The bitch is laughing as she cheers him on, and Clove wants to bury a knife in that long throat, wants to dirty that golden hair with blood.
He's showing off, she thinks angrily. For the cameras, for the dumb blonde bitch from One. Clove has seen him with the sword, knows that he can throw it far, throw it precise, throw it so hard that it can pierce the ribs and shatter the heart inside. Clove knows this, and her teeth grind in her mouth, her hands clenched and hard.
"Cato, come on!" She shouts, and there is an edge in her voice, her nails digging hard into her palm, her right hand gripped around the hilt of her knife. Above them, in the tree, the girl on fire looks down, and the girl on fire is smiling. Clove's teeth come down hard against the flesh of her cheeks.
You look weak, she wants to say. You're not built for the trees. Don't embarrass yourself.
Don't embarrass me.
"Finish her off!" She snaps. On either side of her, the dumb brute and the dumb bitch from One are both laughing, and neither of them understand, neither of them know, neither of them know how hard she's trained for this, how hard he's trained for this to let themselves be embarrassed like this, neither of them understand though she might keep the boy around and Cato might want to fuck the blonde bitch—
Around her, Clove can feel the cameras. Clove can feel thousands of eyes trained on her, on her small fingers, on her small feet and short legs and frail build. She suddenly feels naked. As if the whole world could see her weaknesses.
Cato falls to the ground with a hiss of pain.
She bites down hard on her lip, stops herself from lunging forward to make him hurt some more.
That's what you get for being a fool.
"What's wrong with you?" He asks her, his footstep loud and thudding behind her.
She hacks viciously at a branch, knocks it out of her way, imagines it an arm, imagines it the girl on fire, imagines it the blonde bitch, imagines it Cato. Behind her, over the sound of Cato's breathing she can hear the duo from One bickering.
She doesn't reply, kicks a fallen branch out of her way. She has nothing to fear here, nothing to cower from; they are all sheep, and she is the lone wolf.
Cato's not quiet either. He's never been one for silence, never been one for subtlety. It's his size that allows for that, but his size won't help when she slits his throat.
"Clove." He snaps. He doesn't have any patience either. "Clove. For God's sake, answer my goddamned question."
She doesn't say a word, thinks, I'll kill you. Thinks, you and your blonde bitch—
Her head connects hard with something solid, knocks the breath out of her. She feels bark at the back of her neck, at the one piece of flesh on her body not corded with muscle, not hardened by training.
His face is close, breathing hard, teeth white and bright under the synthesized moonlight. Her hands close hard, around the hilt of her knife, and she wonders, when she sticks it into his throat, will he still smell the same? Like sweat, like blood, like victory—
"I asked you a question." He snaps. "What's wrong with you? You've been off all day."
She knocks the hilt of her knife hard into his rib, hard enough to bruise, and twists it into his flesh, blunt and dull. She allows a smile to cut into her cheek when he takes a sharp breath. "That's for being stupid," she hisses. "For being a fucking idiot, showing off for that bitch from Two. You think I haven't noticed? You think I'm going to sit by idle while you make a fool of yourself, of me—"
His hand tightens in her hair, and she can feel it coming undone around her face, can feel his breath getting faster and faster, feel his thigh pressing hard between her open legs. His hand tightens around her throat, and she cants her face up, never losing sight of those eyes.
"I was saving you for last," Cato replies, voice low. "Don't make me change my mind, Clove."
"We won't even make it to the end if you insist on being such a goddamned fool," she hisses. "You want to fuck the blonde bitch? Fine. Do it. I don't care. It'll just make you an easier target."
His hand around her throat loosens, and for some strange reason she feels the loss of it like a physical thing, like she has lost her anchor. He draws back, something unfathomable in his eyes, brows furrowed together. "Are you jealous?"
She tries to shove him, hard, but he is still pressed tight against her chest, his weight pinning her to the tree. Her fingers tighten around her knife, and for an instant she thinks, right here, as well a time as any. She thinks, up between the ribs and to the heart. She thinks of his blood, red and alive on her hands, feels something within her pull and shiver, not entirely unpleasant.
"Jealous of what?" She snaps. "Of Glimmer? Don't be ridiculous."
He grins, and Clove's nails dig hard into his chest. She's seen that grin before, seen him flash it at the Capitol girls in the front row, seen him smile that exact smile at the girl on fire, seen his lips curl, red and ready around his white, sharp teeth, like a predator sensing the imminent surrender of his prey.
Clove is not prey. Clove is a wolf.
She slams the hilt of her knife hard against his ribs, suddenly furious, throat suddenly tight, hits him in the chest and then the throat until he's doubled over, until she pushes him up to the tree, until she reverses their position with her knife pressed snug against his Adam's Apple, a single trickle of blood making its way down his throat.
"Listen to me," she pulls his head down, whispers into his ear. "I don't care who you fuck. I don't care what you do. You embarrassed our District. You embarrassed me. I won't have you doing that again."
His voice is caught, tight and hoarse in his throat, not entirely from pain. She can feel his heart beating, rapidly beneath her hand, remembers with a flash that he can run for miles without his heartbeat changing. She wonders what's making it so rapid now.
"Is that so?" He forces a laugh out, low and tight.
"Do it again," she hisses. "And this knife goes through your windpipe."
He stops, stands, watches her as she lowers her knife. He doesn't flinch when she reaches up, draws her finger across the cut in his throat, her skin marked red.
The blood of victors, she thinks as she leaves him there, draws her finger across her lip, her tongue lapping out to taste him.
She is on first watch.
She watches Glimmer—what a stupid, stupid name, she thinks angrily—curl in close to his chest, watches the bitch tuck her head in beneath his throat, watches her hands clench and unclench in Cato's shirt.
Clove had found a book once, in a dusty corner of the Academy's limited library, from the Pre-Era, a book with intricate illustrations and serif fonts, a book about pirates with hooks for hands and ships with skulls for flags and mounds and mounds of golden, looted treasure and battles with knives, bloody and quick.
Clove tilts her head, watches Glimmer's hair mixed with Cato's, thinks that in the dark they look almost the same. In the dark, it's the same shade of gold as treasure, as loot.
When she sees Glimmer's pale, bloated body on the ground, Clove smiles.
Not so pretty now, she thinks, and slams a foot into her ribs. Cato doesn't say a thing.
"The bitch is dead." She says, and when she looks up, he is smiling, eyes narrowed. He doesn't so much as blink.