Chapter 27: The Aftermath of a Fragile, Cracked Love

Mother conducts a rape kit on me, preserving the evidence from my assault at the hands of the Peacekeeper. My sour mood isn't helped by the fact that I'm still feeling sick – now fainting spells have arrived to add to the continuing nausea. When I end up swooning into a dead faint while out in the woods with Vick, he has to abandon some game we were tracking and carry me back to my mother, insisting that he can take on the hunting load by himself until I am better. I have to admire the youngest Hawthorne lad for carrying me all the way back to my place. He's going to be exceedingly tall, like his eldest brother, and clearly just as strong.

Winter soon arrives, and Peeta goes off with Haymitch on his Victory Tour. Right when he gets back, he and my cousin, Isabella, stage their public "break-up" right in the middle of the feast put on for the new Victor by Mayor Undersee. According to Rye, there was screaming and tears and the media cameras picked up every single, wretched thing. Miriam is despondent, Thom Borden is thrilled, and I am just relieved to get my wedding ring back so that Peeta and I can go back to being the way we were.

The one thing that dampens everything regarding my love's release back into the singles market is that I come to discover my monthly cycle is late. At first, I don't think anything of it – with Vick having to take on the hunting duties all on his own, his haul has been understandably not as lucrative, thus his family and mine have been subsisting on less. But then, I come to discover that my hunting trousers no longer fit due to an inexplicably expanding waistline.

When I finally go to my mother with my fears, she hands me a pregnancy test and I take it into the bathroom. When the strip comes back a loud shade of pink, I burst into tears.

I always told Peeta I would never want to have children, even if we did get married. Now, that reality is coming upon me, whether I like it or not. Whether I want it or not.

Then another horrid thought strikes me: what if Peeta isn't the father at all? What if this baby resulted from my rape at the hands of John, the Peacekeeper? The one thing that gives me hope this isn't the case is that I was feeling nausea and other symptoms of pregnancy before John raped me. Even then, though, this isn't enough to cast aside that possibility.

I'll have to tell Peeta, one way or another, no matter who the father turns out to be. I resolve to go to the back loading dock of the Bakery first thing in the morning, take him aside and tell him that I am expecting.

But when I get there come the dawn (and without even any squirrels to trade and use as an excuse), the Baker is the one who answers. Sensing my disappointment, he tells me that Peeta left for the train station not two minutes ago. He's been handed down a special summons from the Capitol, and Haymitch is going with him. If I hurry, I might catch him before the express pulls out.

I half-run, half-waddle down to Lucy Gray Baird train station as fast as my swelling stomach will allow. I am about six months along in my pregnancy; there is voluptuous curve to my belly, and I am starting to show nicely.

I catch up with Peeta and Haymitch just before they climb aboard.

"Peeta!"

He turns at the sound of his name, but unlike all the other times before, there is no light in his eyes when he sees it is me, his love. Biting my lip, I take his hand. "Can we talk?"

He nods almost glumly, and we steal behind the ticket-taker booth, hidden amidst boxes of freight and porter carts.

"I… I have something to tell you," I smile weakly.

"Me too," he grunts.

My grey eyes expand curiously. "OK, then, well, you first."

Peeta takes a deep breath. "I…. I think it's best that we don't see each other anymore."

I feel another round of dizziness coming on, except I know it isn't on account of the baby. The bottom seems to have fallen out from under me, stars are assaulting my vision and I teeter before the picture clears.

"Wh….. what?" I breathe. "But… but we're married!"

"Not in the eyes of the district law, we're not," Peeta reminds me. "I'll…. I'll need your ring back."

My blood boils, and I feel my teeth grind in rage. "No way! I'm keeping it!"

"Fine. Whatever," Peeta states dully.

My eyes welling up with tears. "Peeta…" I plead, flinching when he twists away from me. "Why are you doing this? We love each other!"

He steps back resolutely, though his beautiful eyes are pained. "I'm doing this for you. To protect you."

I can't believe that. I won't believe that. As if saying, 'I'm doing it for love, I'm doing it for you' will make it right. The rage and hurt, the heartbreak consumes me so completely, that I blast it out without thinking:

"Well, then I guess it's just as well I'm having that bastard Peacekeeper's baby and not yours!" And pausing just long enough to see the pain and shock come over his face, not even knowing if what I said is true but feeling in my heart that it is not, I flee from the train station in tears.

Peeta's and my break-up at the train station seems to begin a deep and merciless winter, with record setting snowdrifts brought on my a series of blizzards. The inclement weather drives off much of the game that hasn't been in hibernation.

My pregnancy has progressed apace, and I am starting to show nicely. I can't go out into the woods anymore – too risky – and though Vick tries his best to go it alone, he tells me he is going to the Hob more times empty-handed than not. Only the packages from Parcel Day due to Peeta's win is keeping the district afloat, but barely.

And even with this meager sustenance, I find that once again, Primrose, Mother and I are slowly starving to death. Unable to provide food for my family, and without a husband to care for me, I have no choice but to make a monumental decision.

So it is one night, with shaking hands, that I apply the lipstick. Fix the signature braid my mother has always done for me. Slip into the pretty blue dress from Mother's merchant days in the apothecary shop.

I do not recognize the woman that stares back at me in the mirror. I am no longer a child…. then again, I have not been a child in a few months, since my wedding night in the Justice Building. And tonight will only remind me of my new status.

I look back at Mother and Prim, sleeping peacefully in the large bed they have taken to sharing. Will they miss me while I'm gone tonight? I sure hope not. What will they say, when they see the bag of coins come breakfast time? Mother might suspect just what it took for me to get it, but even if she does figure it out, she probably won't say. Prim - poor, sweet Prim! - won't know a thing. She'll only be happy to have a steady stream of food for the first time in weeks, blissfully unaware of what her sister gave away to make it so….

I step out into the steamy night and force my feet to walk in the direction of the Head Peacekeeper's house. It's in the center of town, so quite a trek from where I live in the Seam, but leaving now might guarantee that I am one of the first desperate girls at his door.

I stumble in my high-heeled boots and adjust the garter high up on my thigh, just under my dress - both also borrowed items from my mother. What will Thread say, if he does pick me? Oh, who am I kidding? He won't say anything. He'll jump right on me, probably, eager to have a pregnant woman.

Just imagining what might happen is too horrible. That, combined with the cold, stings my eyes with tears and soon I am choking on the air I breathe. Hyperventilating is only a degree removed at this point. What if he likes what he gets from me, even if I know I will get nothing but a bag of coins in return? Will I become his slave, his mistress? Will he force me to marry him? And what will become of my child once it is born? A protective hand instinctively reaches for my womb and my resolve suddenly hardens. No. Thread can have me, but he cannot have my child.

I can now see Thread's house in the distance and attempt to regain command over my feet. God, you would think I had visited him already! That I was returning home, doing what other girls have called the "walk of shame" - when a man has screwed you so hard that your legs are sore and tired.

The sudden light blinds me and I jump in fright, my body tightening like the animals that I hunt when they prepare to flee.

I have been halted in front of the bakery, only yards away from Thread's door.

"Katniss?" the voice is gentle, and even against the harsh light from the kitchen beyond, I stare with dead eyes into the face of Peeta Mellark. He is frowning, shocked to see me. I confess I'm just as surprised. Why isn't he up in his mansion in Victors' Village? Perhaps he is spending the night with his family in the loft above the bakery this evening – I have heard that most Merchants live above their businesses. "What are you doing out here?"

He looks me up and down, and suddenly the frown deepens on his face, now with a dawning horror seeping in. He sees the dress, the clumsy make-up job, the high boots that don't quite fit on me….

Then his eyes shift down the street and I want to cry. He knows.

"Katniss, no." he breathes.

Now would be the time to run. But I tarry in indecision for a moment too long, and have only just turned when I feel Peeta's hand on my arm.

"Let me go!" I gasp out, threatening to drown in the tears about to appear in my voice.

"No, please, no…." Peeta's voice is just as hoarse, and I am startled to wonder if he is crying too. But I don't have much time to find out as Peeta drags me into the alleyway beside his door.

We stay in the shadows there, catching our breaths. Only now am I aware that Peeta's hands are about my waist, his fingers brushing the small of my back. The nerves in my fingertips signal to my weary brain that my hands are now pressed against his chest. I stare up into his face, my expression slightly agape.

It seems as though we are frozen in time and it allows me to better examine every detail of the man who was once my husband. The blond curls. Strong chin. I peer closer, gazing into his eyes - eyes as blue as a summer sky…..

I can feel Peeta drawing closer to me as well. My eyes grow heavy. My mind seems to have switched off, as I cannot find the words to tell myself to stop now before…. we…. kiss….

Our lips are mere inches apart now. I am only just aware that his one hand has now moved and is absentmindedly playing with my braid, when a banging sound breaks the spell around us. Oddly still staying in our awkward embrace, Peeta and I peer around the corner to see Thread's door open, its light illuminating at least half a dozen girls, desperate like myself. The Peacekeeper glances up and down the street furtively. He sees the Mellarks' door left open, but must not think anything of it. I can tell he does not see us.

After a moment, he sighs and picks the next best girl, swiftly bringing her inside and slamming the door. The other girls stumble off into the night.

No. That was my one last chance and now it's gone! I won't come home with a bag full of coins for Mother and Prim. We will starve. We will die. Peeta's and my baby will die...

Now the spell is really broken, as I push against Peeta's chest angrily; he readily lets me go. "What do you think you were doing?" I hiss. "I needed that!"

Peeta shakes his head determinedly. "Katniss, Thread is the last thing you need. Trust me."

"How would you know?" I bite accusingly, and to me, it is more than a fair question. How would he know? He doesn't know what's it like to starve. To feel there are no options left.

"Oh, believe me, I do. I've seen the girls leaving his place after their 'visits.' He's a monster." And I have never heard such venom in Peeta's voice.

Terror fills me, and I almost want to interrogate him for more details. What has he seen, coming out of that wretched house? Girls limping? Bloodied? Bruised? The only fear outweighing Thread's touch would have been what I felt like afterwards, or what might have been done to cause it.

"Wait here," and Peeta suddenly leaves me to go back inside, through the back loading dock door that leads to the alleyway. After a minute, he returns with a bag full of coins and presses it into my hand. I stare at it dumbly.

"Take it," he prompts, trying and failing to snap me out of my shock. I soon do, as my face hardens in indignation.

"Do you think I want your pity?" I spit. He blinks, perplexed. "I don't need you to save me!" I attempt to fling the money back at him, but Peeta stays my hand, forcing me to drop it to my side. His eyes are pleading.

"Katniss, if you won't help yourself, at least let me help you!" He begs. "I won't let you die!"

I stare at him. That I am dying is of no dispute here; I know it myself. I've seen it lurking behind the hungry eyes of my mother and sister. No, what is more debatable is Peeta's claim. Will he really? Will he really not let me die? No one else has said that to me before, because no one else has cared enough to. Another thought strikes me: in spite of everything that has occurred between us, does Peeta Mellark still care for me?

My eyes drift down to the money bag still clutched in my hand. My incredulity and confusion suddenly boil down into rage as I am reminded of what this bag means, what it symbolizes. This was supposed to be my earnings from Thread! Received after making a great sacrifice! I refuse to let this man I once loved (still love, my traitorous heart whispers, but I wrestle it down) just hand it to me for free, when I have done nothing to get it! Though he is so sweet to do so…. No, I am not charity! I have to earn my keep.

And if not from Thread, then, at this point, anyone will do.

This is my last thought before I cast the bag to the ground and roughly grab Peeta's groin.

His cry out for help is muffled as I fiercely press my lips to his. My mouth slides against his with extreme incoordination. His mouth opens to mine in that brief moment before a sure attempt to spring free, and I shove my tongue deep within before he can, refusing to release my prey. It's awkward, I know, but I'm hoping that he knows as little as I do about making love. I've – we've - technically only done it once ourselves, and look where that got us!

Peeta finally breaks the kiss roughly, pushing my groping hand away. "No!" he croaks out, the word sent out into the night like a bullet after it has stayed jammed in the barrel of a gun. He lowers his voice, which trembles now. "You don't have to do that. I don't need that, and I don't want it."

"The fuck you don't," I snarl. "I know what the boys in school wanted. What the Peacekeepers in the Barracks want. What Thread wants. I know what any man would pay for!" I stalk towards him, the predator in me just warming up, backing him into a literal corner of his house where he has nowhere to run.

"No…." but his protest is silenced by my hand ripping apart the waistband so hard, the clothing itself rips in two, at the seam right down the middle, almost perfectly in half at the zipper. Peeta releases a startled cry as I plunge my hand down his now-revealed underwear. I move in to kiss him again to silence his calls. I seize his manhood, expanding like a creature all its own despite his terror. I rub him faster, pumping my hand intensely and deliberately along the shaft again and again and again, willing the organ to grow. As I do so, I push my body up against his, rubbing my breasts along his toned muscles, my hips rocking into his pelvis. Maybe the memory of having me – in the Slag Heap, in my father's hunting cabin, in the Justice Building when he finally sheathed himself inside me - will calm him.

I liberate his lips from my own, his crotch from my hands and he takes a sharp breath. He is already traumatized; I can see it in the new way he looks at me, as if he has never seen me before.

But I know he can't feel as shamed as I do, as I drop swiftly to my knees before him and throw down his underwear, allowing his member to spring free from whence it came, like a snake ready to strike. It certainly is eager to be pleasured, even if its master is still not.

Taking a deep breath, I lean forward and take him in my mouth. I feel I have nothing to offer or can't even manage much of what I do have. But judging from Peeta's reaction, it is enough - more than enough - to send him tumbling over the edge.

"Ohmmmmm! Ummmmmm!" Peeta claps his hand over his mouth, eyes wide as saucers and staring up into the night sky above us, willing to look anywhere but at me. Trusting him to keep himself quiet now, I begin to work my lips along his shaft - up and down, up and down, sucking him in as far as he will go, until his tip is touching the back of my throat. With every motion, my head bobs right along with his penis.

My hands now free, I gently cup his balls in my hands, holding them in the way that I might bring water to my lips at the well when no bucket is to be found. I massage them, fondle them, mold them in my palms, for the first time letting my actions become tender in their execution.

That is what begins the transformation, as I begin to forget why I am doing this in the first place. No longer does my appalled brain remind myself that I have to do this, to earn the money Peeta has given away to me so freely. I begin to tell myself that I actually want to do this. I want to pleasure this man who stands before me.

But why? Is it because he is not Thread? That is most certainly true, even in the texture of his skin now activating my taste buds. The texture of the baker's son is rather pleasant - smooth, warm, yet soft, despite the hardness of the organ it encases. I taste the faint hints of flour, even yeast; both smells seem to seep out of Peeta's pores. The smell of freshly baked bread….

Is it because of the kindness he has shown me, and I feel the only kindness I can possibly give him in return is a good blow? Is this to thank him? My thoughts return to the taste of him and I close my eyes, lolling my tongue out to lazily lick the upper reaches of his shaft. I know I am enjoying this far too much, and I don't care.

"Mmmmm…" That sound definitely came from me, not from Peeta, a muffled rumbling sound of contentment deep within my vocal chords that is somewhat blocked by my maw being filled with cock. I let one hand off of his balls and slink it around him, running it down his handsome butt cheeks. I caress it heavily, before cupping it, squeezing it.

Suddenly, I feel a sharp pain as hands grasp my head. I let out a strangled noise, afraid someone has caught us, the baker's witch of a wife perhaps. But no, it's Peeta's hands weaving themselves into my hair, nails digging into my scalp. He holds my skull in place as he begins to hump his pelvis frantically into my face. Down on my knees, I can see his legs trembling - a vibration that moves up into his center and along his member so that it seems to hum and pulse in my mouth. My eyes pop open and I panic as I begin to realize from the last time he and I were in this position what is about to happen. Sure, we had been lectured on planned parenthood in school (lessons I obviously learned real well. Yeah, right!) but ejaculation after oral sex was believed to be a concept better left untaught. For the first time in this whole ordeal, I want to free myself, except now I can't. What should I do? I breathe through my nose heavily. I return to my work. Oh, well. At this point, there is nothing left I can do but give Peeta one…..more…..suck…. Whatever happens next, just let it come…..

And come it does, all at once. Peeta gives one final, violent shudder, then releases himself into my mouth. A torrent of thick, creamy liquid gushes into my mouth, quickly flooding it. I nearly choke, gag, before I finally get my throat to work again. If I had not forced myself upon Peeta, I know what he would want me to do now. So I obey. I do as he would bid and gulp down every last drop of what he gives me. The strange substance is the texture of milk, but does not taste like milk. It tastes salty…..

When the last of Peeta's liquid offering has disappeared down my gullet, I slowly extract myself from his manhood. Peeta does not immediately flee, as I expected he might when I was finished with him, instead standing stock-still, allowing me to examine my handiwork.

The only traces signaling that I have been with him are his still-stiff, but rapidly shrinking penis, and the smeared red lipstick print ringing the middle of his shaft.

The only sounds in the night are those of my panting and Peeta's whimpers. I shakily stand and finally have the courage to look him in the eyes, only to discover Peeta is staring at me too, though warily.

My face hardens as I now grasp his shoulders, pushing him up against the wall of the bakery. Peeta's eyes fill with terror, as he takes my expression to be done out of anger and that therefore I must not have been pleased with the offering he gave me - neither the money nor the extorted cum. I give him no time to speak, as the lines in my face soften just slightly before I press my lips to his in one last kiss.

This kiss is as forceful as the other two I've bestowed - I want him to taste himself on my mouth - but at the same time, there is a tenderness present, buried beneath the surface. Despite how Peeta's whole being is tense against my own, I move and twist my lips deeper into his, the muscles in my jaw screaming in protest from working overtime.

I feel Peeta's fingers gently brushing my jawline, as if he wants to cup my chin in his hands, and I jump. Wait…. is he finally responding? Does he mean to kiss me back? I do not wait to find out, no matter how much I might want to, so I spring away.

Guilt crashes over me at last like a wave as I stumble out of the alley, not even saying goodbye to Peeta and barely remembering to take the money bag with me. I should feel satisfied, proud even, for I did what I came here to do after all - earn and receive payment while accepting no handouts. Instead, I feel nothing but shame. I have ruined that poor boy's life! And mine!

Little do I know what the implications behind my actions will lead to.