Chapter Seventy-Three; A Four-Lettered Word

(Seneca's POV)

Seneca half-carried, half-dragged Stephanie down the rest of the corridor before he was able to nudge open the door to a room that was nothing more than a small, storage cupboard and shove her into it.

He had to get her out of the open in case any guards happened across them. And anyway she wasn't meant to be here at all?

He followed shutting the door after him, before pulling the string for the light.

A dim, yellow light-bulb flickered and sputtered to life above them.

She immediately fell onto the floor, bringing her knees up to her chest as she lowered her head and wrapped her arms about her legs, sobbing quietly.

Seneca arched an ebony brow, completely and utterly baffled.

He crouched down beside her. He knew she was terrified of him but even this reaction seemed more to the extreme than anything he had ever witnessed before.

He lifted a hand to…nudge her? Pat her head? Rub her back? He didn't know so his hand hovered unsure above her trembling form for a few moments.

He didn't see it at first because giving as he was hovering over her, his body shadowed hers, blocking the light.

But as he shifted slightly, a weak strip of dim light caught the top of her head.

And Seneca darkened as he saw it. The hair at the back of her head was congealed with blood.

Seneca suddenly felt sickened and he found his own reaction to be the most peculiar he had ever had.

He was Head Gamemaker. The sight of blood was beyond familiar to him and besides he had seen far more horrific wounds. Stephanie just looked like she had received a nasty blow to the head.

But Seneca realised that it wasn't the wound itself that had sickened him but the fact that it was Stephanie's wound.

He felt sick – with worry.

"Stephanie," he called firmly, finally settling for placing a comforting hand on her shoulder.

Stephanie flinched violently, jerking away from the touch as her head snapped up.

Her golden eyes burned fiercely as her upper lip curled back in a sneer.

"Stay away from me…" she ground out through gritted teeth.

Seneca stared at her, feeling his own anger and annoyance being stoked. She was behaving like a damn, feral animal!

"Well, we just happen to keep having these pleasant, little run-ins, don't we?" he bit back sarcastically.

Stephanie's hands curled into angry fists before unfurling again.

Seneca glared at her dangerously. If she hit him he would be hard pressed at controlling himself.

But she didn't. She turned her face away from him, crying brokenly against her shoulder.

Seneca's gaze softened as he watched her, those strange complicated feelings rising up again.

They had been plaguing him for a while now; constant and unrelenting.

He had forced himself to sit down and decipher them a while back. Well, shortly after the disastrous Flickerman interview.

He had been frustrated, even angry at himself on occasion. He was Head Gamemaker who designed some of the best and most complicated arenas Panem had ever seen, and yet he couldn't work out why he felt an indescribable urge to kiss Stephanie everytime he was near her.

Huffing and denial had come shortly after as he staunchly refused to admit that he could possibly feel something towards…a tribute – from those dingy Districts.

Not even a damn Career tribute! His thoughts had cried angrily.

Up until then, he had been trying to convince himself that anything he did feel towards Stephanie was simple lust or a desire to annoy Haymitch. He might care a little for her, but it would pass, wouldn't it?

Yet something inside him had already known it wouldn't. There had been signposts all along the way.

He would be lying if he said it started back in the greenhouse at the party, or even at the dinner-date he had hijacked, but…somewhere along the way, it had snuck up on him – admiration had morphed into something stronger.

Love.

A word Seneca had either shied away from or laughed outright at.

He had loved Lark as a father once and look what had happened to him.

Lark had been safe, sound, secure, protected. Lark was dead.

Lark had been in the Capitol; the epitome of power and security where everything was plentiful, every comfort provided, and people simply cruised through life, but Lark was…dead.

Seneca scowled realising that was the reason why he feared that silly four lettered word; love.

Lark had had everything in his favour for survival and still he died.

Every single odd was stacked against Stephanie – she had no chance of survival.

To allow himself to love someone who was surely going to die – that was sheer stupidity, Seneca had tried to reason logically with himself.

But the case had ceased to be debatable a long time ago. There was no decision for Seneca to make or any logic involved.

Seneca also despised the storm of other emotions that this 'love' kicked up.

Crippling fear that crept into his dreams at night, morphing itself into nameless terrors that had him waking up in cold sweats.

Seneca never had nightmares. Never.

He was Head Gamemaker. If he had nightmares at every death he would be utterly incompetent at his job.

Even after Lark's death his sleep had remained dreamless. An oddity, yes. But one Seneca had always been thankful for.

Stephanie was still alive and yet images of her screaming out as she died horribly vivid deaths, invaded Seneca's dreams constantly now.

Then there was the jealousy; fruitless, green-eyed fits of rage at inconsequential gossiping, most heavily featuring Dess' name. But in Seneca's own thoughts it was Haymitch he was slowly dissecting with a blunt instrument.

And there was that horrible feeling of losing control, of feeling things that he couldn't stop.

Seneca found himself assaulted with sudden bouts of complete disregard for his own safety; occasions like the Flickerman interview where he knew what he was doing was highly risky, and yet he didn't seem to care enough.

It was the last of these things that had taken Seneca most by surprise and convinced him, that his feelings for Stephanie were indeed stronger than he had initially suspected.

That he loved Stephanie to put her before his own life in terms of importance.

And that particular piece of realisation dredged up some things that Seneca found nigh on impossible being a Gamemaker.

Guilt.

It haunted his mind, it featured heavily in his dreams, it occupied every other thought.

Looking at Stephanie now, seeing her crying brokenly and openly, a huge gash to the back of her head, that horrible feeling pressed to the forefront of his mind.

There was no question that if Stephanie were anywhere – but here in the Capitol, she would not have had to endure whatever distressed her now.

And Seneca found himself sympathising with her, emphasising with the terror of what she must be going through, having been reaped for the Games and all.

It had terrified Seneca. It was dangerous thinking.

Before he knew it, he would be preaching that the Games should be scrapped and sympathising with every filthy, district dweller, his thoughts had warned frantically.

But Seneca had found that the more his brain tried to supply perfectly viable reasons why he shouldn't love Stephanie, the more he completely disregarded them.

Seneca found that loving another human being was for a person like him, who was used to being a selfish individual, a singularly most frustrating thing.

His very nature fought for self-preservation and yet this other feeling was stronger, pushing logic and all other reason out of the way.

Of course Seneca wasn't naïve or completely ignorant.

There were two glaringly painful facts that still stood in his way.

One; Stephanie was a tribute for the Hunger Games and likely to be dead in the next few weeks.

Two; He was almost entirely sure that she hated him.

His thoughts had already cursed at him a thousand times over, on why of all the possible human beings he had to fall in love with Stephanie Trindlesworth; a tribute for the Hunger Games.

Both reasons were devastatingly depressing thoughts that constantly played on his mind, a heavy shroud over him that he couldn't shake.

It prevented him from finding pleasure in absolutely anything; speaking was painful, smiling was agony and laughing was down-right destructive.

The only thing that eased the dark spiral of his thoughts was…her.

He was eager for any opportunity to see her, painfully aware that he had to be careful. Self-perseveration may now come second to his love for Stephanie (and all that it entailed) but it didn't mean he was actively seeking out his own death.

However the more he saw of her the deeper he fell, and slowly a crazy thought had been building in his mind.

What if he made sure Stephanie survived the Games? Rigged them so she got out, a Victor.

As a Victor she could be forced to stay in the Capitol – always within reach.

Selfish vestiges of Seneca's self still clung to his thoughts. He could make Stephanie his, get rid of Haymitch…a perfect happy ending, couldn't he?

It was dangerous. He would be risking his own life to save hers.

Seneca looked at Stephanie still sobbing quietly in front of him, felt the warmth of her skin beneath his hand he had placed on her shoulder once more.

But the thought of her dead was…unbearable.

Seneca shuddered, a sudden fear filling him that the skin beneath his grasp would turn to ice.

Seneca realised he was doing it again; confirming decisions that his heart had made long ago.

He would make sure Stephanie survived the arena – he had to. Her life was tied to his now, without her…well, it didn't bear thinking about.

Now that he had solved one of the issues that had been causing him deep despair the other sprang forth.

It was a tad trickier.

It didn't matter how much he loved her, Seneca was certain she hated him.

Therein lay the problem.

If Seneca was going to save her, he would need her to work with him, not against him.

Seneca inhaled deeply as the more logical part of his brain, usually occupied with designing arenas began to puzzle through the predicament he found himself in; loving a woman who didn't love him, hated him in fact.

Well he would just have to make her fall in love with him – Wouldn't he?

Seneca looked at her wonderingly. How had she made him fall in love with her? He didn't think showing her nothing but hostility would endear her to him though.

He could always be nice to her, his thoughts suggested.

Seneca frowned. He had never been nice to anyone.