Chapter 14: 73rd Annual Hunger Games
Finnick doesn't abandon the house by the sea, not even for a day. The morning after the fire, he's up at dawn, gently rousing Annie from sleep to kiss her cheek and tell her not to follow him; he'll be back for supper. He wakes with a fresh perspective and such strong resolve, it jars him to life. He'll finish the house. He'll give Annie a home, and no one has the right to take it away from her.
The ocean is wild today. The waves climb higher and higher and the sun doesn't have room to peek out amongst the dark clouds. A storm is in the making, but Finnick figures he still has time before the downpour. In the solitude of the early morning, he begins by clearing the charred remains that clutter the base of the house. Broken, burnt wood is scattered across the flooring, but there are also blackened logs still standing that need to be disassembled. Finnick takes a deep breath, grabs an axe and starts to destroy, imagining every blow is Snow's neck, envisioning his icy eyes closing for the last time.
By the time he's taken down half of his creation, he's perspiring, panting, and grunting with exertion – and no less angry. His mood matches the violent weather. He's relieved he asked Annie not to visit him today.
The axe is laid to rest as he moves to a task more gruelling: removing the soot and rubble in order to start anew. He's almost grateful for the ominous skies and cold gusts of wind – better than the scorching sun beating down, and still he finds himself too warm, so he removes his shirt and scratches uncomfortably underneath the bandage around his forehead. Still, he doesn't take a break; he won't rest until he has something to work with. Even with an ache in his side, he spends all morning lugging heavy logs across the road where, after the storm, he'll set it on fire and toast it once and for all.
Though his hands are blistered from the axe, he's diligently chopping a larger block of lumber into more manageable pieces when he hears footsteps scuffing along the beaten path. He clenches his teeth and sends one final swing of the axe into the lumber, to be considered a warning to the intruder of his solitude. A peacekeeper would be sorry to cross him today.
As he straightens, huffing for breath and running a hand through his hair, damp with sweat, he sees the trespasser as if it's the first time they've laid eyes on each other: he's tall, built, with bronze hair and a sculpted jawline. It would almost be like looking into a mirror if it weren't for the other's muted grey eyes.
His mother's eyes.
Fletcher approaches what remains of the house with curiosity. When Finnick stares him in the eyes, he stiffens, his feet grounding to a halt in the dirt. For a few moments that seem to last an eternity, the two brothers size each other up – it's only been four years, but to each other, they appear as though they've aged a lifetime. Finnick wears the defeated eyes of a victor while Fletcher's hands are calloused and scarred from years of tying knots and fashioning hooks.
It scares Finnick that he can no longer read the expression on his brother's face – his eyes burn, but it's with something other than anger; his lips scowl, but the scowl isn't directed at him.
Fletcher speaks first. With a nod of his head, he gestures to the ashes behind Finnick. "I saw the flames from the water yesterday," he says. "They did this to you?"
Warily, Finnick nods, his shoulders rising rapidly with every breath.
A frown crosses his face. "Why?"
Finnick releases a breath of a laugh. "I've never really been in the president's favour."
This confuses Fletcher, whose eyebrows knit instantly. Over the crashing waves, he asks, "Then why do you do it? Go to their Games, seduce their women?"
Finnick's shoulders sag with resignation – if anyone should know of Snow's perversities, it should be his brother. "Because I have a woman of my own to keep safe," he answers. With a shrug, he adds, "That's what all of this is for, Fletch. To keep her safe."
The older brother considers this as he walks slowly to the house, assessing the damage. "The Cresta girl?" he asks to clarify.
The look in Finnick's eyes confirms it.
"I remember her," Fletcher nods as he examines the state of the house. "Not just from the Games, either – I remember her scrawny little legs chasing after you into the ocean."
Wiping the sweat from his brow, Finnick stands still as a cool breeze sweeps by.
Fletcher glances at him over his shoulder before picking up a burnt stone. He throws it in the air and catches it, remarking, "You could've been free. Without her, they'd have nothing more to hold against you."
It's been brought to his attention more than enough times – usually by a likeminded Johanna.
"They would've had you," Finnick says. "Your family." He thinks of Fletcher's wife, Kessie Frey – Kessie Odair – and his child, Finnick's niece or nephew. Though he's never met them, they're an extension of his brother. They're Finnick's family all the same.
Fletcher freezes, the stone gripped in his fist. He casts down his gaze, muttering, "That would have mattered, after everything?"
"Yes," is Finnick's simple reply. "You can't help who you love. You're born with it, or it creeps up on you."
After a short pause in which he digests Finnick's words, Fletcher begins to throw and catch the stone again. His eyes scan the healthy section of the house. "You did all this?" he asks.
"With a little help."
Fletcher nods slowly. "The help knows nothing about construction, huh?"
Finnick tilts his head, amusement playing at the corners of his lips. "Think you could do better?"
Even through the back of his head, Finnick can see his brother rolling his eyes. "I'm the son with work ethic and years of practice. Of course I can."
Finnick chuckles, taking a few steps forward. "I'd hire you," he says, "but I suppose the fishmongers wouldn't be happy about that."
Fletcher flashes him a strange glance. Pointing to the waves, he asks, "On a day like today? I'd like to see you steer a boat in this weather. Brother, how you made it out of the Games with a net and a trident is beyond me."
Revisits to the Arena are always horrific, but today, Finnick finds a grin on his face. Brother. He hasn't heard the word in so long; hasn't dared to think it, but it sounds so natural, like it's only been minutes rather than years.
"A fisherman I may not be," Finnick says in good nature, "but I can fish."
"I doubt it," Fletcher deadpans with the same dryness Finnick hears so often in his own replies. "Can't build, either. You're all for show."
With a short laugh, Finnick picks up a log and thrusts it in Fletcher's arms. "Then clear this place with me and show me what I'm doing wrong."
The wind whistles angrily as the two brothers set to work.
The other victors take a step back from working on the house. Finnick doesn't blame them – in fact, he's relieved. He'd rather not feel responsible for their injuries and the peacekeepers' hatred of them. He's better off working alone – and sometimes, on especially blustery, cool days not suited for fishing, with Fletcher.
For a long time, the two of them work in near-silence, only opening their mouths to throw mocking jibes at one another. But after a month or two, Finnick musters the courage to ask Fletcher about his wife and child. He's just curious, that's all, and if Fletcher doesn't respond, he'll understand.
But Fletcher does respond. As they work, he tells Finnick all about Kessie Frey, the red-haired, soft-spoken beauty who lived with her father down by the quay. He had to beg with her father for her hand in marriage, but after proving to him he was born and bred to fish and Kessie would never go hungry, her father agreed. They wed the next month and, with his meagre savings, purchased a modest home down by the wharf. Bellamy, their vivacious daughter, is nearly three and begging for a younger sister. Their quiet, happy life leaves an empty longing in Finnick's chest, but he does not envy his brother. If anything, Fletcher's modest life comforts him.
The peacekeepers are seen less frequently patrolling the house, and Finnick wonders why. Fletcher informs him that the day the house was set ablaze, the two peacekeepers on guard stormed into town and marched to the Mayor's Building. After receiving no grounds for arrest of Finnick, Qais, or even Roscoe Roe, they took their complaints directly to Snow. It seemed that Snow had other things on his mind – that, or a far worse punishment in store for Finnick. But he won't live on the cusp of fear, for he never forgets that he, too, holds a special kind of power that not even Snow is privy to. He just needs the right time; the opportune moment – and then he and Annie, Mags and Roscoe, Fletcher and Kessie and Bellamy can all walk free.
But life worsens for the poorer in District 4, for they're the ones Snow cares for not and the ones the peacekeepers are most likely to abuse. Coming straight from the heart of the district, Fletcher brings him news of public whippings, nights in the tank for pocketing even the smallest percentage of their catch for the day, and fair, innocent girls made to spread their legs for armed men who leave them with scars and bruises - both physical and mental.
Finnick expects to feel fear, but he only feels a stony resolve to continue on. All of this because Snow didn't give the peacekeepers what they wanted. All of this because the president prefers to exact revenge on his own terms: a crueller, slower death.
He wants Finnick's head, the glorious smile and dancing eyes of the victor mounted on the wall of his mansion for all to see.
But Finnick won't go down unless Snow goes with him.
He can't resist the tiny white capsule this time. While genteel ladies stroke him with their fluorescent fingernails and trail their lips over his sunkissed skin, he hears the drug screaming his name and feels it slip through his organs ever-so-warmly. "We're all dead anyway," Calix says to him. "Might as well live in heaven over hell."
And then, with a body like air and eyes adrift, he steals their secrets, feeling nothing but weightlessness.
He floats to his own quarters with whispers in his pockets, tales of treachery and lust and greed. A little boy's traumatic upbringing driving him to a life of hate, revenge, and absolute power. What a strange world, the Capitol.
In the stiff, spacious bed in the darkest hours of night, he shakes violently, cold sweat leaking from his pores. He searches for another of those miracle tablets but his limbs are too heavy; his body too spent. The terrors of the Arena become evermore vivid until he's certain they're no longer just in his mind. And he reaches out for comfort – a hand to hold, a body to squeeze – only to find that he's reaching for someone who isn't there.
If this is heaven, he'd sooner burn in hell.
"You look like ass." Johanna snorts to herself as she says the words, receiving the utmost enjoyment from insulting the appearance of the golden Finnick Odair.
"Thank you, madam," Finnick grumbles as he plops down on the sofa in the Recreational Room. He holds a mug of tea in his shaky hands – it's the only thing he can stomach after a dreadfully long night sweating out every toxin in his body.
From across the room, he earns a glare from Theia of 9, clearly bitter that she's spent all evening watching her tributes onscreen while he's been lazily mingling with Capitol folk and has sponsors to show for it.
He ignores her, accepting her judgment as it is. Nowadays he's hard-pressed to find a friend amongst the mentors – they snicker at his desirability, growl at his popularity. Even Gloss and Cashmere from 1 – or Threadbare and Sandpaper, as dubbed by Johanna – snub him, though they each rack up an impressive amount of patrons themselves.
Johanna's one he's never been able to shake. The other mentors' increasing dislike of him only seems to make her like him more. If she weren't so dangerous, he'd appreciate the inextinguishable fire that burns within her solely to defy everyone's expectations.
"I hope the wench was kind enough to open her heart to you after she opened her legs," Johanna mutters.
"She was," Finnick nods. "They both were."
Johanna makes a gagging sound at the mention of two women at once. Still, she takes a bite of the tart she holds and asks, "Care to share a secret or two?"
The lumber trade didn't come without a cost, of course, and when the time came to make the deal two years ago, Finnick had to barter something that Johanna truly wanted.
As it turned out, she desired Snow's secrets just as much as he. He kept some for himself; the ones that may be too hazardous in the hands of the fiery Johanna, but some he gave away. It was mutually beneficial, as the weight on his shoulders was ever so slightly lighter.
"Not here," he mutters.
Johanna glances lazily around the room. "No one's listening. Snow's too busy reviewing the edited tribute footage to be scanning through all his bugged corners in the Capitol and beyond."
Finnick glares at her. He hates when she speaks so openly, for the truth is that the corners are bugged, and sooner or later, Snow will get around to listening.
"Not now," he snaps.
Rolling her eyes and pursing her lips, Johanna crosses her arms and sits back on her chair. "You know, I think I like you better when you try to work your transparent charm on me. Grumpiness doesn't suit you."
"It sure suits you."
"Of course it does," she says with an air of pride. "And I get no greater pleasure than knowing it pisses off Snow and there's nothing he can do about it. Last night while you were rolling around naked in jewels and money, he sent one of his gamemakers to try to get a treasonous comment out of me."
Her chatter gives him a headache, but he can't help himself from asking, "What?"
"Yeah," she continues, "guy named Heavensbee. Kind of fat, even jollier than you. Said he saw me roll my eyes as Snow gave his standard speech at the tribute parade and asked what I thought of Panem's leader. Nobody asks that kind of question these days – he was bugged, I'm positive. What Snow'll do with my comments, I don't know."
Finnick frowns, recognizing the name - Heavensbee. The man who thought the tributes deserved to live. "What did you say?" he asks.
She flashes him an award-winning smile. "Bugged or not, I don't pass up the opportunity to speak my mind. What do you think I said?"
Reality begins to terrify him, and he wishes he'd asked Calix for just one more pill, just to get him through the day. Maybe two. Or just enough to survive the Games, however many that may be.
"Dammit, Jo," he hisses, "you'll get yourself killed." And you'll take me along with you.
She throws her head back and laughs. "I'd love to see them try. While I may not have visited the bedroom of every woman in the Capitol, they still know who I am. They'd notice if I was gone. What plausible excuse can you give for the death of a young victor without arousing suspicion?"
Paranoid that someone, somehow, is eavesdropping, Finnick begins to tap his knee in apprehension.
"The stupidest thing you can do is underestimate him," he warns her. An Avox approaches them with a tray and he quickly changes the subject. "There were no deaths yesterday. I bet the gamemakers will find a way to draw a few tributes close together today. Maybe the Careers and the 10 and 11 alliance?"
Johanna shakes her head at him, refusing to dignify his forced comment with a reply. The Avox lowers the tray to his eye level, but biscuits and tarts make him queasy. The itch for another shot of morphling is so strong that he's barely above racing across the room and begging Calix for another of his mind-changing, body-numbing pills. Gulping down his instincts, Finnick picks up a couple of sugar cubes from the tray. He's about to drop one in his tea when he changes his mind and instead pops it, whole, into his mouth.
The Avox continues on her way, leaving Johanna staring at him curiously.
He holds out his hand to her. "Sugar cube?"
She rejects his offer and narrows her eyes. "Something happened to you," she says suspiciously. "You're all dishevelled and out of sorts." With a mocking gasp, she cries, "Did someone neglect to kiss the ground you walk on between your suite and the Recreational Room?"
With his head throbbing, Finnick ignores her, sinking deeper into the sofa and imagining that the sugar melting onto his tongue is the sweet release of morphling that takes him away.
In District 4, Finnick rarely craves the morphling or its weak substitute, sugar cubes. He has enough to keep him occupied with finishing the house and can't imagine slipping into another world when he's with Annie. But Annie slips – she fades away sometimes, lost in her mind. Together, Finnick's learned to call her back and she's learned to respond, but often, he lets her be, knowing she's safely removed from reality.
"Is it draining?" Fletcher asks him one afternoon as they fit the glass windows into the walls. Annie sits fifty yards away in the sand, staring blankly at the ocean. "Always having to be strong for her?"
While Fletcher continues to work on the window, Finnick takes a moment to check on her down the beach. She hasn't moved in over an hour, as he suspected.
"No," he answers with a slight shake of his head. "If I didn't have Annie, I'd have nothing to be strong for at all."
Fletcher nods, though Finnick's not entirely sure he understands. No one could understand unless they'd lived the crushing, all-consuming lonely life of a victor.
Or unless they were Annie, who understood him long before she became a victor herself.
The effects of the morphling wear off, and with the steady, rhythmic waves of District 4, so do the temptations. But one thing is increasingly difficult to shake, and that's his edgy, superficial personality.
Annie hates it.
But he can't help it, sometimes – doesn't even notice that it's in him as he sneaks up behind her in the kitchen and asks in a low purr, "Miss Annie, what can I get you for dinner?"
Or when he holds a door open for her and winks, saying, "After you, my lady."
Or when they're stopped by a group of star-struck young girls on their way to the District Courtyard for one of Annie's sessions and he says to them, "I'd be lucky to have tributes as pretty as you."
"Do you think you're in the Capitol sometimes, Finnick?" Annie asks him one evening after he offers her his sweatshirt on the chilly beach, followed by a seductive comment. "Is that why you use that voice?"
He glances sideways at her, wrapping herself in his shirt to keep warm. "What voice?" he returns.
"Your Capitol voice," she answers. "The one you use to seduce, and for Caesar Flickerman's interviews, and to keep your tributes light."
He says nothing, but stares uncomfortably at the ground. They don't speak much of his trips to the Capitol – he hates to be reminded; hates knowing she's seen snippets of him on television when he can't be beside her to explain himself.
"Every time you use it, I feel like one of your Capitol women. Like I have you completely, but just for one night."
He cringes. "I'm sorry," he says. "I hate that I'm used to it and that I can't even tell anymore when it's in me. I just… being someone else in the Capitol is the only way I can keep a little part of myself."
"I like your real voice," she says thoughtfully as they wander down the strip of beach. "It's much more convincing to me."
He likes Annie's voice, too. And he likes her laughter. He loves her laughter. It carries like a tune from her lips and dances lightly in his ears. He'd do anything to make her laugh.
So would Roscoe, it seems, though Roscoe doesn't realize it. Annie never laughs harder than when she's cracking up at the old grump and his bitter, barely-important complaints. When the victors and Roscoe gather for Mags' eightieth birthday celebration, Roscoe is his usual cranky self despite the joyous occasion – and it has Annie in stitches.
Finnick can't thank him enough. Roscoe gave him a job when he was young, risked his life to defend him against the peacekeepers, and brings a lively smile to Annie's face.
He watches her from across the room, eyes alight and nose scrunched in amusement. He's mesmerized by her simple movements and the crinkles just outside her eyes. It's certain that Annie's been genuine every moment of her life. She never saw a reason not to be.
He's spent so much of his time being someone else – charming, confident, seductive, lethal. He honed his personas so carefully that he can turn any one of them on in an instant; be whoever he needs to be with a moment's notice.
Finnick crosses the room and joins the giggling Annie on the sofa. He throws an arm around her shoulders and exchanges with her a knowing smile. With Annie, he's never needed any of those personas. He can be like her: genuine, true. Those traits would have been lost in him if it weren't for her.
She's the only reason he still knows how to be himself at all.
On a warm, breezy day near the outskirts of District 4, Fletcher helps his brother move the last of Annie's belongings into her seaside house. Finnick can hardly believe it's real, but the house is complete. There's nothing left to do but live in it.
Fletcher, though a fisherman by trade and only able to offer his talents every so often, was a large contributor to the redeveloped design and construction of the house, whether he realizes it or not. In fact, Finnick isn't confident he would have had the stamina or the expertise to complete the project on his own after the fire. While the finished product is long overdue and he relishes the moment he can present it to Annie in its completion, he can't help but regret that it's over. Epiphanies have struck him in the construction process – ideas for which he feels strongly but does not look forward to enforcing with his brother.
The last of their haul is unloaded from the wagon and Fletcher dumps a crate in the center of the common room, straightening to wipe the sweat from his brow.
"It's a decent shack," he tells his brother, whom he follows outside the sliding doors facing the ocean. Patting Finnick on the shoulder, he adds, "You're good to her."
With a slight chuckle, Finnick replies demurely, "Not as good as she deserves." They stand on the porch overlooking the sea and watch the waves roll in. Finnick is first to break the comfortable silence, turning to his brother to say, "Thank you. For all of this. If you ever need… if there's anything I can give…"
Fletcher shakes his head. "I never did it for that."
Finnick nods. He knows.
Fletcher wets his lips, scratching his hair in contemplation. As if it's been perched on the tip of his tongue all this time, he blurts out, "Kessie's pregnant again."
After a moment of shock, a genuine smile registers on Finnick's features. "You're kidding. Congratulations, Fletch. That's… you must be…"
"Yeah," Fletcher finishes for him with a clipped laugh. "She'd clobber me with a wooden spoon if she knew I told you – you're supposed to wait until it's three months along and all."
Finnick wonders if Fletcher already knows what he has to say – if that's why he shared his family secret earlier than intended. With a forced smile, Finnick nods and assures him in what he's certain is his superficial Capitol voice, "I'm good at keeping secrets."
Silence engulfs them once more. Finnick drums his fingers on the rail, dreading the goodbye.
"She looks like mom, you know," Fletcher pipes up. "Bellamy. She has Kessie's strawberry hair and pale skin, but she has mom's eyes. My eyes."
As he faces the ocean, Finnick shuts his eyes to imagine her, little three-year-old Bellamy with Dixie's grey eyes and bouncy red curls. The mention of their mother strengthens Finnick's resolve in what he has to say.
"Do you want to meet her someday?" Fletcher asks, careful in his approach. "She'd be thrilled to know she has an uncle."
Finnick's not surprised to learn that he's been kept a secret from his niece. Who would want a murdering, morphling-addicted sex slave for an uncle? Though it hurts, he shakes his head. "No," he declines, staring at his hands as he grips the wooden rail. "I want to – I'm sure she's beautiful – but it's better this way. We can't risk it."
"Risk what?"
"You know what," Finnick snaps. "You know better than anyone what they'll do to the people I love. You were right to do what you did all those years ago. You abandoned me, and that way you didn't have to die for me. If it was just you, and you sought me out on your own terms… but you have a family now. You have to protect them."
"And you'd live your life alone?" Fletcher asks, anger in his tone.
Solemn, Finnick nods. "It's the only way."
"What about Annie?"
"That's the cross I bear," says Finnick. "Not the Capitol women, not the morphling, not the Games… but Annie. She's the knot I can't untie. I can't leave her; can't push her away. Not only would it kill me, but they'd see right through me. Hold her against me all the same."
"She's your family," Fletcher remarks softly. "More of a family than I've ever been. If I protect my family, then you protect yours."
Finnick chews his lip. "I intend to."
"How?"
He turns away from the sea, stepping closer to his brother so they stand nose-to-nose. "By killing Snow," he says darkly. Keeping his voice low, he continues, "I don't know when, and I don't know how, but I'm gonna kill him. And then, if I have time, I'll kill every last Capitol citizen who had a hand in her fate."
He isn't sure why he said it. For all he knows, the peacekeepers could have bugged the surrounding area by now and he'll be dead by morning. He owes his brother an explanation, that's all – and his desire for retribution isn't simply for Annie, but for Leander. Dixie. People Fletcher loved, too.
Fletcher doesn't flinch at his words. Instead, he nods slowly, patting his brother on the shoulder as a goodbye and good luck.
"I remember what they used to say about you," he muses. "Life'll come easy to the boy with the golden smile."
Finnick chuckles without a hint of humour. "And when the golden smile fades away, shit rains down on him from the skies."
Fletcher manages to crack a grin. "It couldn't have been me. I know that now." He pauses, adding as an afterthought, "But it shouldn't have been you, either."
Finnick shrugs bleakly. "What did I have going for me, anyway?"
His elder brother catches his eyes for one last time before they part ways, his last words the saddest Finnick's ever heard: "Only everything."
The next day, bright and clear, is Annie's first in a house built just for her. Finnick helps her to arrange furniture and unpack kitchenware, but the weather is so perfect that they must take advantage of it. They swim, bask in the sun, and Annie follows a cluster of crabs a quarter of a mile along the shoreline. As the sun begins to dip, they pick up their discarded belongings and brush the sand off the soles of their feet.
"I don't have to say goodbye to the ocean today," Annie remarks as they go indoors. "Every time I long to see it, I can just look out my bedroom window."
Finnick watches her with a smile – she steps a little lighter today, the sun giving her skin a radiance he hasn't seen in her in years.
In the kitchen, she turns on heel without warning and presses a kiss to his lips. "Thank you," she breathes. "Finn… thank you."
He humbly shrugs off her gratitude. "Are you hungry?" he asks.
But Annie doesn't want to change the subject. She narrows her eyes in search of something more. "No," she says carefully. "Are you?"
Holding her gaze, he gives a subtle shake of his head. He follows her to her bedroom, where he's set up her bed with the canopy. It faces the sliding doors to the porch and two semicircular windows so that the sun will stream in and keep the blankets warm for the evenings.
Inside her bedroom, Annie wraps an arm around his neck and runs a hand down the side of his face. "Thank you," she breathes again, standing on her tiptoes to kiss him. He melts into her instantly, bending to her will as he parts his lips to taste the salt on her tongue. His hands find her hips and travel up along her back as she wraps her arms around him tighter, kisses him harder.
As one, they fall back on the white sheets of the bed – white because it's brighter, cleaner – and the late afternoon sun streams in, coating them in warmth. His lips travel from her mouth across her cheek, her ear and down her neck. With every kiss and every lick he tastes salt and sand and sunshine and it all tastes like Annie. She clutches him with a different need than he's ever felt before, like she's truly in the present moment and in no danger of fading away.
With gentle nudges, she encourages him to flip over and straddles his waist, hovering over him to kiss him deeply. He's never stared up at anything so welcoming and begs her to pause so he can drink her in.
Hands firmly on her hips, he sighs, "You're so beautiful."
She smiles, dark hair cascading over her shoulders and covering them like a veil. She leans forward, whispering back, "I love you."
Another kiss, painful in its honesty.
"What is it?" she asks, pulling away and noting the faint frown on his face.
"It's…" he begins, unsure how to put his thoughts into words. Finally, he asks desperately, "How can you love me, knowing who I am? What I've done?"
Her bright green eyes soften. She traces the outline of his jaw, replying demurely, "The same way you can love a mad, mad girl."
She sits back, still straddling him as he props himself up on his elbows. He insists, "You're not mad."
Her lips are set in a thin line, but she doesn't argue. Instead, she exhales deeply. "I don't feel it, today. When you kiss me, the screaming stops. Blood doesn't rain down the walls."
For a brief moment, Finnick grits his teeth, hating the images and sounds the Capitol has conjured for her. Determined, he places a hand on her shoulder. "Then I won't stop."
With her body moulded against his, he's pressed down into the mattress, clutching her bare thigh that rises to his waist. Annie throws her hair to one side and peppers him with short, sweet kisses, smiling against his lips. She is the cool rain that douses his raging fire; the breath of fresh air to breeze through his flaring temper, and he knows without a doubt that there has never been any other for Finnick Odair. Under different circumstances, he may have been a poor fisherman or a triumphant athlete, but no matter what, he would always have been made for her.
"Does it all feel the same, Finn?" Annie asks, running her thumb along his cheekbone. "Me and those Capitol girls… every kiss, every touch? Is it always this way?" She pauses, adding as an afterthought, "I've only ever known you."
He gives her an oddly comical stare, replying, "No, it's not the same. You feel entirely different to me."
"Different…" she trails off, pondering his words. Even in her thoughtful confusion, she captivates him; heart, body and soul. Without shame or judgment, she finally asks, "Is that why we've never made love?"
He blinks. That was unexpected. With a shake of his head, he carefully replies, "No."
"I'm different from them," she reasons. He keeps his eyes patiently focused on her. "It's not like that with us. Am I wrong to feel anything?"
His brows knot, torn by her words. "No, that's not it," he assures her, encompassing her wrist in his hand and then sliding up to interlock their fingers. His voice cracks with emotion as he says, "I feel it every day. Every time I look at you. I want you more than… I've always wanted you."
He watches in fascination as her teeth graze her lower lip. "Then why?" she asks.
With a gulp, Finnick replies, "Because, it's… you deserve more than me. I don't want you to give yourself to me when I can't fully give back."
Breath from her parted lips fans across his cheek. For her own understanding, she elaborates, "Because they make you give yourself to those other women."
He gives a slow, sad nod.
The mechanics whirl in her mind; he sees it in her eyes. After a few heavy seconds, she untangles her fingers from his hair and places her hand flat on his chest, right over his heart. Her palm slides until she can feel its rhythmic beat.
"Who does this belong to?" she asks.
Their eyes connect, and he's never been more truthful as he answers, "To you."
"Has anyone else ever held it?"
He shakes his head. "No one."
She ponders more, adding, "And you've had mine all this time. You kept it safe." She slides her palm back up to his face, cupping his cheek and asking, "Isn't that enough?"
He wets his lips, closing his eyes as he nods. She descends on him again, capturing his lips with smouldering heat and determination he's never felt from her before. A fire rages inside, a different kind of fire than his raging temper – it starts as a slow burn in his chest, spreading lower and lower until every pore in his skin emits his need for her. He takes control and moves over her, quivering with anticipation and need. This kind of hunger is unbeknownst to him, but it aches so deeply in his bones that he suspects it's always been there, painfully ignored until now.
Deliberate fingers trace the lines in his back as his rough hands follow the natural planes of her stomach. She arches under his touch and he finds himself bewitched by her slightly parted lips, the rise and fall of her chest as she breathes. So many women have lain beneath him, but this is the first time he bids himself not to close his eyes. He's fascinated by the response he earns from his beautiful Annie, the one who holds his heart in such careful hands.
He never knew it could feel this way. That it could feel guiltless and serene and comfortable and heavenly and right.
If it's true what they say – if she's mad – then he'll gladly descend into madness alongside her, for it's a beautiful, distant place where all he can see is stars.
I really want to thank you guys again for all your reviews, alerting, favourite-ing and silent reading :) I had no expectations in venturing back into fan fiction and posting this story and it's turned out to be a really positive experience, all thanks to YOU!
While I'm excited to keep working on the next chapter and to share it with you next week, I'm also feeling a bit nervous about it and its subsequent chapters... as you may have figured out, this is where Knotted will intersect with the first book in the series. There's just so much that I can do wrong! In any event, I've still got a plan - it's changed slightly over the writing of the last four or five chapters, but it's still a plan. So I'll just retreat into my writing bubble and fiercely hope that I'm not making any grave mistakes.
I wish you all a happy holiday weekend and I'll see you next Sunday!