"So, you grew up in a bakery?" Katniss wrinkled her nose, looking over at Peeta from her spot beside the open window. She loved the breeze and that they were high enough that less of the sky was obstructed by neighboring rooftops than most of the buildings around them.

"Yes," Peeta smirked. "Why are you looking at me like that?"

"I don't know, it just seems a bit-" Katniss cut cut herself off with a brief grimace. "I just didn't imagine that for you."

"It's no Indian palace, your highness," Peeta joked. He knew the story she'd constructed for herself was a complete lie. Katniss wasn't a princess. She wasn't even Indian. Her features covered for it, of course. Her dark hair, that even in the sunlight shone the color of deep mahogany. Her olive skin, that seemed even darker against Peeta's own fair complexion. Katniss blushed faintly, smiling and looking out the window again. He watched her for a moment before pulling a tray of rolls from the oven. "It had its benefits, though."

"Do you see them often?" Katniss asked, her voice wistful. "Your brothers, I mean."

"I haven't seen either of them since I enlisted," he moved to sit on the edge of the windowsill. "The oldest moved out years before that. The other is still at the bakery, as far as I know." Katniss smiled briefly, though it didn't quite reach her eyes. "Do you have any siblings?" She looked up at him and took a hesitant breath, her eyes slipping out of focus as she weighed whether or not to tell him.

"A sister," she finally said, dropping her gaze. It was the first bit of her actual history that she'd admitted out loud in years.

"You sound sad," Peeta observed.

"I haven't seen her in years," Katniss looked out the window again. "I send money to her as often as I can."

"Where is she?" Peeta asked. Katniss' expression tightened, but she didn't answer. "You still don't trust me? You know everything there is to know about me."

"I have to keep her safe," Katniss said softly. Peeta shifted closer and took both of her hands in his. He leaned forward and pressed a kiss to her forehead.

"I could help with that," he said.

"Maybe."

"Katniss," Peeta squeezed her hands, waiting for her to turn her attention toward him. "I can."

"I know," she said. Katniss stood, allowing the front of her robe to fall open as she took his face in her hands and kissed him. He wound his arms around her waist, beneath her robe, pulling her closer. She drew in a sharp breath as he snagged her lip between his teeth, moving to stand up from the sill. Katniss pushed him back, standing to pull her robe from her shoulders and allowing it to fall to the floor. She smiled at him as she knelt between his legs, keeping her eyes on his while she unbuttoned his pants, tugging the zipper down. Her eyes fluttered closed as she took his cock into her mouth.

One Month Later

Peeta sat on the floor in the doorway to his kitchen, his back against the frame, hands pressed over his face. The newspaper lay scattered across the floor, his kitchen table and one of the chairs still upended on the linoleum. He dropped his head back against the wood and took a deep, shuddering breath. It felt even more cruel that he was mere hours too late to put a stop to anything. That morning, she'd still been alive. Barely half a day before she'd still been breathing. He'd been mapping his inventory of candidates who could have pushed her to her death. It was a short list, but it was enough to calm him down.

He leaned forward, shuffling through the pages in search of the article, and sat back to resume reading. The words were a blur at first, and Peeta forced himself to focus on them.

The Mockingjay was born Katniss Everdeen, eldest daughter of businessman Silva Everdeen. The ruthless industry baron built himself from the ground up, a noble feat, had it not been done on the backs of those around him. Though her tale of royal Indian lineage was far from the truth, her father's profits entitled the young Katniss to a true life of luxury. Her childhood was spent in their vast home in the Netherlands, servants tending to her every whim. She was her father's darling.

There had been a few moments when Peeta had coaxed a bit out of Katniss about her past. She was scant with details, never giving quite enough to identify or locate anyone. He wasn't even entirely sure her father was still alive. But she was uneasy talking about him, and not in the way she was about her sister. Her caution in that regard had only ever been for the girl's protection. When it came to her father, though, Katniss rarely spoke of him with fondness.

Peeta had always imagined her fictitious past had been as much a ploy to distance herself from whatever the man had done as it was to protect her family. He'd caught her, more than once, tucking away the majority of her weekly pay into the mail. He'd caught a glimpse of the tiny apartment she lived in before they left Paris. None of that pointed to childhood lived in luxury, or a sister still living that life.

She had known how to conduct herself though, with an air of decorum women in her line of work could rarely maintain. Whenever he'd seen her in public her clothing had been elegantly tailored, with a genuinely exotic flair that hinted at her time abroad. Something it had taken him months to realize wasn't fabricated like so much else about her. Even on stage, she draped herself in silk and jewels. It wasn't until he'd begun taking her home, until he'd seen it all up close that he realized her gowns were mended and the silks fraying at the seams. Her jewels were colored glass. Where had things gone wrong for her?

It seems the Mockingjay inherited her father's penchant for dishonesty and greed. What she flouted as a royal Indian pedigree that included fine features, dark skin, and jet black hair, were little more than her father's thieving gypsy background softened by a beautiful Dutch mother. Once she relocated to Paris, Katniss exploited her features as a dancer, banking on hapless men who would happily empty their wallets for a touch of the East.

Peeta stood, nearly crumpling the paper in his hand as he did. They'd met in Paris. A few of his fellow officers had dragged him to a burlesque performance she was headlining. He'd heard of her, of course. And of course the papers simplified her talent as a singer and performer to dancing. He'd been guilty of the same, more than once.

Had he unwittingly become one of those men? Had she been using him the way she had the men who were before him? She herself had said even those men were mostly a lie. The rumors of a marriage in her past had been false as well. If she'd been using anyone at all, it couldn't have been him. Believing as much would only be buying into the vilification of Katniss, something he utterly refused. He'd known her. Truly known her as a person, even if he hadn't known her true history.

Reassuring himself, Peeta dropped down onto his couch. He stared out the window at the setting sun, remembering how much she adored the view, and the faint smile on her face when he'd confessed the same to her. He looked down at the folded newspaper in his hand and resumed reading.

As Silva Everdeen's fortune grew, the fates of those unlucky enough to do business with him grew more and more dismal. His greed drove two competitors out of business, leaving his already bloated subsidiaries to swallow up their assets. It wasn't until Everdeen's own partners began questioning his methods that things began to take a turn for the family. Silva Everdeen, along with his wife, two daughters, and not only his own fortune, but a significant portion of his partners' as well, relocated to India. It was there that the Mockingjay found both drive and inspiration for her wildly successful con artistry.