Sorry for the delay on this! Work had an art benefit this Wednesday and I've been lacking on the sleep since then. I literally woke up today at 2:45pm. Who am I? I wasted the whole day. I hate this.
A little warning for this chapter: the "T" rating goes up pretty strong, but I don't think it makes it to what "M" entails.
Let's Kill (Tonight)
Part Eleven
strength | streNG(k)TH
noun
the emotional or mental qualities necessary in dealing with situations or events that are distressing or difficult
synonyms: resilience, backbone, spirit
It really is a beautiful night.
The stars wink above the world, bright and full, and there is not a cloud in the sky. Massie would consider this, maybe even stand still and live in it, but she's angry, so angry, that none of this registers. Not the cold as it seeps into her bones, or the whimsical whistle of the wind as it flirts with the ends of her hair.
No, all she sees is red, and the train station as it looms closer.
A rebellion meeting. They took her to a rebellion meeting. Why does everyone think she's suddenly part of this when she's not? She did nothing for their cause, nothing deliberate, and she's not going to start now. Let them use her selfish actions for what they're not, sure, but do not incorporate her in it. She doesn't care.
Not even after Angela's impassioned speech, not even after the other Victors involved—Cam's friends—told her the things that happened to them, not even after Derrick—
She grits her teeth and presses on, feet aching in her shoes. She ignores that sting the same way she ignores the calling of her name behind her. She has to get on that train, has to do what is expected of her, has to tour the country.
If she does everything right, maybe, just maybe…
She can't be part of their rebellion. She can't.
A hand grabs her elbow and tugs. She trips into a turtleneck and strong chest and she wants to get away. He doesn't let her.
"Massie," Derrick says, Derrick pleads.
She looks at him, at his beautiful face, and his beautiful eyes, and the way he is gazing at her like a sad, beaten down puppy, and she—
She slaps him.
The sound seems to echo in the silence around them.
Pink colors his cheek, evolving into an angry scarlet, her handprint shining against his skin. He blinks at her, surprised, and reaches up to touch her wrist. She lets him, confused by her own actions. "I'm not," she starts. "I didn't…"
She averts her gaze, refusing to be pulled in by the look on his face, and finally settles on, "Pull that shit with me again and I'll do more than slap you."
She doesn't mean it. She doesn't want him to realize she doesn't mean it.
Derrick drops her hand, brings his palms up to hold her cheeks, and murmurs, "Massie."
"Stop saying my name," she forces out.
His eyes sparkle—she really hates that—and he says it again, her name, because he knows for some odd reason it has an affect on her. She breathes sharply and loudly through her nose, big inhale, big exhale, and pushes all of her weight into her heels. She will not let him win by being kind, and pretty, and, and, and—and himself.
God, it takes all of her resolve not to fall into him right now.
All of it.
The Capitol really fucked her up, didn't it? Or maybe it's not even their fault, maybe she fucked herself up.
It doesn't matter who did it, though, because everything she'd been mad about seems to evaporate: all the stories and the words, all the information, all the insinuations. Just one look from him, just one measly look, and she'd agree to just about anything. What happened to the girl that wanted to kill him? She's gone now. Withered away, like flowers in the winter. Massie misses her.
She scrounges her up, pieces of her at least, and finds that it's not the murderous version of herself she misses. It's the one that had thoughts, opinions, feelings all her own. The one… the one that entered that arena, bright-eyed and ready for anything. The girl who didn't rely too heavily on a boy, no matter the circumstance.
That girl is in her somewhere, hiding, forced away. She's the one that says, "I do not want to be part of the rebellion. I am not part of the rebellion. I didn't do anything for it."
"Massie," Derrick begins, and he wants to say more. She sees him form the words, but she beats him to the punch, not eager to feel guilty about her own wants. She only just started getting those back.
"I only wanted you," she tells him and she's so annoyed it sounds like a threat. He doesn't even falter at her tone, merely grins, fucking glowing at this revelation. "I only want you. I'm not doing a single thing they tell me to do. I am not… not a rebel, not a sympathizer. I am nothing. Nothing but yours."
He tugs at her hair, twisting it around his fingers, and tucking it behind her ear. "And I am yours," he whispers back, soft, strong, definite, "and I want you, too, but if he's… but with the world the way it is, we can't have each other the way we want. We can't have anything we want."
"If I do everything right," she insists, echoing her previous thoughts, "maybe I—we can. Maybe…"
"Maybe isn't enough, Massie," he says roughly. "I'm not holding on to maybe."
There is something so terrible about knowing this.
"I told you," Josh Hotz snaps on his way past, not even bothering to apologize as he purposely slams his shoulder against hers. Guess their short-lived friendship is over. Derrick covers the spot with his palm. "She's too much of a Capitol darling to even consider it. Drop her, Derrick. She's not worth it."
Derrick stiffens. "Don't recall asking for your opinion."
Josh smirks, spinning around. "You didn't, but no one ever asks for an opinion, do they?"
"I wish they had asked Sage to come tonight instead of you."
That smarmy grin falters so quickly it's startling, and Josh's handsome face sobers. Massie doesn't think she likes him much, but she decides she doesn't like him looking sad. She chalks it up to not wanting to feel bad for him.
"There's no one here to torture her with," he replies easily, like that isn't the worst sentence Massie has ever heard. "There's nothing entertaining about someone so unfazed by this life of ours." He forces his mouth up in amusement, but it comes out as a grimace. "Grin and bear it, am I right, Massie?"
"Shut it," Derrick hisses.
"Come on," Josh goads, "she's got to know. She's his goddaughter, after all… tell me, Massie, did he ask what you thought of him turning your boy toy into a high-end prosti—"
"Shut up," Derrick interrupts, loud and powerful.
Massie watches their argument with wide eyes, hardly hearing any of the insults Josh has thrown her way. Derrick does not have his attention on her anymore, but he's never once let go of her. He squeezes her hip, where he's hooked his fingers, digging into her like a lifeline.
"There's no use in pretending it's not happening," Josh advises sagely. He's such a dick. "I've tried. I know. It's always happening, it will always happen, and you can't stop it." He smiles again, successfully this time. It is thin and forced and mean. He rakes his gaze over Massie, picking her apart, searching her, and adds, "Maybe if more terrible things happen to her she'll care more. It has to be personal for her, doesn't it? Can't believe she even found it in herself to like you, D. She clearly only likes herself."
Massie lurches forward to grab Derrick before he can throw himself at Josh, his body shaking with the intensity of his anger. Anger problems, she remembers thinking about him, in her hospital bed. She wonders very idly, holding him around the middle, what would happen if she just… let go.
Who would win this fight? Derrick, big and strong, or Josh, lean and sculpted, built like a swimmer?
That thought vanishes as her boy's voice rumbles in his chest, beneath her ear. "Just wondering," he says slowly, sliding his large hand down her dress to rest at her lower back, "what you think your fucking problem is."
Josh snorts. "You're not normally this dumb," he replies. "My problem is her." He thrusts a thumb at Massie, eying her distastefully. "Cam is getting fucked by everyone and everything because of her and everyone just expects me to help her out when she doesn't even want the help? I get that she got the short end of the stick, but there is nothing redeemable about her. And if there were, it wouldn't fucking matter, would it, because she's his goddamn goddaughter, and she's probably playing the same game as him, dealing the same cards as her cunt of a father. Who even knows! Maybe she's lying about what happened to her—"
Derrick drags her along with him as he strides forward. It is only her quick thinking and quicker reflexes that she ducks out of the way before his fist makes direct contact with Josh's nose.
A sickening crack, and then it's broken.
Massie feels like something's broken in her, too.
"Must be nice," Josh snips, sparing Massie a glance, "to have manipulated someone so thoroughly he'll attack the people who care about him." The muscle in his jaw jumps. "You can have him. Have Todd, too, whatever, but you can't have me, and you can't have Cam."
"I'll break your jaw, too," Derrick threatens.
But Josh has decided to put all of his attention on Massie, acting as if Derrick isn't even there. "He went back into that snake pit for you, Massie," Josh tells her. "He's doing damage control for you. He's never done that for me. He's never… I've always… I'm in love with him," he croaks, blood coating his mouth red. "I'm not—I'm not going to lose any more of him because of you. Get your shit together. Look past yourself and figure out what's really important here." He flicks his gaze to Derrick, who is still staring intently at him. "I'll see you on the train."
He's gone, not bothering to look back, and Massie watches him go, arms wrapped around her middle.
I'm in love with him. I'm not going to lose any more of him because of you.
Doesn't that sound familiar?
She sniffles, and she's not sure when she even started crying. She just knows that she is, and every part of her hurts, but nothing compares to the way her heart feels, all splintered and bruised. The pieces fall into her stomach, cutting her up inside.
I'm in love with him.
She's in love with someone, too.
Massie feels him approach before she sees him, like her body and her mind and what's left of her heart are so keenly attuned to him. Always aware that he exists. Always aware of him, regardless of her state of mind. She's spent months disliking him greatly, and then the time before that loving him—he's always been there. Hopefully he will always be there, even though she doesn't want what he wants.
Her blood sings when he touches her, fingers tentative on her shoulders. Her body reaches out for him, but she doesn't move, content to curl in her misery, in her self-pity, in her confusion.
"Is it so wrong?" she asks quietly, unnerved by the way he's staring at her. "To be selfish? Is that wrong of me?"
"Josh is a grade A asshole," Derrick informs her like she doesn't already know. "Ignore him."
She looks past him, towards the station. Trains wait there, lights on, for their occupants, and somewhere in there is Josh, upset with her very existence, and somewhere else a train waits for her, and for Cam, and for her father.
"But he's your friend," she finally says, remembering the way he said he cared about Derrick. "And he loves Cam. But I love Cam, too, and he… he can't—it's personal for him, too, if he's doing this because he loves Cam. He's as selfish as I am, if selfish is what I am, and I am fine with that. Do you want to know why?" She's rambling now, but she can't stop, words spilling out of her mouth like vomit. "Everyone rebels for personal reasons; no one does it for the greater good. No one just wakes up one day and says hey! I care about the suffering of everyone else, and definitely not my own, or that of the people I love, but complete strangers, and I want to save them! No, no one says that, no one is like that—"
"Hey, hey, hey," Derrick murmurs, pressing a featherlight kiss to her forehead. "Ignore him, okay? He's just—he's tired. It's been a long couple of months for us all."
Massie grabs at his elbows. "I don't want to be part of the rebellion," she tells him honestly, feeling sick with every word. "I don't. Maybe it is stupid of me, and maybe he's right, maybe I'm not worth it, but I really believe if I do what they ask of me, they'll give me something. I have to believe it. If I don't… if I don't…"
If she doesn't, what is there left to believe in?
"Don't you ever say that," Derrick says. "Don't you… you're worth it. You've been worth it since the day I met you."
He is so earnest, so open, that she finds herself searching his face for answers to questions she hasn't even allowed herself to consider. Questions she doesn't want to consider, not really. She finds everything in the cleft of his chin, in the slope of his jaw, in the furrow of his brow.
"You," she breathes.
If she doesn't believe in that, she believes in him.
"What?" he asks, peering into her eyes in a way that makes her itchy.
"I'm sorry," she says, and then swallows. "If you want someone who wants the same things as you, I can't be that person."
"Weren't you listening?" he asks. "You're the only person I want. You'll always be the only person I'll ever want. I'd love you if you were all those things Josh said you were. I'd love you if you were the poorest person in the country." He smiles, just a twist of the lips. She can't tell if it looks sad or not, but it tugs at her heartstrings anyway, wherever those are. "You don't have to be part of the rebellion. No one was asking that of you."
"Angela was," Massie says. "She wanted me to… to…"
"And she heard an earful from me for even suggesting it," Derrick promises her. "You will never have to play crazy, not for Angela, not for the Capitol, not for me."
"It's not playing if it's what I am," Massie mutters, "and I don't want to be defined by one thing. I don't want to exploit myself when it's convenient."
Derrick shakes his head. "You are not," he argues. "You're not crazy. Not even a little bit."
She wants to say something that matters, something about how his support of her, even after everything she's tried to do to him tonight, means a lot to her. Or something about how she thinks, despite the Capitol's brainwashing of her, she's always loved him, she just wasn't strong enough to hold on to it. She wants to thank him for his letters, especially, because those saved her life, but all she says…
All she says is, "I should go."
He frowns, eyes roaming over her face, quick, quick, quick, and clamors to grab her hands. She pulls them just out of reach, and she doesn't know why, because she wants him to hold them. He ignores her, takes them anyway, and links their fingers. She wonders if he feels the tremors there. She does. They don't even feel like her own right now. They feel like someone else's.
"Do you want company until one of them gets here?" he asks.
Yes, she thinks.
I don't want you to go at all, she thinks.
Stay with me forever, she thinks.
But she merely answers, "No," and shakes herself from him.
She doesn't look at him as she turns away. She climbs the steps to the tracks, as calmly and slowly as she can, and makes a beeline to the first train, her train. The doors there are open and inviting, waiting for her to cross the threshold, but she doesn't get a chance to.
Derrick's hand wraps around her wrist, stopping her before she can get onboard, before she can hide, and he twirls her around. She gasps, flush against his chest again, and blinks up, heart beginning to race, race, race at the look on his face. At the… at the heat of the hunger she finds there, written in the brown of his eyes and the flare of his nostrils.
"Why do you say no," he begins to ask, voice low and husky and stoking the fire that builds within in her with every passing second she meets that heavy stare of his, "when you really mean to say yes?"
Massie bites down on her lower lip, siphoning through all the words she knows, but finds herself so transfixed with the way Derrick is all but devouring her she cannot remember a single one. She has none—no witty response. Not even anything mean to say. She has nothing. Nothing.
Derrick feeds off this, and whatever she is giving off.
"I'm going to ask again and I want you to be honest," Derrick tells her, sparking with authority. He brings himself closer, if that's even possible, dropping his head so their noses brush. She shudders. "Do you want company?"
At the word company, she imagines hot mouths and slow kisses, soft sounds and tangled limbs.
Derrick must read her mind, or it's written all over her face, for his eyes darken as he waits. His breath stutters, hitches, practically stops when she takes her hands and slips them under his sweater.
She drags her nails up the warm skin of his chest, feels his heart as it pounds against his ribcage. She keeps pushing, keeps touching, keeps feeling, committing this body to memory, until she's coaxed him out of his turtleneck. It drops to the ground, leaving him half-naked before her, and she winds her arms around his neck, tugging him close, close, close, close.
Still, he waits for her answer, even though it is so blindingly obvious. His thumbs tease at her hipbones, applying pressure against the fabric there, and Massie says, she says, she says—
Massie says, "Yes."
It is one syllable, but that one syllable is enough to spur on what she can only describe as the thing that brings her back to life. He ducks his head to kiss her, hands sliding up the length of her body to dig into her hair, pulling her face up to meet his in a way that is easily accessible to him.
This is nothing like the other kisses they shared, today and any other time; it makes her forget literally everything that has ever happened to her. Every good thing, every bad thing—there is only him. Only Derrick, and his perfect lips, and his large hands, and the feel of him beneath her fingertips.
If someone wanted to ask her what her name was right now, she wouldn't be able to tell them. She doesn't know it. Can't think straight enough to figure it out. She only remembers it when it's breathed against her skin—like a prayer, like an answer, like he's found everything he's ever wanted, everything he's ever asked for, in the shape of her mouth.
…
They find her bed.
She only knows it's hers because it still somehow smells like the lavender baths she'd taken too many of as they traveled the length of the upper districts.
They find her bed, and they do not leave it.
…
He says, "I need you to say it," on three separate occasions.
It is always yes.
Yes, as he pulls her dress up the length of her body,
yes, as he marvels at the build of her, of the parts of her he hasn't been able to see until now,
yes, as she reaches shaking hands to undo his belt.
…
When her "yes" is small and hardly a sound, she says, "Now you."
He blinks as if he's never considered this, and she parrots him, somehow knowing this means a lot to him, even if he is seemingly unaware of it. "I need you to say it. Yes or no?"
The smile he gives her is small. It is soft. It is just for her. She wants to paint it to the inside of her eyelids, on the off chance she forgets everything that's happened—but she won't, that's not possible, not anymore—and wonders about him.
"Yes," he answers.
"Yes," she returns, a fourth time.
…
He does not ask again.
…
"I'm sorry for slapping you," Massie murmurs, brushing her thumb against his cheekbone, where she is certain she can still see the ghost of her handprint. It does not help that his skin is flushed.
Derrick's eyes consume her. "I'm sorry for taking you to the rebellion meeting."
"It's okay," she says.
"You slapped me because of it," he replies softly, teasingly, though the joke of it all falls flat. "It's not." He twists amongst her sheets, burying his face in the sweat-soaked skin of her neck. "You haven't been honest with me."q
"I haven't had any contact with you since that last day in the arena," she retorts.
He presses a kiss to her throat and lifts his head, looking up at her from beneath his lashes. "Tell me what happened. Tell me it all."
Massie wonders when she'll ever get over how pretty he is, even as he hovers over her, pink-cheeked and mussed—especially as he hovers over her, pink-cheeked and mussed. She reaches a hand out again to trace the sharp, strong lines of his face, and cannot fathom how she'd ever been weak enough to forget him like this.
Like this: soft, doting, selfless, considerate.
How had she let them turn him into something else? Something that is not wholly hers?
Easy. They took away her control. She needs to remember that. She didn't do this to herself. They did. The Capitol did. She's had the answers in front of her this whole time, but refused to see them because she was too stubborn, too prideful. The Capitol—no, stop lumping them all together. The president—it was the president—he counted on that fault of hers. He knew she would never allow herself a moment of self-doubt, knew exactly what to do and how to egg her on. Knew exactly how to control not only herself, but her whole family.
And she just let it happen. They all just let it happen.
Why doesn't she want to be part of the rebellion again?
Oh, that's right. She's scared, and her fear does not spur her into that fight, but keeps her right where she is.
"Tell me what happened to you," she requests.
"There is not much to tell," Derrick answers, and that is a lie. "I said the wrong things and angered the wrong people and now I am left with a father who hates me."
Massie forces herself to ask, "But why?"
He snakes an arm around her waist, fingers drifting across her naked hipbone. She hums in contentment, the motion nice, and waits. Waits for him to say, "I thought I was better than them. I found out I was wrong too late."
She blinks, expecting more.
He adds, "They only teach you how to play one game. They never tell you there are others and you do not get to choose your own pieces."
"Derrick," she presses, "I need you to tell me why."
"I already did," he replies, voice barely a breath. "In the letters. Or did you not read them?"
"Of course I read them," Massie shoots back, startled he'd even ask such a question. "I read them so many times I could recite them." She feels the heat creep up her neck and to her cheeks, and regrets her haircut once more when she cannot hide her reddening skin with the shake of her head. "Those letters saved my life." For once she is not being overdramatic.
Derrick shifts closer, looking like he wants to kiss her again—and she wants him to, wants him to do more than kiss her—but then he thinks otherwise, pulling away. He tries to untangle himself from her, movements insistent and choppy, like he's just remembered where he is and what he's doing. Massie doesn't let him, even as he rasps, "Then you know."
Even as he pleads, "Don't make me say it."
"Whatever it is," she tells him, craning her neck to brush her mouth against his jawline, "it does not matter. It does not define you."
Just as her emotional instability does not define her.
Just as her "crazy" does not define her.
Just as her brainwashing does not define her.
He cringes at her touch, though his hand travels the length of her spine to bury itself in her hair. "I can't believe I even touched you," he murmurs.
"I wish you would keep touching me," Massie returns, rough and full of longing, committing the dips and grooves of his body to memory with the pads of her fingertips.
Derrick swallows, knee nudging against her and spasming. "You can't possibly want me, knowing what I've done."
"Not what you've done," she argues, convincing him to feel just how much she does want him. "What they've made you do."
His hand between her thighs stills there. Prods. Then builds a tantalizing rhythm that forces Massie's hips into motion. She clamps down on a sigh, watching his face, and eases her legs wider.
What defines her is him, as she is what defines him.
"You are mine," she tells him, sees how the possession brings out those male, animalistic qualities in him. "Nothing they can do to you can ever change that. I wanted you first."
"I said your name once," he admits. "I used to spend a lot of time imagining it was you, and it—it just slipped."
"How many?" she asks.
"One a day, at the least," he mumbles. "Since my mother's death."
Massie tries to calculate that in her mind, but the number, as it steadily rises, only upsets her, even as a welcome, excited heat rises within her.
Her voice is a gasp. "Do you want to—again?"
"I want to forget every other time it wasn't you," he answers honestly.
She peers at him, wills herself to calm, and reaches a finger to draw down the side of his face. She thumbs at his lower lip, feels the moisture there, from where his tongue swiped earlier. "Were you the one who was always in control?"
Derrick bites down on that finger of hers, just a soft close of the teeth, and nods.
She bats his hand away from her, instantly missing his slow ministrations, and throws a leg over him so she can easily straddle him. "Then let me," she murmurs, "let me give you something to remember when it is not me."
"There will never be another time when it is not you." He chokes on the words as she grabs his wrists and squeezes, forcing them up and over his head. "I don't think I could bear it, now that I know—"
"No," she tuts, as he tries to mouth at her exposed skin, the parts of her closest to his face. "You do not touch me until I say so. You are not in control right now, Derrick. I am."
He groans, hips rolling, and Massie follows the movement, watches the dominance wash from his cheeks, lids heavy and jaw losing tension, before sitting up and slowly, so slowly, picking at each and every one of his threads until he comes undone beneath her.
He does not realize until much, much later that she effectively distracted him from questioning her further.
Does not realize that there was a moment there, in the feel of his lips, hot and heavy against hers, that she'd changed her mind.
…
She does not realize this either, but it comes to her slowly.
…
When Cam finally strides in, he doesn't even knock as he barges into Massie's room. She rouses from sleep, her body curled small and tight against Derrick's side, only when his cold turtleneck is thrown at the two of them.
"Left something outside," he snaps. "Don't be so stupid next time and clean up after yourselves." A pause. "We'll drop you in Four on the way to Twelve."
Massie thinks she catches a soft smile playing on his mouth but he is gone as quickly as sleep finds her again that she is unsure.
…
At the speed the train is going, Massie and Derrick only have about five days together until they hit District Four. They do not spend it wondering how their esteemed president—and her beloved godfather, a thing they have not discussed, not even breached, either—will punish them for it, but, rather, they spend it isolated, not even coming out for food.
It always seems to find them, though, the food. Like Cam, or the servants—more likely the servants—are making sure plates are left outside the door of her room or on the nightstands by the bed.
No one tries to take this away from them.
She can feel it in the air, the way it is fleeting. Their company. Their companionship. Time. Time is fleeting. Massie never felt that way before.
It stresses her out. Makes her uncomfortable. She wants to take the clock and break it, freezing time and allowing him to stay with her forever and ever.
But that is not how it works. Even if she destroyed all the clocks on this train, the seconds would still pass, and the minute hand would still turn, and the hours would still start to add up.
On what she thinks is day three, between what has to be noon and two, Massie whispers, "They tried to take you away from me. That's what happened to me. They tried to take you away from me."
She remembers a lot more now than she used to, and only lets herself worry for a moment that she will lose it all once Derrick is gone. He is the anchor she's been searching for, the anchor she's had since every piece of her started to evaporate in that arena. Maybe even before then, before she knew who he was—maybe she was always searching for him. Maybe she'd been trying to find him in a different boy. Maybe she'd only truly opened herself to finding him when she killed the person in her way.
Massie grabs his hand and links their fingers, holding on to what remains. Of him. Of her.
"They did that to me, too," Derrick replies, voice just above a whisper, mouth hovering somewhere over her ear.
"But it didn't work for you," she replies, even though he's never once told her so. She just knows. Knows that he's stronger than her. That he can face the obstacles being thrown their way. That she can't. "It worked for me."
Massie gnaws on her lower lip, fighting to hold his gaze as every nerve in her body screams for her to look away, and adds, "They made me forget you."
Derrick shakes his head slowly. "But you're right here," he denies, "with me. We've literally—for the past—we've been naked this whole time, Massie, you can't have forgotten me."
"Those letters saved my life," she reminds him, and then, even though her heart is racing and her voice is breaking, she tells a story.
A story of how a girl loved a boy, and that love was perceived as a threat to everyone else, so they tried to lock the girl up. Tried to make her the perfect weapon.
She tells a story of how that girl was not so wholly convinced. How certain things reminded her. Certain words. How she is not so sure all of that is good for them, how she thinks this might be what they want.
She tells a story of how this girl loves this boy, and she always will, with all her heart, even if there are other, more superficial feelings at play. She thinks the girl will always love the boy. Thinks she was born to love him. That she was made for this purpose and this purpose alone.
Massie tells Derrick that even in a room full of people, even if she were blindfolded, even if she lost all sense of smell, even if she touched everyone in the world and they all felt like him—she would find him. She would find him over and over and over again.
She tells him that her biggest weakness is him.
Her biggest weakness is him and it is not a secret. The whole world saw it.
"And you are mine," he whispers back, the first words he's said since she started speaking what feels like hours ago.
"Even when I am dead," she says, like she is dying tomorrow, or in a week, or in a month, "I will find you. In whatever afterlife awaits us, I will find you."
"You don't need to go looking for me," he breathes, grabbing her hands. Pulling her close, close, close. Close enough that their bodies are tangled and they are one. "I'm right here."
Massie nods, even though she knows he won't be, even though she knows that he doesn't mean physically, but rather nestled in her heart, always within reach.
…
When the train slows to a stop in District Four, Massie finds it hard to let go of Derrick's hand. They'd practiced this, after she told him everything, to see what would happen once they were apart.
An hour without him, she was fine.
Two—also fine.
Three—pretty much the same.
She couldn't bear four, so she didn't bother, seeking him out after she showered. She found him in the dining car, sharing a large plate of breads and cheeses with Cam. She'd perched on his lap, listening to them talk, and didn't bother wondering why they did not stop when she entered the room; they were talking about Angela's plans, about the rebellion, and Massie was still steadfastly not a part of it.
Now she faces her biggest test, and her mind reels through endless possibilities of what will happen to her. She is convinced this was all part of Myner's plan, that's why he didn't bother trying to stop this train, and squints into the bright sunlight of Four.
It's everything she imagined it would be.
Everything she can't have.
She can hear the waves, smell the sea. The laughter of children twists around her. The heat of the district consumes her, caresses her.
Derrick's entire being lights up, thrilled to be back, and Massie swallows, planting her feet. She wants to go with him, wants to be here, but she can't. The steady presence of Cam at her side reminds her that he feels the same. Somewhere in there is Josh, and he can't be with him either.
Not yet, her mind whispers. Not with Myner in power.
There is a tug on her hand, pulling her away and out of her thoughts, and she looks up into Derrick's sparkling eyes. The green ringed around them, thankfully, has begun to fade.
"Come on," he says.
Massie glances at Cam. He juts his chin ever so slightly.
"It's the least you can do," Derrick continues loftily. "I need an escort to make sure I get to Sage in one piece."
"Sage is here?" she asks.
Derrick nods excitedly, like he's about to see his sister, or someone else Massie accidentally got killed, again after a long, long time. "She wants to meet you," he tells her. "Officially."
Cam says, "I think I can distract the driver long enough to give you twenty minutes," and he's gone, scurrying between cars to reach the head of the train.
Massie frowns, watching him, but does not get a chance to worry about what he means by distract. Even though she's done nothing but ignore him for the past week, he's still doing all he can to give her what she wants.
Perhaps she's being a bit too cold.
But, again, that is not something she gets to worry about.
Derrick leads the way onto the platform, and Massie, not used to the brightness of the real sun, shields her eyes with her free hand.
It's hot, so hot, actually, that Derrick unbuttons the flannel he'd stolen from Cam's dresser, revealing the smooth, muscled stomach beneath. Massie stares, then looks away, and pretends he doesn't huff a laugh at her blatant ogling.
"Not even here for five minutes and you're already trying to take off your clothes," a distinctly feminine, sort of husky voice teases.
Massie has very little to feel self-conscious about, but she feels herself stiffen when Derrick speeds up, eager to greet the owner of this sexy drawl. She is suddenly empty when he lets go of her hand to throw his arms around Sage Redwood, engulfing her tiny form in his large one.
So empty, she feels, that she wraps up in herself, digging her nails into her elbows. This is what it will be like, when she has to turn around and leave him behind.
"I don't remember it being as warm when I left," Derrick finally quips in reply. "Forgive me."
Sage slaps his abdomen. "Move," she orders. "I want to see your pretty little lady."
"But I miiiiissed you," he whines, keeping his chin on the top of her head. "Let me love you."
"Uck," Sage retorts. "No, thank you. Move."
He doesn't.
She pinches his side.
He yelps and shifts, frowning at her as she takes in Massie, who greets weakly, "I never got a chance to thank you for the cake."
Sage bats a hand. "Compliments of a swanky bakery in the Capitol that now has some sort of pastry named after you," she replies. "S'nothing. Glad you didn't throw it up, honestly. It was a poorly planned gift."
"From what I remember, it tasted good," Massie says. "Really all that matters."
The woman stands before her now, and she's even prettier than Massie could have imagined up close. Tanned, like Derrick, with hair that reminds her of the outdoors, seamlessly transitioning between colors as the light hits it, like a tree in the fall. She smiles wide, taking in all of Massie, from her head to her toes, and pulls her into a hug.
Well. She's more of a hugger than a handshaker, she guesses.
"It's so great to finally meet you!" Sage exclaims, squeezing tighter. Massie pats her back. "Derrick talks about you so much I felt like I already knew you, but he certainly lacks the vocabulary your beauty demands."
"Oh my god." Derrick groans.
Massie smirks, meeting his gaze over Sage's shoulder. "Is that so?"
It is with immense pleasure that she sees pink burst in his cheeks. He looks away, towards the horizon, and busies himself with the shedding of the flannel entirely. He ties it around his waist, runs a hand through his hair.
Delighted, Massie whispers loudly, "You've made him so uncomfortable he's decided to take the entire shirt off."
Sage howls, spinning around. "Not so suave now," she shoots at him. "I should've used her against you more often." To Massie, she adds, "Did he tell you about how he refused to help me with dinner once because he quote, unquote hates fish?"
"I do hate fish!"
"That's not very nice, Derrick," Massie tells him. "She made sure you got out of that arena alive, it's the least—"
"I believe it was you that got me out of that arena alive," Derrick interrupts. "No offense, Red."
"None taken." Sage smiles again, a huge grin that's, quite frankly, a bit disarming. "That was quite the stunt you pulled. Did you know it was going to work out like that?"
Flashes of that wood, of the bodies of lion mutts around them, of the sheer terror and desperation that punched her in the gut—it fills her brain now, fills her body now, and she remembers just how hopeless she felt. She can see it all, the way Derrick's blood flows down his leg like a rushing river, the way everything seemed out of focus but so very, very clear as she made her decision.
She hears Derrick hiss something at Sage in real time, probably a reprimand, but it's fine, it is, she doesn't know like he knows what happened to her. And she needs to embrace it all anyway, doesn't she? Needs to find a balance between casual remembrance and overall takeover.
She blinks and then answers, "No. I had no idea what would happen." The arena vanishes from her mind's eye, replaces itself with the district surrounding her. The only constant is Derrick, who bites at his lower lip, watching her intently. "I just knew I didn't want to live without him. Everything else was secondary."
He smiles, lip still caught in his teeth, and Sage coos, looking between the two of them.
It is suddenly like Derrick is the only person at the station, the only person in the world, and she can tell by the way he replaces his teeth with his tongue, his eyes narrowing in on her, that he's got a similar feeling.
"I love you, too, you doof," he says.
Massie memorizes this, the same way she's memorized every other interaction she and Derrick had over the past five days. She tucks it away to be pulled out later, like all the others. This one, though, is different. It seems like… like a promise of something. Of something she doesn't want to admit she's started holding onto in her heart. Of something she's wanted with each morning she's woken to him beside her.
(Future.
The sun browning his shoulders, setting his hair ablaze, shining all it touches. The ocean surrounding them, the sound of waves crashing and seagulls cawing. The unbelievable feeling of home that transcends even what she feels for One… even Sage, who she has just met, silent and observant between them, content to bask in the feelings Derrick and Massie have for each other… it is a promise of a future.
And a future is a terrible thing to hope for, if you are Massie.)
"What are your plans after the Victory Tour?" asks Sage. The question tears apart the dreams Massie hates herself for having; a thankful distraction, for she was starting to imagine children, a perfect, beautiful mix of the two of them, all with Derrick's smile. Yikes.
"Sage—"
But Massie admits to her the one thing she has not allowed herself to fully embrace, despite the attempt she made to Derrick on day three, between noon and two.
"I imagine I will have no need for plans once the Tour is over." And the way she says it, it does not sound like she's hinting at anything, like some people do when they are keeping a secret that is not really a secret at all.
It sounds like acceptance. Like resignation. Like seeing something and knowing very well that what you're seeing is real and you never had a chance in hell to get what you wanted. Like she is walking onto a battlefield with no intention of coming off it.
She will need no plans because dead girls don't need plans. They only need graves.
Cam calls for her.
Massie turns and walks away, refusing to say goodbye. She hears Derrick start, but he does not follow after her, as if he knows this, too.
She will ensure she makes it to Four again, even if all the districts in between make her want to die. She will come back, and she will experience all she wants and is denied, and then—only then—will she say it.
She only hopes her president does not have any schemes up his sleeves.
…
Having grown accustomed to Derrick's untidy handwriting, Massie knows without a second thought that the letter on her bed is from him. She notes the way he curls his Gs and crosses his Ts, the familiarity in which he pens her name, making it all the more precious and beautiful than it is.
Massie, it reads.
Knowing you, you probably feel stupid for admitting that I am your weakness, probably hate that this is something that you cannot keep to yourself, since you discovered it in front of everyone else. But I want you to know there is nothing wrong with loving someone to this end. There is no weakness in it. There is only strength in finding someone you care for as much as you do yourself. Very rarely do we have the opportunity to do so. I also know you do not believe me, when I say you are my weakness too, and that they tried to take you away from me. What they saw this year in you, they also saw in me, and where they wanted me to see weakness in loving you, I only saw strength, because it was only thoughts of you that helped me through. So yes, you are my weakness, but you are also my strength, and I will burn this world to the ground if they try to take you away from me again.
There is more, a whole page worth of more, but she stops there, something in her heart stitching itself back together.
Strength.
Is that what this is?
…
But if it is, if this is strength, why does she feel so broken? Why does she find herself unable to look at the other side of her bed? Why does she burrow herself in the sheets that smell like him, that still feel warm from his body? Why does she have to coach herself to keep the tears at bay? Why does every breath hurt?
This cannot be strength.
Strength cannot feel like weakness.
Strength is not laying in her bed and crying like some lovesick loser because her—her what?—her boyfriend? that's not what he is—because… because she's alone now.
Strength is doing what she has to do, what is expected of her. Strength is pushing forward and ignoring all of that because she is better than it. Above it.
Strength is not hugging a pillow to her chest and hiding for the majority of the day.
Derrick is wrong. Loving him is a weakness. She'd never felt like this before him.
Weak. She is weak now, and because of that, she is easy to prey on.
…
She can change that.
She can make it hard to knock her down.
…
She will make it hard to knock her down, if only to get her back to Four in one piece.
Because she can admit she is weak, even if he wants to say she is the opposite. A part of her is ashamed, yes, that she's turned into this, but another has accepted it. She is okay with being weak, but only if she is weak for him.
She will be weak for nothing and no one else.
…
District Five forks into Ten and Two, mountains to the left and open fields to the right, when Massie decides to talk to Cam. It is a simple question, one she asks as she gazes out the window, the sun beginning its slow decline.
"Which will we cut through?"
He jerks his head, looking up from the utterly boring book he's attempting to read. Massie knows it sucks only because she tried to read it the last time they were on this train, when she was ignoring letters.
"What?" he asks.
She points. "We have to get to the other side of the country. Will we go through Two or Ten?"
Cam blinks, at a loss for words, and then answers, "I think we'll make a beeline for Eleven, cut through Eight, and then arrive in Twelve through the south rather than the west."
"Oh," says Massie. "So we're sticking with the coast, then. Good. I hate Two."
He, her brother, snorts. "You hate anything that isn't One."
"That," Massie murmurs, eyes still trained on the window, taking in all the places and sights she's never seen before, "doesn't seem to be the case anymore."
She feels him stare at her, gaze hot against the side of her face, but doesn't move an inch. "I saw," he comments lightly, vaguely. "I understand."
"I know," she replies.
I'm in love with him, Josh Hotz had said.
"Do you," she starts. "Are you two—?"
"I've never," Cam answers, because he can follow her train of thought. Maybe that's a Block family trait, having the same minds… you know, when they aren't tampered with. "Not with him. I want to, but I can't—I… not when I have so much filth on my hands."
She swallows and it hurts. "You and Derrick, then, are—you're the same?"
"He told you," Cam observes.
"He's been telling me for months, in his own way," Massie murmurs. "I just chose to ignore it. Reading between the lines is not as fun as one would have thought."
"I know you are mad at me, but that night in the Capitol, it was not because we wanted it. Wanted each other." Cam's voice is sad. "It's what Jamie Marvil paid for."
Massie grits her teeth, hates the way she tortures herself with the image of Derrick and Cam stumbling out of a room so conveniently placed behind Cole Myner. "I am not mad at you."
"Massie."
"I am mad," she clarifies, "at everything. I am mad in general. I am mad." She sniffs, turning her head to meet his gaze head-on. "I am not mad at you. I could never be mad at my best friend."
His face softens, eyes shimmering, glassy, as the words crash over him. She makes herself look into the blue there, even though it still unnerves her. She is lucky she does not hallucinate the other tributes as much anymore or she might have been unable to look at him ever.
The silence that greets her makes her uncomfortable despite knowing that her announcement has a profound impact on him. Massie breathes sharply, refrains from playing with her fingers, and adds, "I thought it was Kemp, but the length of time you know someone has nothing to do with it. It's you."
"Are you sure," he croaks, the voice of a man who has never had the opportunity to have friends, real friends, since he won the Hunger Games at fourteen. He's never let anyone close enough. No one… no one but her, on a mid-summer's night, hours after the two tributes from One died in the Seventy-Third Annual Hunger Games.
He'd picked her then, long before they'd found out they were related.
She picked him now, just a bit slower on the uptake.
"I am sure," Massie replies. "No one else has ever taken care of me the way you do. I can't do much, but I'd like to help you, too, if you'd let me."
Cam closes the book with an unnecessary thud; he is up in a second, crossing the room on long-legged strides. Massie is wrapped in him, all but crushed against his chest, where she can hear the erratic beating of his heart, like he was terrified she'd say no. She lays her head there, closes her eyes, wills the fear to leave his body. There is no need for him to be nervous about anything concerning her.
Well—concerning her about this.
"I'm sorry if I've caused a rift between you and… between you two," she whispers. "I don't think he likes me much."
"He likes you just fine," Cam replies. "He's just on edge. We all are. No one was… we thought we'd have…" He pauses, deliberating his next move. "We didn't think the rebellion would revolve around you."
There it is again: rebellion. Hanging over her like a terrible raincloud, waiting to open up and pour down on her.
Ignoring the way her body reacts to it, to just the word, Massie asks, "It was supposed to be Twelve, wasn't it? Not both of them, but the girl. Todd's sister." Claire.
"It would be easier to rally around a Victor from an outlier district," Cam admits, "and a poor one, at that, but whatever you did, it worked just fine."
Massie remembers what they've all told her—Myner, Angela, Cam, even Derrick. They've all told her that despite not being the ideal candidate to spur on a rebellion, she's the next best thing. She may not know of suffering, not of the kind most of these people do, not of starvation, and living in dirt, and giving everything to a ruler they do not believe in, but she knows of something else. She's shown them that even the districts that dote and are doted on by the Capitol can question a government that is already in their favor. Just a small act of defiance, no matter how selfish, can change the world.
And change the world she did.
Everyone from the Capitol, from the twelve districts—everyone watched her, the perfect District One tribute, pretty and snarky and self-obsessed and itching for a fight, transform right before their eyes. Before this, tributes were one-dimensional, exactly as they were perceived by the Capitol, personalities and bodies based merely on what their district could provide.
Massie went in ruthless and pompous and superior.
She came out the complete opposite. She came out with someone else, someone she'd rather die with than lose, someone she'd spent half her time in the arena either protecting or searching for.
They watched a conceited girl from One who was no doubt going to get murdered by her district partner or that crazy blonde from Two fall in love. They watched her mourn a twelve year old who should have never been there in the first place. They watched her fight for herself when the stacks were piled high against her.
And somewhere along the line, somewhere between her merciless killing and her overwhelming discovery of feelings, they started rooting for her. For Derrick. More than one sponsor, according to Cam, had wanted them to both come out together. Half the Capitol, according to her father, rioted outside both the presidential mansion and the Gamemaking Centre, demanding a change in the rules.
Last week, Angela informed her just what her actions did to the country. To the rebellion. She turned a number of important people in the Capitol. She strengthened District Four. She turned Victors in One who didn't want to go against William Block, whose allegiances were hard to read. Much of the sponsorship money went to her that year, and it was not because she was pretty.
It was because of her tears over Ripple.
It was because of her small, embarrassing admittance of not wanting Derrick to die in a game where his death would be celebrated.
It was because of her choice to defend herself against Kemp even after he ripped her apart, squeezing the life out of her.
It was because of her refusal to leave Derrick to fight the mutts.
It was because of her plan to eat poisonous berries to avoid a future she wanted no part in.
It was because of every selfish decision she'd ever made that the rebellion still lived.
A rebellion she wants no part of.
It's easy for her to say she doesn't want a place there, at their table, where they plan and plot and scheme. She hadn't had to think about it. Thank you, but no.
That was a big point for Josh, too. Something else to add to the list of things he hates about her. But she's not a terrible person, no matter what anyone else says. She just doesn't… she can't. Not when there's a chance…
Maybe she's stupid for holding on to the possibility of that chance. Maybe she really has been brainwashed by the Capitol if she's willing to hold off on something that's for the greater good. That's, more importantly, good for her. The very people she is unconsciously defending by siding with no one… they're the ones that did this to her. Shouldn't that be enough for her?
They took her memories and altered them. They may have tainted Derrick for her forever. They killed her mother, who'd been nothing but beloved by them. They killed Derrick's entire family, save his father, because he played the same game as Massie, because he said no one too many times, because he made a few mistakes.
And yet… yet… she still says no.
"Hey," Cam says, and she is pulled out of her mind so quickly and so harshly it makes her head spin, "don't worry about it, okay? There was truly no guaranteeing a non-Career would win. It's not like it's your fault. And there's nothing for you to even be at fault for. There's still… it's still there."
"What would you all have done if it hadn't worked?" she asks, thinking hard. "What if I hadn't done anything? What if Kemp and I made it to the end like we were supposed to and he killed me and he won? What would happen then?"
Cam slumps against her, hands sliding a bit farther down her back as if some sort of weight is settling on his shoulders. "Continue on, I guess," is his answer. "Do what we've been doing. What we've always done."
Massie imagines a world in which that is the case, where no one of note wins the Games, where no one ever steps up to be someone the people can rally behind. She thinks about Cam, stuck loving Josh from a distance because he's too afraid to really be with him. She thinks about Todd, helping the people who ruined his life ruin others' with tricks and simulations. She thinks about Josh, who must not be subtle in his affection towards Cam, tortured and miserable with the knowledge that his love is loving other people, always there as it happens. She thinks about Derrick, who has lost everything because she loved him, repaying the Capitol for their generous and expensive gifts—both to him, and to her, because he will not let anything else happen to her.
She imagines this world and it is so ugly and mean that it makes her sick, her stomach rolling.
But she still needs to know one last thing.
"Do you know what they did to my father?"
Cam is silent, deliberately so.
This is important to her, knowing what horrors her dad faced. There is no way he is the way he is because he actually is remarkably good friends with Cole Myner. A man does not walk the line for no reason.
"Cam, please," she begs. "I need to know. I need—" I need to know what to do.
"You're not going to like it," he tells her, soft and slow, "and I don't want to upset you, not when you've already been dealt a lot of hands that aren't in your favor."
"Nothing is ever in my favor," Massie retorts. "They just like to pretend that it is."
Her brother, her best friend, tightens his grip on her and says, "He made him start a family with a woman he couldn't stand. He Reaped me when they found out who my dad really was. He forced him to name you his goddaughter under the promise that you would never have to enter the Games, and then turned around and convinced you that they were the greatest thing to ever exist. He manipulated you into volunteering."
He takes a breath which is more like a shudder and adds something else, something that does not have to do with her father. "William told me something else, too, something about Kemp."
Massie feels her knees shake. "What?" she makes herself question.
"Are you sure you want—"
"Tell me."
"Kemp loved you," Cam says after a beat. "He loved you for two years, and probably would have fought the two of you being in the same Games had Myner not gotten into his head. He convinced him that his feelings for you would only weaken him in the arena. He gave birth to that desire of Kemp's to kill you. Made sure it consumed him. Made him go crazy with it." He grips Massie tighter, keeping her upright as her legs all but fail beneath her. "Your name was the only one in the bowl that day. Even if you had not volunteered, you would have made your way into the arena anyway. You were always meant to be there."
"Why?" she demands.
"Because," Cam starts slowly, "even though your dad hated your mom, he loved you, and Myner wanted to take that away from him. The one thing he loved."
Massie swallows down on her sob, catches it in her throat, and chokes on it. She presses her face into Cam's chest and mumbles, "What else?" Because there has to be something else. Cam would not remain so stiff if there weren't.
His hands rub circles into her back. They do not soothe her. "Myner sponsored Kemp," he says quickly, like he's ripping off a bandaid. "When you got those weapons when you were in the tree… Kemp got one, too."
"I remember," Massie replies. "I told him I wanted to be surprised by it when he murdered me. I never… I didn't get to see what it was because I killed him."
"Do you want to know what it was?"
No. "Yes."
Cam makes her look at him and says, "He sent him your father's axe."
…
The arena is alive around her.
It is the worst mixture of hot and humid, clouds rolling above, signaling a storm of some sort. Given the company that occupies the Cornucopia, this is unnecessary. Whatever rain they are promising can be halted as Massie stares at Kemp, who has jumped from the massive golden horn.
"And," he says grandly, shit-eating grin splitting his face in two, "I got an even better weapon. A gift."
"Interesting," Massie replies, heart hammering in her chest.
"Do you want to see it?" he asks.
"No," she answers.
"But baby," he whines, lifting something from the ground, "I really think you do."
Massie scoffs, looking away, towards the two sides of the forest, where Derrick is somewhere, running to meet her here. She chews on the inside of her cheek, suddenly worried. Something is not right.
"I want to be surprised by it when you kill me," she returns easily, swallowing down that fear that grips her heart. She's not afraid, though. Not of him. So why is she like this?
"Alright." The smile in Kemp's voice can be heard loud and clear. "Easy enough."
"It won't be easy," she makes to retort, but freezes once she takes in the thing he's balancing in his hands. He holds it like it is something to be revered, something to cherish, and Massie's blood runs cold.
An axe.
More specifically, she notes with a squint, her father's axe.
She'd recognize it anywhere, that axe that won the Fiftieth Annual Hunger Games.
Her gulp is audible, her steps staggering as she tries to fall back, away from him, away from that. Kemp stalks her like an animal, slamming her right against a forcefield that keeps her from fleeing back where she came from. She slams her shoulder against it, over and over, until she's certain she's bruised it and fumbles for the knife she's strapped to her belt. For the slingshot. For the boomerang. For anything.
She can't loosen the knots.
Kemp tuts. "Looks like it will be," he murmurs seductively, running the sharp end of the blade along the length of her neck. "I could, though, give you time to grab something to defend yourself with. It is the final battle, after all."
Massie's hands stop. She cuts her palm with the knife-sword, but she barely feels the sting. "Final?" she echoes. "No. It's—there's still two more. I'm not the only—"
He uses his other hand to cup her face, callused fingers dipping into the blood dripping from the wound he's just inflicted on her. "You've been lost in your head, my love," he coos. "It's just the two of us now. I've waited for you to come back to me."
"No, it's not," she snaps weakly. "There's Andy, and there's Derrick, and there's me. And you. Four of us."
"There hasn't been four of us in days," Kemp tells her, sucking on his index finger. Her blood stains the skin there. "Do you not remember? I imagine not. After you killed Four, you kind of"—he whistles some sort of mocking tune—"lost it."
"I didn't," she breathes, peering into his dark, dark eyes. "I didn't kill him."
"You didn't?"
"No," she says, though she isn't sure. Doesn't remember.
Kemp laughs, loud and long and crazed. "Look behind me," he orders. "Look at your hands."
She does not.
She does not.
She does not.
This is not real.
Her eyes move on their own accord, though, trapped in this nightmare. Her tiny hands are torn open, slashes down the palms, bone jutting through cuts between the fingers. She doesn't feel the pain there, which is odd, but they ache, curling into themselves like she held something she's not accustomed to holding—
And then, presumably, hurt herself with it?
She doesn't know.
After careful consideration, Massie looks past Kemp.
Massie looks past Kemp, and her heart falls to her feet, where it shatters into a million, tiny pieces.
Derrick's body lays there, golden trident sticking out of his chest, right where she'd been, before Kemp forced her backwards.
"I didn't do that," she says.
"You did," Kemp replies gleefully. "I watched."
Massie shakes her head. "I didn't. I wouldn't." She had plans. For him. With him. She'd made plans!
"You did," Kemp says again. "You would."
"If it's been days," she shoots back, breathing rapidly, unable to calm, "then why is the body still here? They take it away immediately. You're wrong. I didn't do it. I didn't."
Kemp shrugs. "They must want you incredibly unhinged," he offers, uncharacteristically wise. "For the drama. It's the last fight of them all and it's between us. They've been waiting for this."
"No," Massie says. "I didn't do it. This isn't real."
"Then what is?" he asks silkily. "Name something that is real."
She blurts, "I love him. He loves me. I went through hell trying to get back to him. I will not fall victim to half-truths again."
"He loves you," Kemp repeats, a teasing lilt in his voice. "He loves you? Then tell me why he told me to kill you."
"Shut up!" Massie yells at him. "He didn't say that! I remember what he said, and it wasn't that, and it wasn't now."
Kemp watches her carefully, considering her. "Is that so?"
"Yes," she grits out, glaring at him. "Do you want to know how this plays out? You get so caught up in the what ifs and what should bes that you let your guard down. You try to take me out but I kill you. I kill you, and later Derrick kills Andy, and then we take down a shitton of lions, and we both come out of here alive." She takes a step forward when he falters. "You die, Kemp. You die and I live, so stop trying to trick me! There is nothing you can do about it."
"Oh, I don't think so," Kemp sing-songs. "I believe there is a lot I can do about it."
He takes her father's axe and slashes, splitting her throat open. As she chokes on her own blood, unable to breathe, he lifts his arms again and cuts, hacking away at her limbs until she is nothing but a torso, her legs, her arms, and her head separate from her body.
The last cannon sounds.
Kemp Hurley is the Victor of the Seventy-Four Annual Hunger Games.
…
Massie wakes up screaming, clawing at her neck, kicking her legs, shrieking like she's never shrieked before.
When Cam bursts in, hair mussed in the back and wielding the broken foot of a stool, she's gasping, sobbing, convulsing.
"Tell me he's not dead," she begs, digging her fingers so deep into Cam's skin she breaks it, causing red to stain under her nails. "Tell me he's not dead tell me he's not dead tell me he's not dead tell me tell me tell me tell me I didn't win this alone tell me please please please—"
He ignores the stinging of the wounds she inflicts on him, heaving her up and into his lap. "He's not dead," he answers, and he knows her dream was awful just by the tremors that take over her body.
Massie stares down at her hands, smooth and unmarred beneath the light of the stars from her window. "I don't want to kill him," she mumbles. "I don't want to be the reason he dies."
Cam runs hand through her hair, pulling it back into a tiny little ponytail. He doesn't say anything, knows that some nightmares are better off being sorted through alone, and tries to tuck her back into his chest.
She doesn't let him, looking up to meet his gaze with her own, eyes rimmed red, like she'd cried in her sleep. "I will do anything," she tells him, conviction ringing through the silence, "to make sure he doesn't die."
When he doesn't answer, she emphasizes again, grabbing his face, "Anything."
He blinks and says, "Okay."
He blinks and kisses her nose.
He blinks and says, "We'll start working on it tomorrow."
She nods, deflating against him, and asks, "Will you stay?"
Cam tugs on a fallen strand of hair, unable to stay in the pony he'd wrangled it into, and replies, "I never intended on leaving."
"Thank you," she whispers, and it is more than just appreciation for a friend keeping another company after a nightmare.