Just to clarify: Katniss and Peeta are not actually married at the moment. In the previous chapter, Katniss' father approved of their future marriage (which makes Katniss and Peeta officially betrothed) and he approved of Peeta as a successor (so Everdeen is cool with Peeta being king someday). It's great that her dad is behind them, but now they need the support of her people. More on this over the next, um, dozen chapters or so. Brace for the long road, people. It's gonna be a while yet before they're in the clear.


A Kiss Goodnight

(Katniss)

It is still the middle of the night and there is only one place where we can wait out the long, dark hours.

"This is…?" Peeta begins uncertainly, looking around as I hand him the first lamp and move to light a second.

"My room," I answer, shutting the door now that the light from the torch in the hallway is no longer needed.

He moves slowly, studying everything in the cluttered bed chamber with the utmost attention to detail. I wonder if he'll someday draw pictures of these things, crouching with a stick in hand, sketching in the dirt, playing in the sunlight of a lazy, summer afternoon. The thought makes me smile.

He reaches out to touch the animal pelts I'd hung on the walls to keep out the winter chill, the small table with its wooden basin and bucket for water, the ladle hanging from a string. "Yours are better," I offer, gesturing to the utensil when he turns and gives me a questioning look.

He smiles crookedly. "You think so?"

"Yes."

He passes his hand over the carvings upon the wooden chest where I keep my clothing. He peers at the shutter latch. It's not a type of lock that the Northmen are familiar with, but he doesn't try to open the window. That can wait until morning. He smiles at the spear, bow, and quiver of arrows beside my bed.

"I knew it," he tells me happily. Before I can ask what he'd known, he explains, "You're a warrior, a hunter." He strokes a deer hide tacked up on the timbers. "I was certain the moment our hands touched for the first time."

I squint, trying to remember.

He supplies me with his memory of it. "It was in Harald's hall. You passed me the ale pitcher."

Oh. Yes. The memory of that first day ashore is hazy. I'd been so exhausted and overwhelmed and eager to die, but I remember how warm his touch had been, how it had nearly made me shudder with longing for somewhere safe and something to hold onto. And, suddenly, there was Peeta. The gods' answer to my unvoiced prayer.

"I first saw you on the road," he tells me, undeterred by my silence. He gestures to the left side of his own face. "I saw the bruises, your swollen eye and jaw. But when I saw your bindings—" His attention drops to my hands. "—when I saw that they were bloody, that was when I knew I was never going to forget you."

"But… you did not know me," I object.

He smiles softly. "Oh, I know. But..." He chuckles under his breath, caught up in the memory. "That damned pony never moved so fast in its life as it did then. I had to run to catch up to Káto to tell him I wanted you. I didn't even know how beautiful you were until I saw you pouring ale in the hall, and I didn't know I was caught until I looked into your eyes for the first time at the meal-fire."

He meets my gaze now. "You have eyes that weigh the worth of a man. You see into his heart."

"Do I?" I whisper. Given how tightly my chest is compressed, it is a wonder I can speak at all.

He nods. The look in his eyes is terrifying. Thrilling. Parts of me suddenly feel broken. Others surprisingly strong. My voice is one of the latter.

"Then, it is true," I inform him, shaken and giddy and determined to beat him at his own game. He will see his own worth. He will see himself as I see him. "It must be true – you are good." I smile playfully. "Because these eyes chose you."

He looks at me as if he fears he is imagining all of this – us, here, now – and my teasing grin fades. The pieces of me that he holds together so effortlessly jangle. My fingers twitch restlessly. I can feel my pulse rushing through my limbs almost as if I'm caught up in the hunt, in battle.

I close the distance between us on legs that have gone numb and he blinks slowly when I pass my fingertips over his mouth. His beard is in need of trimming, but when his lips tremble open that hardly matters. My chin tilts up as my hand smooths down over his jaw, guiding his face toward mine with a caress.

His whiskers touch my lips first. They tickle a little and I smile helplessly. His breath puffs softly against my skin and then his lips whisper upon mine.

My heart stops. Silence – silence so profound it makes my ears ache – pulses between us.

His lips settle against mine for a long, slow moment. My lungs feel empty. I open my mouth, inhale, and a soft noise rumbles deep in his throat as our lips come together like the workings of a lock. His tongue soothes my chapped lower lip before he draws it gently into his heated mouth, suckles, nips, and releases it on a long breath.

"I'vewantedtodothatforsolong," he confesses in an almost indiscernible rush of syllables. His eyes remain stubbornly shut as he nuzzles my cheek, my ear, my hair.

I'm panting as if I've just been barreling through the forest chasing after a wounded deer. I don't doubt that, at this moment, my aim would be embarrassingly unsteady. I would miss the kill shot for the first time in years. But this is not that kind of hunt. Neither of us is prey; both of us are prey.

My lips throb and the skin around my mouth tingles from the whispering touch of his beard. I can feel his hands, burning with heat right through my gown, but they cradle my waist too gently. My knees are weak and my hips wobbly. I could fall at any moment. My fingers grip him tighter at the back of his neck.

His lips draw near again and I think I'll shatter if I don't feel them against mine just once more. "Is this real, or is this a dream?" he mouths against my jaw.

His breath kisses my neck. I shiver. "It's real." His beard brushes against my throat as he lowers his warm, wet mouth to my skin. My hands travel the span of his shoulders as his slide up my back. "I'm sorry."

"Why do you apologize?"

"It's real. It's not perfect."

He straightens and my breath catches in my throat at the way his gaze moves over my face, like there is nothing else in the world he longs to see, no one else he longs to touch, nowhere else he longs to be. "This is perfect," he insists.

As he places one, two, three soft, nibbling kisses on my lips, he raises his hands until he has captured my wrists in a loose grasp. It is with some regret that I move away. He lets me go, cradling my hands in his and bridging the distance between our too-warm bodies.

I had not known that a kiss could feel like that. I had never guessed that his scent could make me lightheaded and achy all at once.

"Do you think you could sleep a little more?" Peeta asks.

Honestly, no, but I nod. I should sleep. Taking a deep and calming breath, I put some distance between us and the tangible memory of that kiss.

Looking over at my bed, I'm suddenly overwhelmingly tired. Or perhaps I am simply overwhelmed. This is my bed. My. Bed. The memory of it makes my entire body ache for its warmth and softness. Maybe I can sleep after all.


This scene will be continued in the next post. So, yes, there will be MOAR.