A bit shorter than usual, but I'm kind of in love with this update. Big thanks to hemsworthys/misshoneywell for campaigning far and wide to get the readership up on this. The response has been lovely and heartwarming. I'm really glad that people are getting excited about this fic because I've been slaving over notes for a few months now developing it. I also want to thank on lena-jade who is going to take on beta-ing this because it's about to turn into a plotting nightmare.
I jiggle the handle on the front door and recognize that it isn't locked. It's no surprise, there's so much security on the estate that there's really no reason to worry about an intruder. I learned this the hard way on the first night of our stay, when I snuck out into the dead of night in search of the comforting arms of the woods.
A pack of pit bulls had picked up my scent almost instantly and chased me clear up a tree. No more than a minute could have passed before the blinding blades of a dozen flashlights were trained directly at me and a fleet of security guards were circling the trunk of the oak like hawks. Apparently they handed out generous bonuses for snatching up trespassers, imagine their disappointed to learn they had bagged Leir's sweet young grand daughter.
The dogs couldn't help their mistake, really, they'd been trained from birth to smell out my kind. It only required a few easy trades of entrails before I'd earned their loyalty and they allowed me wonder the yards freely. They would have made great hunting dogs if they weren't so brutal with their prey.
When I push open the door I'm immediately met by my cousin, Finnick and his sea green eyes. "Is this where I express outrage and dismay over my dear cousin being violated on my very own premises?" He says, and folds his arms over his chest in an authoritative manner.
I open my mouth to speak, but I'm too mortified to form words. "You were watching?" I finally say.
"I'm not sure I approve of this Peeta boy," he continues, and moves to the window where he delicately draws back the lace curtains with his pointer finger to peer back up the drive. "His intentions seem to compromise your virtue."
Finnick is one to talk about virtue, he's been tied to every socialite on the Eastern Seaboard – generally scantily clad on some yacht, docked in the Mediterranean.
My grandfather, Leir Odair, had three daughters. Aunt Goneril, the eldest, married some meek, traveling salesman named Alby. Initially, she adopted his surname, but when Circenex's stock went on the rise, establishing the good Odair name, she returned to her maiden name and even passed it along to her newborn son, Finnick, the Heir to Odair.
My Aunt Regan didn't have any children, and since my mother was excommunicated from the family, Prim and I weren't considered, leaving Finnick the sole bearer of the legacy.
The Prince of Panem, as he was often called, kept a high profile from childhood through adulthood. He was the greatest swimmer the town had ever seen, breaking every record in the state and even qualifying for the Olympic team when he was only fifteen years old. He won the bronze in his race, but accepted it proudly, joking that he preferred it to gold, since it matched the color of his hair.
Even at fifteen, Finnick gained much attention for far more than his swimming ability. He was tall, with golden skin, a perfectly sculpted body, and piercing eyes. Women of all ages lusted for him, but because of his age, his exposure was restricted to modest teen magazine spreads.
It wasn't until his second Olympic appearance that Finnick Odair's popularity could truly be appreciated. In this competition, he was forced to settle with three gold medals instead of his signature bronze. Those accolades were rarely recalled however, when compared to the media sensation that revolved around his beauty. At nineteen, those who had drooled over him when he was untouchable could openly display their affection, and Finnick, flirt that he is, was more than willing to oblige. He hasn't been photographed with the same woman twice ever since.
Finnick and his virtue on the other hand, have made quite the showing in front of the cameras. I still recall the magazine cover of Finnick's "virtue" hidden only by his Olympic medals.
"If I only knew the true weight of my maidenhood on your conscious, all these years I've been too busy with silly things like starving in poverty," I say. It's a cold thing to say, but I still haven't quite warmed to my new family. Since the Odairs welcomed us into their home, Finnick has acted as if we've been close our whole lives.
It's easy for him to forget, I suppose. He's enjoyed this luxury every day and has never been forced to know want, how could he even begin to relate?
"Katniss," he says, his charming facade shattering into something genuine. He moves to block my path as I head towards the staircase, but thinks better and steps aside. The grand entrance has two staircases that share a landing on the second floor, so trying to stop me this way isn't overly effective. Besides, Finnick doesn't want to pick a fight. I know he feels guilty for how his family had treated mine, and neither one of us know how to deal with that tension, so we just pretend it isn't there.
My bedroom is in a private wing that I share with my mother and Prim. There's a sitting room and office too that we rarely use, and a fully staffed kitchen that's on call every hour of the day. I'm not at all tired by the time I reach my room at the end of the hall, and I realize that sleep will most likely evade me. I pick up the phone to dial the kitchen and order something to eat, in hopes that it will help settle my stomach.
While I wait, I decide to take a shower to help wash away the evening's scum. The shorts and shirt I had been wearing earlier in the day – that I had discarded in a crumpled pile on the floor, have already already been cleaned and folded in a neat pile on my dresser. The house staff is managed by this eccentric woman, Effie Trinket. She thinks that following us on our heels with a mop and broom to clean up our trail is somehow efficient, even if the staff ends up cleaning the same length of floor a hundred times in one day.
The closet in my bedroom is twice the size of the room I used to share with Prim in our old home. There are racks of designer clothing on delicate wooden hangers and an entire wall lined with every shape and color shoe imaginable. All of my old clothing burned in the fire, which was probably for the best since most of my tee shirts were thread worn and the rips in my jean weren't an expensive fashion statement. Instead of giving us a limitless credit card to replace our wardrobe, Effie hired a personal shopper, Cinna.
He picked some amazing pieces, but I can't help but feel out of place wearing them. He seems to recognize this, because occasionally I find loose fitting jeans and simple tee shirts mixed between the racks of sundresses and silk blouses. I pick out a pair of cotton shorts and a tee shirt that feels exceptionally soft when I run my fingers over it.
My room also has it's own bathroom, another novelty that seemed unnecessary. The shower and the tub are separate and there's even a door that divides the toilet from the rest of the room as if it were a high traffic area for multiple occupants. The shower is very modern with multiple heads that pop out from different parts of the wall. It took longer than I'd care to admit to figure out how to work the contraption, water shooting from every spout but the one I'd intended, and music playing while lights flashed from beneath the tiles.
Now I have all the settings worked out, and with a few purposed keystrokes on the control panel, I'm standing beneath a warm stream of water, lathering myself with a soap that feels like silk against my skin. I scrub away the memory of the Cap party, like it's dirt beneath my fingernails that can easily be washed away. I draw the sponge to my neck, and can feel the slick pressure of Peeta's lips against my throat, it makes me pause. Perhaps there are some memories from this night that I'm willing to keep.
I think about the heated kisses we shared in the front seat of his car. The building desire that tightens in my chest and causes every muscle in my body to clench. Just the thought of it, as I sweep the sponge across my breast, causes the increasingly familiar buzz to hum between my legs. I'm only beginning to find comfort in this pleasure when I remember Leevy, stretched out naked in some stranger's bed as some grotesque Capitol kids take advantage of her.
Almost instantly, I shut off the stream of water, feeling disgusted with myself. I dry my body with a towel that feels too soft and too plush. I don't bother to blow dry my hair, instead I only braid it, in order to keep the wet strands from clinging uncomfortably to my back.
By the time I've exited the bathroom, there's a tray of food waiting on my desk with one of those decorative silver lids that makes it look unnecessarily fancy. I stare at my bowl of soup as if the best way to absorb it is through your eyes. There's a basket of artisan bread that accompanies it and I select a slice that's dense and hearty with various types of seeds. I dip the bread into the creamy broth, but am unable to find the strength to lift it to my mouth. All I can think of is Leevy, and how my disruption of her arrangement will mean she most likely won't have any food on the table tomorrow. I drop the bread into he soup, sliding it across the table and hiding it from sight with the giant silver lid.
I'm still not tired, but there's nothing left for me to do but sit here trapped in my thoughts. I return to the bathroom and pull open all the drawers and cabinets until I stumble across the small capsule of pills. I don't bother checking the dosage, instead I tap three pills into my hand and swallow them dry. These are prescription, from my newly appointed therapist, to help soothe my anxiety after I'd complained that I had a hard time sleeping. Some nights they offer me an escape into dreamless sleep, but most days I become trapped in my nightmares. I don't have a good feeling about tonight.
By the time my head hits the pillow, I'm swallowed into the warped aisles of Arena grocery store. High in the rafters, I spot Rue, poised on the steel beams and standing lookout like a guardian angel. She giggles as she leaps about as if she were skipping over tree boughs. Suddenly she freezes and her face grows pale. She points into the darkness and no matter how close I move towards it, I can never see what she sees.
I race down every aisle and they swirl together like a maze for a mouse. I feel like I've traveled miles even though the store is only a couple thousand square feet. I find the doors to the stock room, but when I push through them, I'm suddenly transported to the woods. It's dark and the branches twist in my path in a treacherous way. I hear what I think is the howl of a coyote, but it's followed with the whoops and cackles that are distinctly human.
"Katniss, run!" I hear Peeta shout and I do, but I don't run away, as his voice intended, instead I run towards it.
"Peeta!" I shout. I push away the branches and they cut at my flesh, but I continue on undeterred.
He's just come into sight when there's a loud crack. The room turns red from the blood that leaks from his leg and Peeta's eyes lock on mine, wide and in shock before he collapses lifelessly to the floor.
"Peeta!" I scream again, but this time it's into the empty darkness of my bedroom.
The air conditioning leaves the house cool and dry, but when I wake I'm covered in a cold sheen of sweat. My sheets are wrapped around my ankles, binding them tightly so that I'm immobile. Outside, another crash of thunder crackles through the sky, sending a rumble through the walls. Water falls in a thick sheet that drums in erratic beats against the roof.
My heart pounds so loudly that if deafens my ears. I dig my fingers into the plush mattress, hoping to ground myself to reality, but it's no use. I need to find Peeta. I need to make sure he's safe.
I throw on a sweatshirt and a pair of boots and climb out my bedroom window. There's a trellis that runs along this wall that is more than capable of supporting my weight, and I scale down it with ease.
The rain weighs me down as it soaks through my clothing, and I feel my limbs grow heavy with every stride. There's a fence that separates our estates that's two meters high, and even slick with water, it's no challenge for me to clear. I collapse into his yard, the ground soft and muddy beneath my feet, and I scramble through it to regain my sprint like pace.
Peeta's room is on the second floor, like mine, but there's a giant Oak tree in front of it, with a sturdy branch that stretches out a few meters above the sill. I grip the rough bark and hoist myself up its length. My breath hitches in my throat and I let out a cry that's swallowed by the sound of thunder as I hitch my leg over the trunk. I shimmy across the branch and fall into the window that's always open, even when it's raining.
I medicate to try and find sleep, but Peeta avoids the concept all together. Instead he watches television through the night, usually cooking shows, and takes notes on loose leaf for tweaks in recipes or dishes he'd like to try. There's a stack of paper as tall as the lamp on his desk from all the nights he's evaded his nightmares.
"Couldn't sleep?" He asks, his voice light but his smile sad.
I restrain myself from darting across the room to take him in my arms, and resign myself to accept the sight of him alive, and okay as a suitable alternative. My breath settles, along with my heartbeat, my anxiety drowning in the rain.
"Not on nights like this," I say, and nod towards the storm outside.
His eyes flit over me. "You're soaked," he says. He turns his chair so that it's facing me and folds his hands in his lap. "Do you need to take a shower?"
"I already have," I say, then look down at the pool of water that's forming at my feet. "Twice, apparently." I strip my sweatshirt over my head and hold it at arms length, unsure of what to do with it. "Maybe a dry shirt," I say.
He stands and takes the drenched article from me. "I think I may have one or two I could spare," he says, moving to the bathroom to drop the hoodie into the tub, before disappearing into his closet. He reappears with a fresh tee shirt and a pair of gym shorts.
I accept them and slip off my soiled clothing before he has the chance to turn away. I'm still wearing my underclothes, and we've seen one another in only our swim suites often enough this summer to bother hiding my modesty.
"What are you watching?" I ask, untucking my braid from the collar of my shirt.
He lifts the remote towards the television and the screen goes blank. "Cupcake Wars," he says sheepishly, tossing the controller back onto his desk. "Some of their filling combinations are really interesting."
"You don't have to turn it off," I say. I don't mind staying up, in fact I'd almost prefer it.
"No, it's fine," he says. "Would you like to lay down?"
Peeta's bed is larger than mine, but there comes a point where the extra square feet of mattress makes little difference. He sweeps all the unnecessary pillows to the floor and draws back the comforter. Peeta's family has a fleet of servants too, that make up his bed with elaborate dressings, which go unappreciated because they only represent an additional hurdle in the bedtime routine.
I climb into bed, settling onto the side that has been distinguished as "mine" and pull the sheet to my chin. He follows suit and lays down beside me. He picks up his pillow and drops it next to mine, so that we can lie more closely. I welcome his proximity and abandon my pillow to rest my head on his chest instead.
The sound of his heartbeat fills my ear, and for once when my eyes slip shut I feel calm instead of terror.
"What was it this time?" He says. One arm wraps around my waist, to hold me securely, while the other gently cups my cheek. The pad of his thumb traces the dark circles that run along my cheek bone, a telltale sign from my battle with sleep.
"We were trapped in Arena," I say into his chest. "I could hear Cato laughing, but I couldn't find you in time. I never get to you in time."
"I'm okay," he says, his voice a strangled whisper. "You saved me, remember?"
My eyes grow cloudy and I'm blinded by the tears that fill my eyes. They leak onto Peeta's tank, leaving a warm pool that quickly turns cool. His arms tighten around me and he begins to rock our bodies back and forth. "It's okay," he says over and over, like if he chants it enough, I'll believe him.
"It's all my fault," I hiccough. "I shouldn't have been so arrogant. You could have been killed."
"Katniss," he says, lifting my body from his so that I'm forced to look at him. "Nothing you did justified Cato pulling a gun. In no way are you responsible for a bullet going through my leg."
The thought of it sends another chill down my spine. I push down the sheets to our feet and sit up. My fingers go to the hem of his boxer shorts, lifting them up his thigh until the pink, dimpled scar is exposed. The color is still deep and tender to the tough. He flinches when I trace it, but I need to be sure that the barrier won't break.
I bend down to drop a kiss to his scar and his entire body shudders in response.
"See," he says tightly. "I'm okay."
Content, I lay my head back on his chest, and he lifts the sheets to canopy over our bodies. His kisses my forehead and smooths his hands up and down my back, while I focus on the steady thud of his heartbeat.
It's completely different from the heated passion we shared earlier. While I enjoy the kissing, this physical comfort seems essential to my survival. I've taken it on as my duty to make sure that this boy, this man is safe, because it is only in his arms now, that I can find sanity. And this feeling leaves me more terrified than any of my nightmares.
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