“Does your father hate you?” “Excuse me?” We’re still swaying. Cameras click around us like insects in the summertime. Maybe I misheard. “Your father. I need to know if he hates you.” I meet Moreland’s eyes, more baffled than offended. And perhaps a little peeved that I cannot insist that my one living parent gives a shit about me. “Why?” “If you’re going to be under my protection, I need to know these things.” I cock my head up at him. His face is so . . . not handsome, even though it is, but striking. All-consuming. Like he invented bone structure. “Am I? Under your protection?” “You’re my
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