,” Amaranthe said as he folded his shirt and laid it on the desk. “It’s not necessary to disrobe for, ah…” He turned to face her, and she found herself staring at his pectoral muscles. “Never mind,” she said. “Sit down, please.”

He sat on the chair fully, not on the edge, like an animal poised to flee. He’d once remarked that his reason for cutting his own hair was that he wouldn’t trust anyone near his neck with a blade. When had that changed?

Amaranthe moved a mirror from the washbasin to the desk. Even if he trusted her, it might make him less uneasy if he could watch what she was doing. She pulled out a comb. Its wide teeth were meant for her thick locks rather than short tufts, but it would do.

Amaranthe positioned herself behind him and tried to comb his hair into order. Though she’d touched it a few times before, for some reason she always expected it to be coarse and prickly, a reflection of his personality. It was clean and soft, though, a pleasure to stroke, even if those strokes didn’t cause it to lie down nicely. She used her hand as much as the comb, letting her fingers trail down the side of his neck to brush his collarbone and those lovely shoulder muscles.

She wondered what he used for shampoo. Nothing scented that might give him away to some enemy, but would she catch a whiff of some cleaning agent if she lowered her nose to his scalp? She imagined those soft hairs tickling her skin and had an urge to turn the imagined into reality.

Under the pretext of addressing some knot, she lowered her face as she applied the comb and inhaled subtly. It was his scent that filled her nostrils, not that of some shampoo. Warm skin, freshly scrubbed, without the odor of weapons-cleaning oil that usually lingered about him. She didn’t mind that smell, indeed associating it with him, but it tickled her that he’d cleaned up so thoroughly for… his haircut. Maybe he’d remembered her words about preferring her lovers to be free of makarovi gore.

“We will not be disturbed,” Sicarius said.

Startled, Amaranthe stood up straight. It was silly but she was embarrassed, as if appreciating his scent while pretending to do something else was like being caught sampling flat cakes she hadn’t paid for. “What?”

“Sespian and the rest of the team have gone out to drink to Books’s memory, and the Starcrests are retrieving their other children from the family homestead.”

“So… you’re saying we have the guesthouse to ourselves?”

“For many hours.”

“Indeed?” Amaranthe squeaked, then cleared her throat. She distinctly remembered their previous discussion revolving around the word.

In the mirror, his dark eyes were intent, full of purpose. Their intensity was alluring, filling her with the heat of anticipation, but they made her nervous as well. What if, after all this time, she disappointed him?

“Let me wet down your feisty tufts then. I’m sure since you arranged so much privacy for us, you’d like me to do a good job.”

Amaranthe took a deep breath and told herself to get on with things and not burble. He was probably getting impatient. But Sicarius appeared relaxed as he watched her watching him. Even… pleased.

She retrieved a pitcher of water to dampen his defiant locks. Once she’d flattened them as much as possible, she lifted the scissors and considered where to start. The top she supposed, to even out of all those tufts. She was about to make her first clip when he spoke.

“You’ve done this before?”

“Many times,” Amaranthe said.

“On dolls?”

She smiled, reminded of the time she’d admitted that her wound-stitching skills had come via that route. “Yes, on dolls, but also on my father. He couldn’t afford the barber, so when I was old enough, I started cutting his hair for him.” She waved the scissors. “Are you ready now? Or do I need to apply for more official credentials before I can begin?”

“You may begin.”

“I’m so pleased.”

Though he’d granted his permission, Amaranthe started with a single snip, waiting to see if he’d object or perhaps critique. He did not. As she went on, alternating between clipping and combing, he closed his eyes. From someone else, it would mean nothing. But from him… It had taken a year, but he’d finally come to trust her fully. She wondered if it was strange that it meant more to her than a declaration of love would have from another. She dabbed away moisture gathering in her eyes.

“Tilt your head forward, please,” she whispered, wanting to cut a clean line across the bottom.

He did so without comment, and she let her fingers stray again, knowing she was almost done and wanting to savor the experience. All right, she enjoyed touching that warm, sleek skin as well, following the contours of the sinews beneath. The explorations were easier with his head down, without worrying about what thoughts lay behind his eyes.

“Amaranthe,” Sicarius said, “are you finished?”

“Er, almost.”

She shifted to his front so she could trim his bangs. They had to be even. Aware of his face, scant inches from hers, she licked her lips and concentrated on keeping her hands from shaking as she worked.

He watched that movement, the darting of her tongue. His eyes didn’t seem so intimidating now. She recognized his intensity for urgency, yearning. How long had she experienced those same desires for him?

“Are you finished yet?” Sicarius’s muscles might have been relaxed when she’d started, but they were alert now, like those of a sprinter poised at the blocks, ready to surge forward at the starter’s shout.

“Almost,” Amaranthe whispered. She stepped back to properly assess the evenness of the cut and noticed his hand poised in the air, as if he was merely awaiting her signal to pull her into an embrace. As eager to move on as he, she would have welcomed it, but… “Not quite.” She leaned close again. “Your bangs are still a little crooked. You wouldn’t want to-”

Sicarius stood suddenly and his lips covered hers, finally hushing her… burble, that’s what he would call it. She might have voiced an indignant-if muffled-protest, but all thought fled from her mind as his arms wrapped about her, and their bodies molded together. Her senses came alive at the feel of those hard muscles against her chest.

The scissors clinked to the floor.

After a moment, he pulled away, a question in his eyes.

“What is it?” she asked, a little breathless.

“I did not come for the haircut,” he said as if he were sharing some shameful secret.

Amaranthe kissed him on the cheek. “I figured that out.”