The weight of human hair is truly frightening, she thought. Her fingers twined through the thick, dark curls, careful to avoid the scalp.
The last thing she wanted to do was touch the man.
She worked silently, the glint of her rings shining in the tall mirror leaned against the wall across the room. She gathered the locks, reveling in their weight, and rejoiced in the slow scrape of the razor.
Strands pooled at her feet, like her dress so often did when he came to see her.
The power was never in the hair, not truly. It was beautiful and lustrous, yes — but still only hair. The power had come with time and careful planning. A whisper from her lips at his ear. A quiver of a smile when their eyes met. A glance that spoke of all she could grant him, if he only did as she bid.
With all that and more she had hauled this man, all the muscle and sinew of him, out of obscurity and into the velvet folds of luxury.
But he forgot. In his revelry, surrounded by a world who thought him second only to God, he forgot who truly held the power.
He forgot where his allegiance was owed.
A long, torturous scrape of blade on flesh and the final strand fluttered to the marble. It tickled her toes as she stepped around the chair and considered the unconscious man tied to it.
When he woke, he would remember who he’d been without her. All his beauty, his brawn and his might, wasted without her vision and mind.
She stood before him, the mirror behind her, and smiled.
He would remember, because she had made herself unforgettable.