Her shoulders hunched. She hesitated for too long. Finally, her head bowed. “Please...please don’t find me ugly.”
“What?”My air exploded. “Why would you ever ask such a thing?”
Sucking in a shaky breath, she let go of the hood.
My condition soaked up her thoughts—despair, pain, confliction, anger. But most of all, paralyzing hopelessness. My soul pulverised as I slowly slipped off the shadowy material and saw what she’d tried to hide.
I couldn’t speak.
I couldn’t think.
All I could do was stare and fill with such fury, such motherfuckinghate, that tears sprang to my eyes.
She couldn’t look at me, her shoulders hunched dejectedly. “I—I—” She gave up, hiding her face in her hands and letting go of her sadness.
Her stunning hair had been replaced with multiple different lengths and shapes. The bedraggled strands cascaded over her hands.
They would pay.They will fucking pay for this.
Trembling with rage, I gathered her to me, crushing her in my arms. “Those fucking bastards.”
She turned in my embrace, wrapping her arms around me, crying silently into my neck. I stroked her back, her neck, the scruffy locks of hair. It felt so different, so strange.
That was what was so wrong. Why she felt so peculiar.
Her courage had been stripped, just like her beautiful hair.
I have to fix this.
I had no idea how, but I couldn’t let her suffer.
Letting her go, I stalked to the end of the stable and grabbed a pair of scissors from the tack room. Stalking back, I sat behind her on the hay bale and without a word, brushed out the tatty strands with my fingers and kissed her neck.
With silence heavy between us, I snipped the mismatched ends.
I poured my love and commitment into her with every cut, sacrificing myself for every strand I snipped.
My heart raced as her hair fell to the hay, entwining gold with black. She shivered and hiccupped with teary breaths, but she didn’t stop me. If anything, her shoulders relaxed and she let me fix the agony my family had caused.
I took my time.
I stroked her like I would any broken filly, reminding her that I cared and adored and would never hurt her. The soft thickness of her hair slipped through my fingers, slicing into uniformity the more I tended.
Not only did I fix her hair, but I fixed her soul, too. I sensed her reforming, gluing her scattered pieces, slipping back into the Nila I knew and worshipped.
I fell in love with her even more at the strength it took to come back from the brink of losing herself.
And she did it for me.
Under my touch, she came alive.
Under my willpower, she breathed freely and with a smidgen of happiness.
It didn’t take long, working my way around her jaw, I combed the ebony strands. With a final snip, I sat back, drinking her in, reacquainting myself with this new woman who held my heart as surely as the one I’d left behind.
Cupping her face, I brushed aside the jaw-length hair and kissed her softly. “You’re somehow even more beautiful, Needle.”
She gasped.
