It's strange what desire

will make foolish people do

I can't sleep. I keep thinking about being in that room with him. The moves and countermoves of the chess pieces. The feel of his skin under my fingertips. The way he looked at me like he could see through the wall I put up and the mask I wear. Like he could see me. The real me.

The sun has just begun to peek over the mountains casting its warm light through my gauzy bedroom curtains. I slip silently out of my bedroom and down the hall. My father always says I would've grown into an extraordinary hunter, striking down my prey without making a sound. He had taught me to hunt as a child. We'd squeeze through the opening in the fence and he'd teach me how to hold a bow, aim an arrow, shoot straight, hit my mark.

"Patience, Katniss," he'd whisper when he felt my frustration build. "Inhale. Steady. Exhale. Release."

I miss my bow. I miss the woods.

I slide open the glass door to our balcony overlooking the city. It's quiet in the morning. There's a stillness as the fog lifts into the clouds exposing the stone and glass of the city. If I close my eyes I can almost pretend I'm back home watching the dawn break across the meadow, the tall grass brushing my calves. If I concentrate hard enough I can smell the pine and lilac in the air. This is my favorite time of day.

I rest my chin on the balcony railing. Sounds of the city coming to life in the distance waft through the nearly empty streets on the warm summer breeze. Heavy trucks rumble through alleyways, car horns blare, the occasional voice rises above the din.

The glass door to the balcony opens. Prim pads out, the lace ruffles of her nightgown sweep the top of her bare feet. She wraps her arms around my middle and yawns sleepily into my back.

"This came for you," she says, her hand tapping against my stomach, a white envelope in her grip.

She lets go of me, moving to the railing to study my face as I read the note, her brow furrowed, and lips pursed in worried concentration. Turning away from the railing, I rip open the envelope.

People are getting suspicious.

You need to do more than play chess in that room.

Tomorrow. 9 PM. Room 4.

I gape at the paper. My cheeks tinge pink.

"What? What does it say?" Prim asks, breathless and reaching to snatch the letter from my grasp.

I clutch it to my chest and hurry back into the apartment without answering her. She follows quickly behind me. I light a match, igniting the paper and tossing it and the envelope into the hearth. Thankfully, my father didn't find this particular message first.

Prim grabs my shoulder, spinning me around to face her. "What?" she signs.

"They want me to try harder," I tell her.

"But I thought you said that it went well last night." She chews her lip, petulant. The chessboard had been her idea and she was so happy when I told her that it had worked and that Peeta and I had talked. I didn't tell her about the heavy tension that blanketed the room or how his skin under my fingertips made my whole body feel like it was on fire.

"It did. It was a good idea, Duck. They are worried that people are getting suspicious of why we are only talking and playing chess."

She nods only to have her eyebrows fly into her hairline a second later. "They want you to have sex with him!" Her hands move rapidly, exaggerating the movement of her words.

I slump into my father's chair by the fireplace, my hand reaching up to stroke a braid that hasn't been there for years. An old habit from my childhood. "I don't know. I don't think that would be a very good idea. He would see me as just another Capitolite using his body."

Prim sinks down to the carpet in front of the chair. She pensively watches the smoldering ashes and tendrils of smoke as they escape through the chimney.

"Do they know you haven't done any of that with anyone before?" she asks.

I shake my head. She doesn't know that I lied to get this opportunity. They had asked me directly if I was a virgin and if sleeping with Peeta would be a problem. I told them I wasn't and that it wouldn't.

"If they tell you that you have to, will you?" she asks, the movement of her hands tight and short like she is nervous of being overheard.

"If they think Snow knows something, I won't have a choice. I'll do what I need to do to keep you safe."

The guards at the door don't even try to hide their smirks. This is the third time in four days that I've set foot through this door and straight to the elevator that leads to the fifth floor. They must think I'm a foolish schoolgirl with too much money and an infatuation with a victor. I'm hardly the only person in the Capitol who has spent more than one night in these rooms, although so many times in a row is a bit excessive even by Capitol standards.

A woman stands by the elevator using the reflective glass of the doors to apply a dark red lipstick to her overly plump and obviously altered lips. She smiles as I approach, smacking her lips together and giving my reflection a wink.

"You must be seeing someone who doesn't mind if you're dressed so…casually," she says, throwing the word at me like an insult.

I study my reflection next to hers in the glass. She is primped and preened to Capitol perfection with a skintight, low-cut dress and heels so high I don't know how she doesn't topple over. I'm wearing a simple cream-colored cotton dress and my boots. A fashionable, large bag is slung over my shoulder – even though I don't like carrying it, but I would look even more out of place if I didn't – and my hair and makeup are done albeit subtly compared to hers. I didn't realize that the victors we are paying for had any say over whether they minded what we wore. In fact, I know they don't. We could show up covered in garbage and they would still have to do what we said.

The elevator doors slide open and we enter. The woman looks down at her sharply manicured fingernails, bored. I keep my eyes on the numbers as they flash in succession on the wall above our heads.

"I'm here for Gloss. He's a lot of fun. Have you tried him yet?" she asks as nonchalantly as asking if I had tried a new flavor of ice cream.

I bite the inside of my cheek and swallow back my instinct to scream at this absurd woman. "No. I've only had the pleasure of meeting one."

"Oh? Which one?"

I hate this conversation. "Peeta Mellark."

She grins at me, her inflated lips stretching unnaturally across her teeth. "He's a fun one too. A little shy at first and not as experienced as some of the older ones, but oh so delicious. I've left my mark on him a time or two." She flashes her fingernails at me.

The elevator door slides open and a bell dings over our heads letting us know we have arrived. I can't get out of the car fast enough. The thought of Peeta with that despicable woman makes bile rise in my throat. What kind of marks did she leave on him? What have others done to him? How much pain has he endured? I throw open the door to Room 4, slamming it quickly behind me as the woman saunters down the hall.

I don't care what the note said. I can't sleep with him. I can't use him even if it would be for the good of the rebellion. I won't. I'll think of something else. I toss my bag on the bed and pace the room.

I'm not completely naïve. The Capitol is different from the districts. It is very open sexually. In the districts, only relationships between a man and a woman are legal and allowed. I'm sure that other relationships exist in secret, but in the Capitol, they thrive out in the open. There are no rules as long as whatever sexual activities that take place are consensual, unless, of course, you're a victor.

I knew he has been forced to be with people and do things that he didn't want to do. I didn't realize that those people also caused him physical pain. And that they did it for fun.

I might be sick.

I'm in over my head. As I begged for this opportunity because I desperately and selfishly needed to see him again, needed to be the one who saved him as he saved me, I didn't think about all he's been through. I didn't let it sink in. He's no longer the boy I would spy sketching in the meadow. Or the boy who would stupidly follow a girl beyond the fence because he worried for her safety, risking his own life when hers was in danger. Between the Games and what has come after, the Capitol has stripped away the boy I knew and left a broken man in its wake.

The tears begin to fall before I realize it. My cheeks stained and wet when he knocks and enters the room. He closes the door gently behind him and stands, his eyes searching my face, stunned. He doesn't make a sound. He knows better than to let anyone in on the fact that I'm crying. Our activities here have been suspicious enough without the addition of my tears. He seems torn. His fingers toy with the hem of his button-down shirt.

"It's good to see you again, Amy," he says, his voice flirtatious, his face sheepish. He's putting on a show for the people listening in. "You look lovely as always." He hesitantly approaches me, stopping just before our bodies touch. He's so close I can see the slight tremble running through him, can feel the nervousness coming off of him. "What would you like me to do for you tonight?" he asks, his voice quiet, his breath caressing my cheek.

His arms encircle me cautiously, limbs are stiff and unsure as he wraps me in his embrace. I melt into him, burying my tears in the fabric of his shirt and the solidness of his chest. My hands climb up his back, pulling him closer. His breath hitches. He exhales unsteadily against my hair. I've longed to touch him since the first moment I saw him again and it feels so good I don't want to let go.

But I do.

It's over far too quickly. We back away from each other knowing an extended period of silence in the room will only lead to more doubt. I hastily wipe away my tears. He stares at the floor, his face a cluttered canvas of emotions.

Canvas.

An idea comes to me. "I remember from your victory tour that you are a very talented artist," I say in my best detached Capitol tone. "I would like you to draw me a picture."

"As you like," he replies evenly, his eyes moving from the floor to meet mine. "But I didn't bring any supplies."

I scramble to my bag and pull out the notebook Prim had stashed in it while school was still in session as well as my favorite pen. A few years ago, bejeweled and bedazzled writing instruments were all the rage amongst the Capitol youth after that year's victor revealed their talent as poetry writing. As a gift, my father presented Prim and me with our own personalized fountain pens. They weren't glittery or adorned with special features and flashing lights like the other children had. They were plain by comparison, but each held a special meaning. Engraved in gold on my hunter green pen was the fletching of an arrow.

"To never forget who you are," my father whispered as I inspected the gift.

I hand the pen and paper to Peeta. His fingers skim the leather-bound notebook and brush over the engraving on the pen. "What would you like me to draw?" he asks.

"Me."

The tip of Peeta's tongue pokes out between his lips when he concentrates, and the lines of concern melt from his face as his hand moves over the page. He stares at me so intently, studying every detail. It's hard to keep my face relaxed. I can't avoid the blush that makes me feel warm all over or the way my heart hammers erratically. I can see my cheeks shake with each beat.

The silence in the room is oppressive. I don't usually mind silence, but all I can concentrate on is my own pounding heart and how long Peeta's eyelashes are as he peeks at me from under them. I don't understand how they don't get tangled up when he blinks.

Time stands still. I watch the movement of Peeta's hand and the way the light changes the color of his eyes to a deeper blue. The scratch of the pen to paper is hypnotic. Peeta has me posed leaning lazily to the side in a chair by the window with my legs crossed at the ankles. My dress starts to slip off my shoulder and I reach of to stop it.

"Don't," he murmurs, crimson flooding his cheeks. "It – It looks good like that."

His eyes hover on my bare shoulder and then trace the line of my body. He clears his throat and turns back to the paper. I can't take the silence any longer, or the tingling sensation strumming through my whole body, or the inexplicable urge I have to kiss him right now. And I don't know if the urge is because I think I should or because I want to.

"What's your favorite color?" I ask because I need anything else to focus on besides his lips and the way his tongue keeps darting out to wet them.

He looks up surprised. "Orange." He smiles a bit, a mischievous glint in his eyes. "Let me guess, yours is purple?" He gestures to my hair.

I duck my chin and shake my head before remembering that I'm not supposed to move. "No. No, it's green."

He looks at me thoughtfully and nods with a slight shrug like he can see me with that color. He holds up the pen and grins. "I should've known."

I smirk, snorting a little through my nose. His smile grows wider. "What was your favorite treat to eat growing up? From your bakery?" I ask.

He glances up, the smile fading on his lips. "I didn't really get any of the things we baked growing up. We would sometimes get to eat the bread when it went stale and I tasted the frosting for the cakes when I decorated them to make sure that the consistency was right. But I never had anything fresh."

This is news to me. I assumed that growing up in a bakery meant he had a childhood filled with sugary sweets and rich chocolate. I had assumed that everyone from town in Twelve went to bed with full bellies.

"Well, you surely get to eat what you bake now, right?" I ask, trying again. "What is your favorite?"

His brows furrow and he doesn't look up when he answers in a clipped voice. "I don't really have much time for baking."

We drift back into silence and I let myself think about my favorite treat from his family's bakery. It's the only thing I've ever had from the bakery, besides bread, and only because of the kindness of the baker's youngest son.

"I like snickerdoodle cookies," I blurt before my brain has a chance to stop me.

The pen halts in his hand. I focus on the smooth stone of the fireplace behind him, afraid to look at his face. I've said too much. I've given myself away. He shifts in the chair, breathing deeply. The pen begins to move again. I force my eyes to his face. His head is down, lips drawn in a tight line, and eyes so full of confusion and heartbreak. I want to scream. I want to let him know that I'm here with him, that there's a rebellion, that he isn't going to have to live this life forever, that I'm going to be the one to save him this time. Instead, I cover my error with a lie.

"There's a bakery not far from here that makes great cookies. I've always loved cinnamon."

My voice sounds weak and strained in my ears, but he just nods his head. His hand moves quickly over the page for a few more seconds and then he closes the notebook. He looks up. His eyes glassy with unshed tears and I know he remembers. He remembers Katniss Everdeen. He remembers the mountain lion that nearly ended her life and the rock he threw – so strong even at that young age – that saved it. He remembers the twisted ankle she got as she scrambled to get away from the massive cat. He remembers the way he helped her home, practically carrying her to her doorstep. He remembers the snickerdoodle cookies hidden in his pocket. One for her and one for her little sister. He remembers me.

No, not me. The person I used to be. The person I so badly wish I could be. The sight of him makes my chest constrict, my heart in my throat.

"I'm finished," he says, his voice gravelly and utterly wrecked.

He turns, wiping his eyes with the back of his sleeve. He inhales and straightens his shoulders, turning back to me. "Is there anything else I can do for you tonight, Amy?"

I have to force the words out, my stomach in knots, my brain screaming, my skin on fire. "No. This is all I required of you this evening."

I see him visibly deflate. The time for acting over. He tips his head at me. "Goodnight, Amy."

"Goodnight, Peeta."

I sit frozen, still posed in the chair as he leaves the room. As soon as the latch clicks shut I fold in on myself, scrubbing my hands over my face and cursing my stupid mouth. That may have been the last time I'll see him. He leaves for home the day after tomorrow and I have no idea what the rebellion plans to do or if those plans will even work in their favor. I feel shattered, my muscles strung tight, my bones weary. I climb out of the chair, gathering my bag from the bed and the notebook and pen from where Peeta left it on the small table by the window. I flip the notebook open to the page he used. The woman in the picture looks nothing like how I picture myself. She looks strong, courageous, and devastatingly sad. She looks magnificent. Is this how he sees me?

I make my way out of the palace, thankful that I don't see anyone else on my way out. I ignore the guards and their spiteful leers. It's late, after midnight, but I take a long way home past the largest park in the Capitol. I like to come here sometimes and lay down under the tall trees. If I close my eyes and plug my ears to block out the city noise, I can almost pretend that I'm home.

I don't linger at the park long. My parents will be worried, and I know Prim will be waiting up. But I can't bring myself to go home yet. As I pass under the trees, I think about Peeta and how different our lives could've been if we weren't forced into lives we didn't choose. What kind of people would we have been? Would he have become a baker, taking over the business with his brothers? Would I have become a miner, spending my life confined underground? Would he have married a pretty, blonde merchant girl? Would I have met a dark-haired, dusty Seam boy? Maybe our paths wouldn't have diverged after that day in the woods. Maybe we would've become friends and grown into something more. His mother would've hated that.

I laugh aloud at the thought and wipe a tear that was determined enough to escape from my eye even though I have been doing my best to hold it back. There's no sense in wondering about the people we could've been. Those people no longer exist.

I turn the corner onto my street and hurry up the sidewalk. When I'm two buildings away from my apartment a figure appears from the alleyway between my apartment building and the building beside it. They walk toward me with their head down and jacket hood pulled up hiding their face. I tense and look toward the front door. The doorman is inside at this time of night. I calculate how quickly I would be able to run. I ready myself moving to the balls of my feet. Just as I'm about the sprint, the figure rushes past me. I catch a glimpse of shaved head and a vining tattoo. Fingers reach out brushing my palm. Something is dropped in my hand. A white envelope. I turn, wanting to see who it was, wanting to ask them what they know. They're gone, moving quickly around the corner and vanishing between another pair of buildings.

I pocket the envelope and quickly make my way to my building and up to our apartment. Like I suspected, my parents, are up waiting for me. My father looks at me with tired eyes, a slight frown pulling down the corners of his mouth. They don't ask me what has gone on in the room with Peeta, but they must feel like I've signed up to sacrifice a part of myself, something that I'll never be able to get back. They don't understand how much I need to do this, need to see him. They don't understand that I am sacrificing a part of myself, but it's not the part they think. It's the part that sits beating rapidly in my chest. The part that breaks a little bit more each time I have to say goodbye to him.

I bid them both goodnight, kissing my father's thinning hair, and hurry to my bedroom. Prim is wrapped in her robe asleep on my bed. I kiss her hair too, pulling my blankets up around her before moving to my bathroom. As soon as I'm alone, I open the envelope with shaky fingers.

The time for games is over.

Snow's watching you. He knows what hasn't been going on in the room.

You need to make it look real. You need to convince him it is real.

Tonight. 10 PM. Room 4.

I slide down to the floor and shred the note into tiny pieces before flushing it down the toilet. What they are asking me to do will be more than just meaningless sex. Something is happening between Peeta and me. A continuation of an encounter from years ago. Something palpable and tenuous. I can feel it swirling in the air when we're together, invisible, like a magnet pulling us towards one another. I can and will do what they are asking because if Snow finds out who I am, it has the possibility of ruining everything and putting my family in grave danger. I can't risk either of those things. But when I do this and when Peeta finds out why I did it and who I am, it will break his heart. And I may never recover from that because it just might break mine too.

A/N: The big reveal is up next...and I can't tell you how many times I have rewritten the next chapter lol. I hope you like it and that you liked this one too!

I'm going on vacation with my family tomorrow. I'm taking my computer with me so I should be able to keep up my normal posting schedule. If I'm a day or two late, that's why. But I'm going to do my best :)

All my gratitude to you all!

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