Chapter Seventy-Four; Truth or Lie?

(Seneca's POV)

Her cries had subsided to the odd hiccupping sob. She still had her face turned away from him, hugging her knees to her chest.

She had shuddered slightly but made no objection, when Seneca had knelt by her side and with gentle fingers began to examine the gash on the back of her head.

"It's quite deep," he muttered distractedly. "How did it happen?"

She stilled immediately before her head snapped round and she fixed him with a murderous glare, her golden eyes narrowed.

"You caused it," she snarled.

Seneca frowned. Being nice to her was going to be hard if she was going to behave this way.

"I think I'd remember if I did," he replied dryly.

She muttered something under her breath, indistinguishable but clearly an insult as she dug her nails into her palms.

Seneca held his tongue but his anger quickly melted away when a few more tears trickled from her eyes and she chewed on her bottom lip, furrowing her brow furiously in an attempt to stop from crying again.

Seneca felt that strange tugging at his heart again, seeing her quite evidently so distressed.

He had the sudden urge to envelop her in his arms and tell her that she didn't need to be afraid. He had sorted it all out. She would win the Games with his help and then have a life of ease and luxury in the Capitol with him – But he correctly assumed the gesture would be less than appreciated.

He contented himself with running his hand he still had placed on her shoulder, down the length of her arm soothingly.

She whimpered slightly like an injured animal and quickly buried her face in her hands.

Seneca found that he truly did feel…well, sad or pained seeing her quite evidently distressed. He had used to snigger when younger when couples would gush about how in-tune they were with one another's emotions. Seneca now wondered if maybe there was some truth to what they had said afterall.

"Stephanie?" Seneca called softly.

Stephanie buried her head further into her hands before mumbling through her fingers, "They're going to notice I'm missing."

Seneca faltered for a moment. He knew that much was true. He had just come from the back room the tributes, bar Districts 1, 2 and 4, were huddled together in mute shock along with mentors.

Having immediately established that Stephanie wasn't there Seneca knew instantaneously that she was missing somewhere, and a cold dread had filled him as he considered all the possible messes she could have found herself in.

"They have bigger things to worry about," he soothed.

Her head snapped up then, tears still clinging to her lashes. But her eyes suddenly filled with deep suspicion, her gaze drifting pointedly to where his hand rested once more on her shoulder; the question clear in her golden eyes…

What the hell did he think he was doing?

Seneca smirked slightly, feeling a tiny bit of relief that she seemed to be returning to her old fiery self and not the snivelling heap on the floor.

"Can you tell me what happened?" Seneca asked.

Stephanie looked at him aghast, as she suddenly realised just how very un-Seneca-like Seneca was being.

She scowled darkly at him, shifting suddenly so his hand slipped from her shoulder.

"You should know," she told him.

Seneca arched a brow at her. "Clearly I don't," he managed with the utmost patience.

Her expression faltered, uncertainty flickering through her gaze for a moment, before she steeled herself again, strengthening her resolve once more.

"You made them do this to me!" she accused angrily.

Seneca ground his teeth together irritably.

Was she going to talk in riddles constantly?

"I have no idea what you are talking about," Seneca confessed honestly, his expression genuinely earnest.

Stephanie's expression crashed then as tears spilled over her cheeks.

"You. It...wasn't…you?" Stephanie asked, her voice quiet and disbelieving.

Seneca shook his head in the negative.

Stephanie's gaze became far-off, her eyes dimmed with some memory as she sat mute and unmoving.

Seneca frowned. He disliked this state as much as he hated seeing her sobbing and saddened.

Seneca reached out, unable to resist brushing his fingertips across her cheek in a tender gesture.

He had been watching her all evening at the party, observing her from a distance.

How her hair burnished gold at the edges when the light from the chandeliers fell on it just at the right angles, how her eyes crinkled when she laughed, how easily a smile rested on her lips.

He had been aching to touch her and had considered forcing her into a dance to do so but didn't want to spook her, content for a while as he was to observe her from a distance.

She however didn't even flinch at his touch. He doubted she noticed it. Her gaze was profoundly troubled and troublingly unfocused.

…

(Stephanie's POV)

Stephanie's thoughts stuttered to a grinding halt, her breath stilling in her throat.

Seneca's expression was so painfully genuine, his face earnest, his eyes…innocent, Stephanie saw with a horrible realisation.

But how? How could Seneca not know? Not know unless…he wasn't responsible?

Stephanie wasn't sure how much more she could take that night.

Usually it was Seneca who was making her life a living hell but it seemed that in this one incident he was without blame and wholly innocent.

"Stephanie – what happened?" he asked a little firmer this time as he studied her face closely.

"I have to get back," Stephanie mumbled.

And really she did, Stephanie's thoughts enforced. She doubted whether Ficen was telling her the truth about the tributes being escorted from the foyer but either way – she needed to get back, before they realised she was missing. Haymitch would be fretting over where she was she knew.

"Not until you have told me what happened?" Seneca replied firmly.

Stephanie scowled up at him.

…

(Seneca's POV)

As Stephanie's perplexing accusations had grown Seneca suddenly found himself becoming incredibly suspicious and something like dread settling in his gut.

What exactly had happened?

"I fell," she immediately blurted out.

He scoffed irritated.

"Unlikely," he bit back. "Why were you so separated from the others at the foyer?"

He could practically see the cogs in Stephanie's head turning, her mind contemplating which secrets to keep from him.

"I was looking for the bathroom," she finally replied.

He stared at her deadpan. There was no way she actually thought that her atrocious lying was going to work, surely?

From the dark glare she threw him by way of response, he suspected she knew she was cornered.

"Well…?" he prompted.

…

(Stephanie's POV)

Stephanie gulped.

What the hell could she tell him?

She couldn't mention Slena; God knows what Seneca would do to another tribute.

And although Slena might have possibly blackmailed Vir into attacking Cron, Slena herself was the victim of blackmailing from Dess. She could hardly be blamed for her actions therefore, Stephanie reasoned.

Seneca was evidently growing impatient as he arched a dark brow expectantly, giving her a mildly frosty look.

"I wandered down here by accident." Stephanie tried desperately to stall for time.

This time Seneca growled low in his throat as he glared at her, before he spoke his words tinged with frustration.

"How can you expect me to help you if you don't tell me what is going on?"

Stephanie blinked and then swallowed.

She opened her mouth to speak and closed it dumbly again.

She had misheard. Of course she had. Hadn't she?

Seneca Crane…Head Gamemaker going to be killing her in a few weeks, not allowed to fraternize with the tributes, that Seneca Crane – had just offered to help her?!

Seneca remained scowling at her, either not aware of what he had just said or doing a fantastic job of acting as though it were the most natural thing in the world.

Seneca Crane was not meant to be offering her help and scolding her for keeping secrets. That was meant to be – Haymitch. The quiet realisation hit Stephanie like a tonne of bricks.

Stephanie felt a stab of worry and longing for Haymitch; for the security she felt in his arms and the love she could see in his eyes that anchored her and was real, when everything else in this place wasn't and tossed her about in lies.

Stephanie eyed Seneca suspiciously.

What was his game? He had been being uncharacteristically nice to her.

Stephanie was convinced he was no doubt messing her around for some reason or another. He was a Gamemaker afterall, and Gamemakers' loved their Games.