Later, much, much later, I would think about that moment. The first time we’d held hands. The first time we touched of our own choice. His hand was bigger than mine, his fingers thick and blunt. His skin was darker and warm. The bones felt brittle, and I knew of the blood that thrummed just underneath. My father had made sure of it. I belonged to it, to the Bennetts, because of what was in my own blood. But I was only eleven years old. I didn’t understand then what it meant. He did, though. Which was why he inhaled sharply when I took his hand in mine, why out of the corner of my eye I saw the
...more
