12: Julia.

I hold Curtis's hand in mine and guide him out of the bedroom, walking toward the sound of men's voices. Funny, I'm usually avoiding that exact thing. But we're not in our little apartment beside the tavern this morning. We're in Ramsy Jones' home—and apparently this is where we'll be staying for the next while.

Against my better judgment.

My lips are still tingling from his kiss, my skin burning where his hands touched me.

I've always thought—or hoped, at least—that I'm a smart girl. It takes a clever person to survive alone in Harding without any protection. But I'm beginning to wonder if kisses from this man have gummed up the inner workings of my brain. Every time I try and remind myself of what happens when I give in to the selfish wants of my body, I forget all of my reservations.

"Big," Curtis says, awe-struck, looking up at the vaulted ceilings. "Big house."

"Yes," I agree, squeezing his little hand. "It's a huge house."

"Who lives in it?" asks my brother, brows raised quizzic