“How old are you?” he asked.
“Twelve.” He tried to draw back but she drew him on, tiny fingers pressing bruises into his arm.
The room was dark with heavily brocaded curtains hiding the sun. Silken sheets adorned the bed, and diamonds glittered in the dust that obscured the mirror.
“You’re never twelve,” he said, turning to face her because he couldn’t find her reflection. “How could you be?”
And her fingers began to unfasten his shirt, deft and cool on his skin, her breath like ice against his throat. “I’ve been twelve for such a very, very long time.”