Chapter 25

Caesar spends the next few moments trying to calm the reporters, but it is borderline futile. My accidental confession has sparked a torrent of questions concerning me and Peeta.

I sit back and watch as the security lining the stage has to push at the prodding microphones and the reaching cameras. Paylor looks unfazed by the attention. In fact, she probably expected it.

But as soon as the reporters' frenzy dies down, Caesar immediately launches into the questions that Panem wants answers for. "So, Katniss. Obviously, you have feelings for Peeta, I assume?"

I hesitate, not sure exactly what to say. I'm absolutely sure that Peeta is watching this from behind the scenes. In fact, I'm sure Haymitch is trying as hard as I am to figure something out. Something that will be believable to both the citizens and to Peeta.

Its difficult. On one hand, the citizens need something to idolize. To follow. The distraction would help Paylor rebuild Panem effectively. But they wouldn't believe me if I lied on camera. And what would the consequences be? Riots? Violent backlash?

Yet, on the other, I didn't want to hurt Peeta. I know I kissed him after speaking to Gale, and I know he's probably as confused as I am now about where we stand. Friends don't exactly lock lips in a passionate embrace. The very thought makes me nauseous.

However, I didn't regret it. Not one bit. Instead, I rather enjoyed kissing Peeta. It reminded me of all those times we supported each other. When I did, in fact, feel that feeling that only Peeta can ignite in me.

Its only then that Caesar's booming voice brings me back to the present. "How about we bring Mr. Mellark out here to help her explain?" I hadn't spoken a word in response to his question, staring numbly out into the crowd as I swam in my own thoughts.

The reporters cheer as Peeta is ushered on-stage. He is as good an actor as any- smiling for the crowd, waving to reporters who get caught up in his presence. He even sends a few winks towards the female reporters near the front, who shriek in response. For some strange reason, that bothers me.

He takes his place on my left, reaching immediately for my hand as our gazes lock. I'm struck then and there that I don't know what Peeta is thinking either. Perhaps he's also putting up a show for the cameras and not revealing his true feelings. With the hijacking and memory loss, it is hard to tell.

His hand squeezes mine gently as I move my gaze downwards to his fingers.

"So! Peeta. Tell me. How have you been since the end of the war?"

Peeta's lips tilt upwards into a smile, but his eyes are blank. "Well, Caesar, it was bad. I can't say that it was pleasant dealing with the venom. Being borderline murderous over the girl you've loved since you were young." There's some gasps at this comment, but I refrain from exploding at them in anger. That's not even the worst part and here they are, reacting as if some horrible fate had been cast down on Peeta and I.

Perhaps it has been.

"I'm sure you've all heard of Tracker Jackers and their venom. But to be injected with it? Enough that can drive a person out of their own body?" He shakes his head, but carries on, despite the horrified expressions on the reporters' face. "I only wish that it didn't make me kill people."

"It wasn't you, Peeta," a female reporter shouts from the crowd. My blood boils. But before I can leap to Peeta's defense, he says, "Oh yes, it was. I may not have been myself, but the blood is still on my hands. There's no one else to blame."

Everyone is quiet then. I can almost feel Peeta's pain radiating off of him, even though he's maintaining a steady grimace on his face. Briefly, I wonder how long he can actually hold this expression, keeping those reporters at bay for the both of us.

For both of us.

Suddenly, I'm worried for Peeta. This acting has to be taxing on him, even more so because I'm such a terrible actress. I feel awful. I owe him. He protects me, even after he's broken. When I can barely protect myself.

That feeling comes back. The fierce determination. The fire. The spirit of the Mockingjay. Protect him. It rings in my head, echoing. Yet instead of making me feel hollow, it fills me with duty. I'm here to protect him now.

So I lean over, slipping a hand from his grasp around his neck and pulling him closer before pressing my lips to his.

I'm not gentle, not even as the reporters begin to frantically taking pictures and video. No, I decide that I would rather take the attention for Peeta, even though I hate it. He's always sticking up for me. I never did the same.

However, as I drag my lips across his, I slowly lose myself into the sensations that are so deliciously growing inside of me. He is unresponsive, probably more surprised than anything, but I don't let that stop me.

The uproar of the media is drowned out by the need again. I pull him closer, not caring about the cameras anymore. I can feel Peeta's tense muscles beneath my fingers and I know that their questions stressed him more than I really knew. How long would it be until they made him crack?

I press my lips even harder on his. I can, no. I will take away that weight from his shoulders. I promise myself then and there that no matter what, its me and Peeta against the world.

Peeta's hands grip mine tightly as I slip my tongue across his lips. I can feel him trembling slightly, making my heart clench painfully. I won't let him hurt anymore.

I'm still kissing him. I don't know what I'm doing, but it feels so unbelievably good. He must be feeling the same because his hands are squeezing mine to the point where it almost hurts. His breathing is harsh against my mouth, matching mine as I relish the moment.

I know as soon as I back off, things will be so much different for us. I know that when the reporters publish the pictures and video, that there will not be privacy as Paylor promises. Instead, there will be paparazzi everywhere in 12, trying to glimpse the star-crossed lovers.

But at that moment, I just don't care. I don't care if they want to see. I don't care about Paylor and rebuilding Panem. I don't care that Haymitch will probably mock me, never letting me live this down. I don't care that Peeta may or may not feel the same way about me as I feel right now.

All I care about it protecting him.

So when I pull away breathlessly, and when the reporters surge forward once again, holding out microphones and begging for my response, I hold Peeta's gaze, clouded with lust and maybe something else, then quickly turn away, grab the nearest microphone, and say as confidently as I can, "We will no longer be taking questions. Thank you for your attendance."

Then I stand, dragging Peeta with me. His hand is still digging into mine, as if he's holding onto it for dear life, but I ignore the pain. All I can feel is the bond between us, deeper than any kind of physical contact we have.

We turn and leave without glancing back.