Dislaimer: I do not own anything in the Hunger Games universe. All characters, places, and names belong to their respective owners.

The words flash through my head. I love you, I love you, I love you. What could he have even meant by that?

"Oh?" I question, my forehead creasing in confusion as I try to understand exactly what he has said to me.

"Oh?" he whispers back at me.

I don't-" I start, trying to make him comprehend.

"I know," he breathes, "It doesn't matter, you aren't required to return it."

It's impossible, really, for him to love me. Maybe he doesn't even know what it means. I've seen his mother; I doubt his parents ever demonstrated any sort of love. Even familial love may not be a concept he is able to grasp, with his father dead and his mother being the person she is. Maybe he had heard those words so many times, written in the fairy tales that were read to him as a child and spoken by languished lovers in the plays he attended; he just wanted to believe that he could have that too, even if it was with me. He must be some sad, desperate boy projecting his stark childhood onto me.

It had to be that; the other option was just too much to think about.

His hand settles against my naked back, "I've felt this for so long," he gives me a content sigh, "You can't imagine what a relief it is to finally let go of it. I've been waiting for the right moment. Maybe this isn't it, exactly, but I couldn't contain it any longer. You have to understand that."

"I don't think I understand any of this.." I whisper against his skin.

His face floods with disappointment, "Of course, I was being foolish. I should have known better, I just hoped that maybe," he trails off.

"I'm sorry," my voice breaks and I find myself pulling away from his body. I clutch the sheets against my bare chest. Even though we had done the most intimate thing a woman and a man can do together not less than an hour ago, I suddenly feel naked in his presence.

Peeta crosses his hands over his chest, "Don't feel sorry, it's my issue not yours. Perhaps I shouldn't have- I just wanted you to know. It was too much, too soon. I apologize," he gives a nervous laugh; "Now I've made you uncomfortable, haven't I? Forgive me."

I press myself against the pillow, my mouth slightly parting in a futile attempt to make some sort of response.

"Let's just," I falter, "let's just go to sleep."

Peeta nods, "You're right," he gives a heavy sigh, "I think we are both too tired for this conversation. We can deal with it in the morning."

"Goodnight," I tell him, rolling around to the far end of the bed.

"Goodnight, Katniss."

For yet another night we both sleep at opposite ends of the bed.

Surprisingly, when the light floods into the room the next morning my husband is still lying on the other side of the bed. Usually he wakes up at dawn and is gone by the time I awake, but today he is slouched in the bed reading a political novel.

"Good morning, Katniss," he greets me.

"Good morning, Peeta." I reply, pulling myself up, "You're still here?"

He nods, "I took a day off, I figured we could have breakfast together if you aren't feeling too bad."

I nod, cautiously accepting his offer as a sign that we were both choosing to ignore last night's conversation, "That sounds nice."

He pulls back the sheets and steps out of bed, grabbing my hand and pulling me along with him.

"Peeta," I exclaim, "I didn't mean right now!"

"Katniss," he says with a grin, "it's already ten, breakfast isn't going to wait that long, even for the two of us."

I begrudgingly climb out of bed and throw on the crisp white undershift that's waiting for me on the door.

Peeta has the ability to dress himself on the mornings that he chooses, there isn't really much a man needs help with anyways. Vests, breeches, and jackets are designed for functionality, after all. Corsets and underskirts, which all tie in the back, are an entirely different story.

Effie tells me that when Peeta's grandfather was the King of Panem, they made a whole procession of the monarchy's morning routine. Instead of having servants and clothing attendants dress them, the King and Queen were laced up by well respected nobles in a ceremonial, invite only event. Luckily for me, Peeta's father abolished the custom when he became King. Now it's only practiced on certain national holidays as a way to inspire those who are invited to the affair.

By the time my attendants come to shuffle me into my dressing quarters, Peeta is already fitted into a pale blue suit with simple silver accents. My dress, as I later find out, is a near match to his ensemble. The matching blue sack back gown, which has only a ruffled collar and two thin lines of silver brocade to differentiate it from the gown of any other merchant, is oddly simple.

What statement was Cinna trying to make by choosing such a lackluster piece?

Breakfast is shared in the public dining hall. Peeta and I sit at a large gilded table on a heightened platform while a couple hundred various nobles eat below us, anxiously taking note of our every move. I wonder what that is like, to be so obsessed with Peeta that the way he chews his food is the highlight of your day.

Any of these girls would be overjoyed to be told that the King loved them. The thought rings through my head. It's true, even if Peeta was deluded when he said it, pretty much every girl would faint if he spoke those three words to them. Why couldn't I be satisfied that my husband thought he loved me?

"Peeta," I ask, stealing one of the small vanilla cream filled pastries from his side of the table, "Do you think we could go riding into the city today?" It's a good suggestion, a nice normal thing for the two of us to do. I can't think of a more perfect diversion from the conversation we had last night.

Peeta raises his eyebrows in alarm, "In the city? I don't think that would be the safest thing you could do right now."

"Why wouldn't it be safe? I'm not fragile, Peeta. I will not topple over and die at the sight of commoners."

He falters, "There is a sickness going around in the public parts of the city. I don't think a ride is worth that sort of risk, don't you agree?"

"A sickness?" I inquire. I remember the disasters epidemics left in the far less populous cities of my homeland. What kind of damage would they do in the Capitol? Especially to those in crowded poorhouses. "Are they doing anything to make sure everybody is getting help? You don't want it spreading too far."

"No," he gives a laugh, "we certainly don't want this type of sickness spreading too wide throughout the country. You don't have to worry yourself over this. I've deployed various aid programs to deal with the situation."

"That's good," I reply, satisfied by his words. The people of this country were so lucky to be given Peeta, so many men of his rank would leave the city to rot.

"If we cannot do that, then perhaps we could take another trip to the greenhouse?" I suggest. We hadn't made a trip up to there since I had received news of my father's passing.

He brushes his hands off on the napkin, "That sounds perfect."

And in that moment, when I'm staring at him, just watching the way his perfectly white teeth take a bite of a pastry, I can't help but feel a glimpse of the same adoration that his Capitol admirers posses.

After breakfast is over I am pulled into another dressing room where my female attendants put me into one of a floral cotton skirt and a burgundy jacket with a surprisingly low neckline.

The greenhouse looks like an entirely different room compared to my last visit. Over the weeks I have been away different flowers have bloomed and died, drastically changing the aura of the room.

When I find him amongst the tangles of vines and arrangements, he's sitting amongst a few canvases, tending to the dahlias.

"What's with the supplies?" I say, motioning towards the painter's instruments.

He turns his neck to look at me, his eyes lingering at my chest for a noticeable moment, "I always have these here, just in case I get inspired."

I sit down next to him, making sure to pull my jacket up a little higher.

"You look nice today," he says, "I really should take you up on that offer."

"Exactly what offer are you referring to?" I ask him, curious about the implications of his suggestion.

"Allowing me to paint you, we never quite got around to that."

"I suppose it's hard to find the time to sit for a portrait, especially considering that we go from not speaking to sleeping together on a regular basis. Besides, with everything that has happened over the past few weeks, I'm surprised you even remember that."

Our brief marriage had been nothing but an endless assault of emotions. His abrupt request for my hand, the sudden uproot of my life, last night's confession… sometimes it felt like all we ever did was deal with one turn after the other.

"About that," he places his hand gently on mine, "about last night, we should talk. What we've been doing these past months, it's not healthy for either of us. Last night, when I told you I loved you, I hoped it would change all of this, but I must have been wrong."

"You don't love me. You're mistaken." I tell him.

His forehead wrinkles, "Did you completely forget last night? You can't pretend like that didn't mean anything."

"Last night," I pause,"was the," I lower my voice and lean in to ensure that none of the attendants can hear us, "sex talking. It's no trouble, I've forgotten it. You should too."

"Fine," he throws his hands up, "If that is what you want, I think it will be best if excuse myself." And with that he storms out of his coat tails flying up in a flurry as he hastily exits the greenhouse.

When he's gone I just lay there, my head propped up against the supporting beam of the glass wall.

How did I manage to make him angry with me? Even after everything we had been through, even after last night's intimacy and his claims of love, I still managed to push him away. I wasn't stupid, eventually he would grow tired of my waning affections. Everybody had their limits, even Peeta, and I certainly didn't want to end up in the pile of reject wives.

"Oh Katniss," I mutter to myself, "what have you done?"

Peeta finds me, not even an hour later, lying face down in our bedroom.

"Katniss," he says, standing in the doorway, "I'm sorry for my outburst, do you want to talk about it?"

"No," I reply, rolling around to face him. I was tired of talking. That's all Peeta ever wanted to do, talk, and where had that ever gotten us?

"Is there anything that I can do for you? Something that I can give you, something that will make you happy here? Prim will be here soon enough, but if there is anything, anything that I can provide for you..."

I think about it for a moment. Right now, I had the position of power, there was an opportunity in the patience he still held for me.

What did I want though? I lacked the taste for power, wealth wouldn't do me any good. The only thing I ever cared about in the world was my family and to a greater extent, my people.

There was no real way of protecting them if Peeta lost favor with me. I'd come to the comfortable assumption that he wasn't the type to behead me in a public square, but I certainly wouldn't be able to do any good if he was able to banish me to some summer palace with barely a single person noticing.

I needed the people's favor if I was going to have staying power, and I wasn't about to get the adoration of Panem by holing up in the palace.

"I want a seat. A seat on your council," I tell him, my voice never wavering. It was the perfect start, really. That type of opening move wouldn't go unnoticed, and it would allow me a voice in the highest courts of the land.

"A seat?"

"Yes," I say, "I am the Queen. I deserve the position. It is my duty to be involved in the decision making of this country, and god, I swear if I have to sit through one more silly discussion on the style of lace while you are off running this country I will burst into a million pieces."

Peeta nods, "I suppose I can do that. It will take some work, but I can manage it."

"That's not it," I tell him.

"Oh?" he questions me, "It's not?"

"I want an allotment of funds towards the charity project of my choice. For every year that we are married that allotment will increase by six percent. For every heir that I provide you with I will expect double in a one time payment distributed to the people of my homeland."

It was Gale's suggestion, really, that made me think of my second demand. He was right, I had the ability to change the lives of many, all while gaining their adoration in the process.

"You drive a tough bargain, Katniss," he says with a grin.

"But?" I question.

"But I will give into your demands. I'm afraid I can't resist you," he gives me an innocent kiss on the cheeks before tossing me one of the leather bound notebooks that sit on his nightstand table.

"Here," he says, "you can keep your notes on different propositions here. I can show you how to properly write up suppositions for council meetings if you would like?"

I don't know what he is talking about, but I nod anyways, "Did you mean it?" I ask him, his gentle, patient behavior bringing up the memories of last night.

"Did I mean what? That I was going to give you a spot on my council?" he looks a little perplexed at my question.

"No, the things you said last night- or were you just saying it to quell me," the thought of his feelings for me, however mistaken they may be, brings up so many possibilities.

"Yes," his voice is firm as he speaks, "I meant those words more than I have ever meant anything in my life."

"If it's true, when did it start? Your feelings, I mean," I ask him, wondering how he found the time to love me with all of the anger and bitterness that has been shared between the two of us.

"Well, that's a bit of a loaded question if I am entirely honest. I would say all of this really 'started' eight years ago, that's where the real beginning is," he bites his lip as he waits for my response.

How could it have been eight years? I haven't even known him for eight months, much less eight years?

"Eight years ago?" I question him, "Tell me, how exactly did this start eight years ago?"

Peeta sighs, "You really don't remember, do you? Madge was right, then?"

I shake my head, utterly confused at the turn of this conversation, "Tell me."

"We were both children, though I was obviously a little older than you. There was some illness going around at the time and my mother thought it best that I leave the palace for a place where I wouldn't be at risk. One of my aunts, Lady Sedna I believe, was a big proponent of fresh air and mountain breeze. She convinced my mother to allow me to join Madge at that little estate along our countries' mutual border. If my recollection is any good I believe it was called Overhill or something to that extent?"

I knew the place, of course. Overhill was a sunny country estate that sat directly in the middle of the border, a really beautiful place to visit. There were acres of bright unsullied tulips, an ancient weave of gardens and basements ripe for exploring, even a little village for the local farmers. It would really be the ideal estate; if it hadn't been the place my mother had decided to kill herself at.

I nod, not going into detail, "There's an Overhill Castle."

I hadn't been to Overhill in years, not since I had found my mother's lifeless body lying in the surrounding bank. My father had signed the estate's deed over to Panem anyways. We had needed the money and the last thing he wanted was to visit the place where his wife had died. In fact, I barely remembered the place after all of these years. Every time I tried to recall some of those happy summer memories my mind was filled with images of my mother's limp body, it was better to ignore everything that happened there than to remember her end.

Peeta continues, "Yes, anyways, you were there at the time, so was your mother."

"My mother?"

He bites his lip, "Yes, it was the year she- passed."

I motion for him to go on.

"Well," he says, "Throughout those months we played together, the three of us. Madge, you, me. We pretended like we were fairies, hiked through the hills, I even got roped into a few faux weddings with the two of you. I know you don't remember it, but when your mother passed away we spent hours by that lake just skipping rocks and ruminating on our losses."

"We did?"

Peeta nods, "Every night for the weeks you remained there. I would sneak bread from the kit-"

"The bread," I mutter, interrupting him, "I remember, I remember the bread."

And how could I forget? The memories flood back to me. The dapper little blonde boy, who at the time I disregarded as a male version of Madge, racing through the fields and trudging through the forest with the two of us. The long evenings spent catching lightning bugs by the lake. It was all so ideal, that part of my childhood, before it all changed.

"You were with me," I say, "weren't you? You were with me when I found her?"

My husband glances away for a moment, "I was. We found her together."

"I can still remember the way her body looked." I remark, "I remember it in perfect clarity, but I forgot about you. I suppose everything that happened that summer was made trivial by what she did to us."

"Do you really think of it that way? As something she did to you?"

I shrug, "How else am I supposed to think of it?"

"She was troubled. Everybody knows it."

"Oh Peeta," I lament, "nobody knows that she was troubled more than I do, but that doesn't erase that she willingly chose to rob Prim and me of a mother. I can't forgive her for that. You wouldn't either, if you had seen the way my father looked at Prim for all those years."

He gives me a sigh of defeat, "You're right. I have no way to judge your sit-"

But he doesn't get to finish his sentence, there is no time for words as the room explodes with the sound of crashing glass and the thick heavy musk of smoke.

Somebody has bombed the Capitol.

Author's Note: What did you think of this chapter? Do you notice anything suspicious? I would like to give a special thanks to my beta, prisspanem, for going through this chapter with me.

As always, you can follow me on tumblr at starveinsafety.