Thorne reached behind her with his other hand and gathered a fistful of her hair. The touch sent a delicious tingle down her spine.

"Sorry, but it grows back," he said, not sounding at all apologetic. her began sawing through the tangles, one handful at a time. Grab, cut, release. Cress held perfectly still. not because she was afraid of being cut,-the knife was steady in his hands, despite the blindness, and Thorne kept the blade angled carefully away from her neck. but because it was Thorne. It was Captain Carswell Thorne, running his hand through her hair, his rough jaw mere inches away from her lips, his brow furrowed in concentration.

By the time he was brushing feather-soft fingers along her neck, checking for any strands he'd missed, she was dizzy with euphoria.

(From Cress, ch. 13)