VINCENT

Odd lengths of old wood lined the wall across from me, and I couldn't decide if they were intended to be used for fencing or repair around the house that surely lay above me.

I had been stored away like a discarded tool. Which was much better than being ground down past the point of usefulness. Or being dead.

I felt much better than before, but the scarred brute's attitude with me had steadily deteriorated as I regained myself. I had gleaned enough information to realize they were the small faction of the Resistance with whom I had been put in contact.

Even though I had been promised they were competent, I could not see my confession to being their benefactor going over well. Not anymore. Father had inadvertently ruined any trust I may have fostered. If there ever was any trust to be gained.

I originally tried to look at my situation from the viewpoint of one of my books, but even the excitement of that particular fantasy was spiralling down the drain. Yes, I was a young and willing captive, completely at their mercy.

At their mercy to change into ill-fitting, uncomfortable, unflattering clothing. There had been no groping or even a lingering eye. I was strangely disappointed that some of my late night fantasies of being stolen away and seduced would not be fulfilled.

No one would strip me of the overly starched dress shirt and scratchy sweater I had been given. I felt sorry for whoever thought such an atrocious shade of milky mud was a fitting color for a sweater. Or any piece of clothing.

The door opened, slamming loudly against the wall, and I flinched out of my miserable thoughts. Did these people not know how to properly enter a room?

"Say goodbye to the hair, pretty boy," the scarred brute said, raising what could loosely be described as scissors.

Unease settled over me as I kept a wary eye on the hand that held the sharp shears. They looked as if they would be more at home with livestock. Most likely, that was where the tool had come from. I swallowed and leaned further into the corner.

My hair was one of the few things that was only mine and people complimented. Alessa loved running her fingers through it. She would be so disappointed. Not that there was anything to salvage. Even if I wished to rekindle our relationship, I was a dead man.

First my clothes, now my hair. I understood the need to make me look like a commoner, but this was excessive. I wanted to argue that simply tucking my hair down the back of my shirt would be sufficient. It hadn't been tailored to my form, so there was plenty of room to hide my hair. Possibly an entire cat if they deemed it necessary to complete the look with a disfiguring hump.

The brute wrenched me up by my upper arm, grinning maliciously as he dragged me into the next room where a woman sat at a worn out table, looking over a set of maps. "Need to borrow your chair, Olwen."

She grimaced at the scissors then at me before standing and pushing the chair to the center of the room.

He shoved me onto a chair, and I could only sit there, frozen out of fear that he would miss and cut something besides my hair. Possibly on purpose if given the excuse.

I clutched at the seat of the chair, digging my nails into the wood. That would be next—some form of hard labour to ruin my hands and nails.

The sound behind me was unfamiliar, and, in an instant, my head felt lighter as strands of hair fell forward and brushed against my cheeks. It was only years of hiding everything from my father that kept me from showing the shock and loss I felt as he made an attempt to trim further.

The wretched brute circled me, surveying his work. He gave a pleased nod and dropped what could only be a dead animal on my lap.

It took me a moment to recognize my hair.

"Really, Monty?" Olwen sighed as she shook her head.

Lady Below, the brute actually had a human name.

"My best work, right here," he said, heavily clapping my shoulder. "I should be charging him a whole dock."

She looked from Monty to me. "At least it's bad enough so no one will look twice."

"Yeah, Vinnie here wouldn't be caught dead with such a low class cut."

"I thought it was worth a whole dock?" she said with a saccharine smile.

"You really think the likes of Reinier and his ilk would pay less than fifty docks for a haircut?"

Fifty seemed a lot for a simple haircut. But what would I know? I had never been in charge of anything financial. Or anything at all, for that matter. Fifty docks had been how I started my correspondence with the Astraean Resistance. Evidently, it had been enough to gain their interest, so I kept throwing what money I could at them.

"I guess it'll do," Olwen relented with a sigh. "If we had an extra day, he could grow out some scruff. A fake moustache would only draw extra attention right now."

"Yeah. No hat, neither," he added with a thoughtful nod. "They'll be looking for anything that looks like a disguise."

I did my best to ignore them as they planned our escape from the city, too preoccupied with my recent loss. They would tell me what I needed to know. Jagged strands whispered across my skin in unfamiliar places, and it took all my willpower to resist brushing away the sensation. All I could do was stare at what remained of my braid, draped lifelessly across my lap. The old brute had even cut through the ribbon.

The worst feeling was knowing and accepting why it needed to be done. It was needed, but it also felt rather spiteful. I could only wonder if I would have been able to do it myself if the occasion had called for it.

As courageous as I could be in my fantasies, I knew I lacked the true conviction to do anything on my own. Or even plan anything beyond throwing an idea and money at someone else. Nothing they spoke of had ever crossed my mind. From something as obvious as how to disguise me to which roads to take.

I was out of my depth, and reliant on others. The only instruction I had given the Resistance was to get me and take me to the Lysan estate. I had valuables stashed there. Enough to reward them. Enough to buy my freedom if needed. Enough to run away and hide.

As long as Father didn't have everything cleared out between now and then. And as long as we made it. Lady Below, I should have hidden everything at a closer property or specified a need for my comfort or even hinted at my identity.

No, I reminded myself. There would have certainly been suspicion if I had asked to be treated well. If not from my captors, then from Father if we were caught.

"Any idea who'd be willing to pay top dollar for your skin?" Monty asked, pulling me from my sulking thoughts.

"Besides myself? Very few." I dropped the hint, but I doubted it would work much in my favor. "I'm rather worthless to my father outside of marrying off to strengthen an alliance. I ended the engagement, but I never thought it would lead to my death."

"See? That's one of them things I don't trust. You say your old man wants you dead, but for all we know, that was just a farce. A ploy to endear you to us. Make us feel sorry for you, y'know?"

And it was that thought that kept me from explaining my situation. Would I have been held in higher standing had Father waited one day to have me killed?

"I understand your mistrust, but—"

"Ain't helping, Pretty Boy."

My jaw clenched. This was more frustrating than dealing with my father. He, at least, would hear me out. If only to laugh at my ineptitude and point out the flaws in my reasoning. It made me feel as though I had a chance to convince him. Even when I knew better.

I looked away as Monty simply grinned at me. It was frustrating, but he was honest. I would at least give him that. There was no false hope. I was on unfamiliar ground with these people.

I curled what remained of my hair around my hand. I should burn it. It could symbolize breaking free from my previous life.

A small cotton bag came into view, and I looked up to find Olwen giving me a pitying stare.

"Probably the easiest way to store it for now," she said.

I eagerly latched onto her kindness. "Thank you," I said politely as I took the bag.