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Reluctantly, he does so. But when he meets my eyes, I still see determination in them.

“Memn—”

He grasps his beard and begins to saw away at it too, taking out patches at a time. Somehow, it looks even worse than his shorn hair.

“Memnon, stop!” A bit of magic enters my voice, and my power reaches out, prying his hand and weapon away from his face.

But it’s too late. The choppy sections of hair that remain look ridiculous, especially his beard.

I swallow as I take it in.

“You’ve ruined your hair,” I say. All of it.

“It was frightening you.” In his words, I hear the boy I grew up with—the vulnerable, sweet boy who whispered kind words to me late at night and confessed truths he told no one else.

My eyes sting. “Oh, Memnon,” I say softly. I move to him. “You don’t need to change yourself to please me.” Tentatively, I reach out a hand. “Give me that blade.”

Without a word, he flips the dagger in his hand, holding the hilt out to me. I take it from him, then move to his back. Unlike me, he doesn’t tense or balk at the fact that I’m holding a weapon so close to him.

His hair is even worse than I first thought. I touch several bluntly shorn strands of it, trying not to react at the feel of it between my fingers or the fact that I can smell the perfumed oil he must’ve rubbed onto it. How many days I imagined touching this hair…

I don’t think I ever imagined it would be in this context.

I’m not sure how much of his hair is even salvageable, and I am no hairdresser.

“You are better off sticking to violence,” I murmur, continuing to run my fingers through the thick locks. I swear I see a shiver pass through him, but otherwise he holds still as I inspect the damage. “I’m going to try to fix your hair, but I’ll need you to kneel.”

I place a hand on Memnon’s shoulder, and now I know I’m not imagining his reaction. Through our bond, I feel a burst of pleasure at my touch.

He lowers himself obediently, though after he does so, he glances over his shoulder. “Is this all just some elaborate ploy to get a king on his knees before you?”

“Memnon,” I admonish.

He laughs, and my eyes are caught on that smile. “What?” he says innocently.

But now I’m grinning as I step in close. I bring Memnon’s heavy dagger up to his locks, marveling at how big the blade is. Grabbing a longer section of hair, I begin to saw at the strands. Memnon’s blade is wicked sharp, and it slices through the hair fairly easily.

I’ve never done this before, I admit down our connection.

I trust you.

My stomach twists at the admission, and I feel strange, unmoored. I trim another lock.Your long hair must have meant something to you, I say. All of Memnon’s men had worn it similarly long.

He makes a noise in the back of his throat.It’s hair. It will grow back.

Bit by bit, I shape his hair. Unfortunately, between the deep cuts he made to it and my own novice skill, I have to cut away most of it. The wavy locks that remain fall to the nape of his neck—or else they slip over his eyes.

Once I’m finished, I move around to his front and look at the uneven tufts of his beard. It really is worse than his hair. Parts of it have been cut all the way down to his skin.

I kneel before him and reach for his face, only pausing a finger span away. “Can I touch you?”

He makes an amused sound. “I rode for two months so that I might feel your embrace.” His eyes dance like fire. “Of course you can touch me.”

My breath hitches at his admission, and something as hot and bright as lightning courses between us. Lowering my gaze, I run my fingers through Memnon’s beard, marveling at the bristly texture of it. As I do so, he closes his eyes, a smile touching his lips.

It’s all going to have to go, I say.

He opens his eyes. “Do it.”