Archive of Our Own ^beta

Metal scrapes against stone, startling Peeta awake.

“Up, worm.”

He rolls onto his back, his body protesting the hardness of the floor and the strain in his fatigued muscles. He doesn’t remember falling asleep; it’s a miracle he did at all. His temple still throbs faintly from the blow he received earlier. How many nights ago was that? One? Two?

Bleary-eyed, Peeta squints at the cell door and the two silhouettes illuminated by the lanterns on the dungeon walls. One steps closer, an ax dangling threateningly at her side.

“I said, up, worm. Or do you need a little motivation?”

Peeta’s mouth twists humorlessly as he pushes himself into a sitting position on his pallet. “No. Your lovely countenance is motivation enough.”

She strides toward him so her short spiky hair and unpleasant sneer come into focus. He tenses when her ax comes up, but the heel hooks onto the manacles binding his wrists. With a strong tug, she jerks him forward onto his knees until he’s forced to stumble to his feet, nearly tripping over the cuffs around his ankles.

“Don’t test me, worm.”

He sneers as she leads him by his manacles, but one look from her companion–and her rows of strangely pointed teeth and similarly sharpened sword–has him swallowing any retort. He follows the spiky-haired woman down a dank, narrow hallway, the other woman at his back. A chill leeches into his bare feet, and the chains make his steps clumsy. He shuffles along blindly, humiliation and anger flushing his neck.

“Where are you taking me?” he asks, lifting his voice so it’s clear and strong. He refuses to be cowed completely by these contemptible women, summoning his years of military training. He doesn’t expect an answer, but the woman in front of him replies.

“The Empress has summoned you.”

He stares blankly at the back of her head. “Empress? There is no empress, only—” The Queen. His aunt.

There’s a jolt to the back of his legs, and suddenly he’s on his knees, the ax pressed against his jugular. He can feel the sharp edge biting into his skin, and he sucks in a choked breath.

“Bite your tongue,” the spiky-haired woman hisses. “Or would you rather I cut it off and stuff it down your throat?”

He wonders if she realizes he can’t do as she says and also answer her question. He swallows hard but offers a subtle quirk of his lips. “Usually women are quite fond of my tongue,” he says, clearly on a suicide mission. She sneers in unamused disgust, then jerks him back to his feet. The rest of the walk is quiet, down the long dungeon hallway and up the stairs.

When they reach the landing, it’s brighter, though he can’t find any indicator of his location aside from tall stone walls and pillars. It must be close to sundown, judging from the soft muted light streaming in through the high windows.

He’s led into a large open room. With a start, he recognizes it as a throne room. It’s rather stark, aside from the dais and a lone cathedra at the front of the hall. More female guards flank the throne, and as he nears the dais, the woman seated there immediately arrests his attention.

She’s beautiful. Her skin is dusky, her long hair sable black, but her eyes are what leave him short of breath: light and silvery, like a passing storm cloud. They’re rimmed heavily in dark kohl, and she wears an ornate headpiece: old tarnished metal encrusted with jewels seated low on her forehead. It contrasts starkly with her plain buckskin gown and worn leather armor. If it weren’t for the crown, nothing about her attire would set her apart from the guards at her side.

The Empress, he presumes.

Suddenly, he feels acute embarrassment at his state of dress. He’d been captured in the middle of the night wearing nothing but his linen shirt and pants. They were torn and dirtied in the struggle that had ensued when his unit was besieged by a band of cloaked warriors. He’d been jarred from his sleep by the screams of men and panicked horses, but before he could grab his weapon, three fighters had stormed his tent, knocking him unconscious with the butt of a sword.

He lifts his chin and meets the woman’s penetrating stare directly. He won’t be the first to speak. After a moment, her voice breaks the silent standoff; unbidden, he shudders, her voice like soft fingers ghosting down his spine.

“Captain Peeta Mellark.”

He’s not sure why he’s surprised she knows who he is, though he’d already assumed that’s why he’s here. Why he was taken instead of killed out there on the field, like the others.

The Empress continues, “Son of Markus and Lanah Mellark. Youngest brother to Rye and Barm Mellark.” She pauses, her eyes flaying him open, and her next words are spat like venom, “Nephew of Hahn and Maya Undersee, the king and queen of Panem. The Pretenders who stole our land.”

He lifts his eyebrows at her words but chooses to sidestep her accusation. “Well. I must admit I am at a disadvantage here as I have no idea who you are,” he says churlishly. He feels a flash of satisfaction at the slightest narrowing of her eyes.

She descends from the throne, her body slender and powerful. She moves with the willowy sway of a serpent. He holds his breath when she approaches him, even though he has to look down to meet her gaze. Up close, she’s even more beautiful. Radiant, but the ferocity in her eyes is lethal.

“Then let me educate you,” she says, her voice sharp with contempt. “My name is Katniss Everdeen. I am the Empress of Mimidae. My people have lived here for centuries, long before yours arrived to ravage our land and destroy our home. You have enslaved us, raped our women, killed our men, ripped apart our families and destroyed our way of life.”

Peeta flinches, her vehement words making his stomach twist with revulsion. “I have never…” he trails off under her withering glare, swallowing down the words. He’s a soldier, isn’t he? He can’t deny this isn’t exactly what he was trained for. Not raping, never–he hasn’t even touched a woman since he left home. But he’s clashed with numerous insurgents as part of his duty to the Panem Crown, run his sword through the throats and bellies of traitors. Heard the revolting stories bandied back and forth over campfire by drunken men, the glee in their voices as they bragged about cornering helpless women in their homes.

After a tense silence, the Empress moves closer. She forces his chin up. Whatever she sees in his face teases a sneer from her. “Your remorse is too late, Captain Mellark,” she says coolly. He jerks his chin up higher, smoothing his expression into one of apathy.

“You mistake me, Empress. I do not regret doing my duty.”

Her lip twitches, as if she wants to bare her teeth at him. “Of course, a man like you would take joy in the slaughter of an entire people.”

Her words sting, cutting a little too deeply. The air of defiance he’s trying hard to maintain falters, and his fists strain in the chains around his wrists. “No. But I serve my kingdom gladly.”

She nods then. “Yes. I expect as much. And I expect your kingdom would be troubled to find you have been captured. You must be worth a lot to the king and queen.”

There it is. His lips pull into a patronizing smile. “On that, I’m afraid you are wrong. If you captured me in the hopes of orchestrating some negotiation with my family, you’ve greatly overestimated my importance.” Not when he’s the thirdborn son, even more expendable than a spare. It’s a fact he is bitterly aware of, but he has tried his damnedest to bury the resentment, to prove his worth in other ways. But even rising in the ranks of the military offers him little value to his own parents or his aunt and uncle.

She stares at him, unblinking, processing his words. He can tell he’s surprised her, derailed her grand plans. He would laugh out loud if the two women at his sides weren’t so inclined to use their very deadly weapons at the slightest provocation. Still, he can’t help the satisfaction from pulling his mouth into a wider smirk.

The Empress scowls at his reaction, and a flush highlights her cheeks, her gray eyes darkening with thunder. “Then you are of no use to me.” She lifts her head, shoulders drawing back. “And as you are my prisoner, and enemy to my people, I must avenge the pain your kingdom has inflicted on us. You will be executed at sunrise tomorrow.”

His eyes widen, but she turns away and strides back to the throne, summarily dismissing him. The guards grab his arms. A kernel of fear unfurls in his stomach as the guards jerk him around and drag him stumbling back toward the stairs, down to the dungeon. They toss him into his cell, and he pitches forward onto his knees, scuffing his palms on the stone floor.

He spins around, gathering his chains in his arms, just as the door slams shut, locking with resounding finality. The last glimpse he sees of the guards is their taunting smirks. Then he’s left alone to await his death.

He climbs to his feet and futilely searches his cell again, looking for a weapon, a vulnerability in the door or walls. But there is nothing but stone and metal surrounding him, nothing but fine dust clinging to his feet. He tugs uselessly at the bars of the door, rattling his chains. He tries breaking the lock with the iron around his wrists, hammering his hands against it over and over until his skin splits and bleeds and sweat pours into his eyes.

Finally, he collapses on his pallet, a chasm of frustration and despair opening inside him. He closes his eyes and summons every scrap of courage to push it down. Think, he berates himself. He’s a strategist, after all, a large part of why he rose to the rank of captain. He tries to remember what, if anything, he knows about Mimidae. Very little, he soon realizes. Nothing that can help him. There are dozens of villages and vassal states around Panem, and many of them have taken up arms against the crown over the years. He’s encountered and fought several of them in his unit. Never Mimidae, not before now, he thinks. He would remember these women if he’d ever come face to face with them.

His eyes open then. These women. He didn’t see a man among them earlier. Only women stood with the Empress at the throne, and only women attacked his tent. He remembers the Empress’ words from before. You have killed our men.In the moment, he didn’t comprehend the very literal truth of her statement.

His mind churns over the next few restless hours, devising a last-ditch plan to stay his execution.

When the guards come for him at sunrise, the Empress is with them. Peeta is awake and on his feet, patiently waiting in the middle of his cell. She still wears her headpiece and her armor, but this time he sees a baldric around her breasts, the hilt of a sword over her shoulder. He tries not to visibly swallow.

She pauses outside the cell, watching him from between the bars. “So eager to greet your death today, Captain Mellark?” she asks.

He allows himself a smile, even though his heart is beginning to race, like that of a rabbit caught in a snare. His plan is a gamble, a shot in the dark, but he won’t let his desperation show.

“Yes, I could hardly sleep,” he says.

The corners of her mouth curl inward. He’s becoming familiar with that scowl. He might even enjoy it. The Empress nods to the guards, and they unlock the door to swing it open, filing into his cell as she waits outside. Peeta holds his hands up to stop them.

“I have a proposition for you, Empress.”

She lifts an eyebrow as the guards take his arms. “Is that so?” Her tone is disinterested, and he holds himself steady, resisting as the guards try to lead him forward.

“I think you will be interested in what I’m offering. It will be mutually beneficial for us both.”

The spiky-haired guard at his side growls under her breath, preparing to force him to move, but he catches the flicker of interest in the Empress’ eyes. She holds up her hand to stop the guards.

“Enlighten me.”

Peeta licks his lips. “You have no men. Do you?”

She blinks, then narrows her eyes. “We have warriors.”

“All women, yes?”

The fingers on his elbows tighten threateningly, and the Empress’ eyes flash. “They are all strong, capable fighters—”

“I saw firsthand that they are, believe me,” he interjects hastily. “But what of your people? If you have no men, your tribe will perish, eventually. You must have thought about this. Or do you expect to keep your tribe alive for generations to come through sheer willpower alone?”

She jerks her chin at the guards, and Peeta feels a sharp stab of hot lightning at the base of his skull. He crumples to his knees with a gasp but grits his teeth through the pain, willing his vision to stop swimming, lifting his gaze to hers as she moves closer. Stepping into the cell, she bends at the waist so their faces are level.

“I will do what I need to,” she hisses. He swallows down the nausea.

“You need an heir, don’t you?” he rasps. She pauses, and he continues, “I can give you one. Many, even.”

Her face twists in angry bemusement, and she straightens. His face rises to follow, holding her gaze. “What are you suggesting?” she asks, lip curling.

“Keep me here. Use me. Killing me would be a waste when you could leverage something much more useful out of me.”

She watches him silently with slitted eyes, but he can see the turmoil churning in her skeptical gaze as she contemplates his offer. Finally, suspicion tinging her voice, she asks, “You said this would be mutually beneficial. How would this benefit you?”

He shrugs with an indifference he doesn’t quite feel, a ghost of a smile on his lips. “I get to stay alive a little longer. I’d say that’s pretty beneficial to me.”

Again, that scowl. Not quite believing him, possibly. He doesn’t let himself flinch, doesn’t look away. She’s quiet a moment longer as she considers his proposition. She steps back into his space, her eyes flicking around his face. Lifting her hand, she runs her fingers across his jaw and cheek. He stifles an ill-timed shiver, his teeth clenching together, but he holds his gaze on her. Her fingers slide over his lips, feather-soft, before she pries them apart. With a jolt he realizes she’s examining his teeth, prodding his gums. Like he’s livestock. She moves on in her perusal, pushing his greasy, limp hair off his forehead. Her fingertips graze the bump on his temple, and he flinches. He’s suddenly aware of the itchy, dried blood tightening the skin at his hairline.

“You appear to be in sound health, and you obviously come from good stock,” she surmises, dropping her hand. Peeta doesn’t know if he’s bewildered or aggravated by her assessment. She turns her attention to the guards at his sides and nods. “Take him to the servants quarters. Get him cleaned up.”

With that, she turns on her heel and stalks out of the cell, down the hallway. The spiky-haired guard scoffs, and they pull him to his feet. “You are one lucky worm,” she sneers in his ear, and they jerk him along by his chains.

He’s scrubbed raw by the two guards, until his skin is pink and tender, until the water runs cold and dirty with his blood and filth. While he’s no virgin when it comes to a woman’s touch, he stews silently in humiliation as they methodically clean his genitals, either unbothered or unimpressed with the sight of his cock. Neither reaction does much to assuage his much-maligned pride.

His tattered clothes are taken, and he’s dressed in a simple loincloth before he’s led from the bath house to the servant quarters. They take him into a sparse room not much bigger than his prison cell, but there’s a bed, at least.

They leave him in his chains and lock him inside. The windows are set too high in the walls to reach, and his search turns up nothing of use to help him unlock or break his manacles. Even the few furnishings, a stone table and one chair, are immovable and useless. He abandons his mission and sits down on the bed heavily.

At some point the door opens again, and a small brown girl enters with a tray of food. She regards him apprehensively, the tray rattling precariously in her shaking hands. She can’t be more than 12 or 13 years old.

He lifts his chained hands to show he means no harm and gives her a smile. “Hello,” he tries gently. His eyes flicker past her, not immediately seeing a guard at his door. He could try to make a break for it now, if it weren’t for the girl. He could never live with himself if he harmed her in any way. “What’s your name?”

Her eyes widen with fear as his deep voice reverberates through the room. She quickly deposits the tray on a table near the door and scurries toward the exit, slamming the door shut behind her. The lock resounds ominously as it turns. Heaving a sigh, he stands and tries yanking on the door a few times before giving up. Then he turns to the table and eyes the food warily.

Soup and a hard lump of stale bread. No silverware, of course. His stomach rumbles despite the unappetizing meal; he can’t remember the last time he ate. Still, he hesitates. What if it’s poisoned?

If the Empress still planned to kill him, surely she wouldn’t bother with poison.

Peeta plops down on the uncomfortable stone bench to dig in, sopping the soup up with the bread before he slurps the rest of the broth down greedily. It tastes better than it looks, and while it’s not nearly enough to quench his gnawing hunger, it replenishes some of his much-depleted energy.

When the door opens again hours later, the same two guards appear.

“Where’s the Empress?” he asks, surprised when they unlink his wrist manacles and force him down onto the bed, jerking his arms up over his head. They chain his arms to the separate bedposts despite his struggles. “What are you doing?”

They move down to his feet, tightening the manacles at his ankles so he can’t spread or move his legs, then they chain his feet to the bottom bedposts.

“You can’t just leave me like this!” he roars at their backs as they exit, but his voice dies in his throat when the Empress appears in the door. She slinks into his room with a lamp in hand, quietly closing the door behind her. She looks different, her face clean, the headpiece absent, a simple black robe in place of her armor and dress. As she moves closer, he realizes how much younger she looks now, without the authority of her regal attire and makeup. She must be around his age, no older than his 24 years. Her hair looks freshly cleaned, but her mouth and eyes possess the same ferocity from before. Like she could eat him alive.

She places the lamp on the table, casting a soft glow around his dark room. When she steps toward him, it looks like she’s floating, the long robe hiding the stealthy placement of her feet.

“Was all this really necessary?” he asks dryly, jangling his chains for demonstration. The loincloth at his groin is the most humiliating aspect of his predicament.

“Yes. For my safety,” she says, stopping by the edge of the bed to run her hands over the chains at his hands. He can’t see what she’s doing, but he can smell her. The aroma of oils and flowery herbs fills his nostrils, making him strangely heady.

He snorts derisively. “Your safety? That’s rich.”

Satisfied with his bindings, she grabs his face and tilts it toward her. Displeasure creases around her mouth. “Are you suggesting I can trust you?” she asks. Though her voice is rife with scorn, he smiles through gritted teeth.

“I haven’t lied to you yet.”

She stares at him, her eyes raking over his body before meeting his. “For your sake, you better hope that’s true.” Something balls uncomfortably in the middle of his chest, but he ignores it. She lingers by his bedside, not moving or speaking. She seems hesitant. But then her hands grab at the opening of her robe, and he watches wordlessly as she opens it. The material eases off her shoulders and slips down her arms, baring first her breasts, then her flat belly, then the dark mound between her thighs, before the light material flutters to the ground.

His mouth goes dry as she stands before him naked. The lamplight flickers on her bare flesh, coloring her skin a tawny honey. Her breasts are small but pert, tipped with russet peaks, and the hair between her legs runs as dark as the locks cascading around her shoulders.

His cock twitches, his sack growing heavy at the sight of her feminine curves and lines.

For the first time, he is speechless. His throat pinches shut, and he swallows thickly, riveted by her nude form. She steps closer, her fingers toying with the pathetic cloth hiding his groin. It bulges with his growing erection, and she simply pushes it up to bare him.

Her hand falters. He quickly glances at her face, but her expression reveals nothing. The hesitation passes almost as quickly as it comes. Her index finger traces a faint line down the inside of his thigh, and he grows harder still. His heart flutters in his throat with his growing arousal–and apprehension. Not for the first time, he begins to doubt the soundness of his plan, his deal with her. What was he thinking, offering himself up as her stud horse? He’s a soldier, shaped for battle, not for lying down and taking it–quite literally, in this case.

He flares his nostrils and gives himself a defiant shake, forcing himself to watch her. There are worse punishments to endure, after all. The Empress kneels down on his bed and swings one leg over him, straddling his hips. Her hair and breasts swing tantalizingly as she leans over him. His blood runs hot, pushing any remaining doubts to the back of his mind. How long has it been since he’s been intimate with a woman, since he’s been even this close to one?

She takes his cock in hand and begins to stroke him. He closes his eyes and inhales through his nose, swallowing back a moan. The firm grip of her small hand around his shaft, the slide of her palm against his flesh, is heavenly. He tries to keep his mind blank, but the pleasure presses at the edges, bleeding in like ink leeching through paper, until it’s all he can focus on.

But when he opens his eyes to look at her, her expression is vacant. Devoid of anything–not satisfaction, not anger, not hatred. Certainly not pleasure.

She may as well be somewhere else as she positions him between her thighs. Her heat at his tip overwhelms him, but he frowns, feeling the distinct lack of lubrication to ease his way inside her.

“Wait,” he murmurs, his breathing labored. He tries to blink the lust-fog from his eyes. “Don’t you want to…”

The Empress braces her hand on his hard chest as she lowers herself on him, undulating and lifting her hips until he’s fully sheathed inside her. She’s tight, her walls hugging him like a vise.

It’s too much. “Gods,” he lets out a gasp. She starts to move, her knees digging into his sides, but when he looks up, her face is strained, contorted painfully. She presses her lips together until they’re nearly white and swivels her hips at an agonizing pace, until she finds a rhythm on top of him, rocking, grinding.

She’s so hot around him. It’s unfair how good this feels. His balls feel uncomfortably heavy, the pleasure coiling low in his gut, at the base of his spine. He grits his back teeth together and tries to stave it off, but he knows the outcome is inevitable. It’s not long before he’s grunting and panting, his body betraying him as he tries to move with her, thrusting up in a blind need to come, to release himself, to fill her, to possess her.

She clenches around him, whether on purpose or inadvertently, and it’s his undoing. He groans, hips thrusting up into hers roughly. His orgasm wrings him out along his spine, pushing out any other thought or feeling other than the sheer pleasure of emptying himself inside her.

When he pries his leaden eyelids open, he realizes the Empress has gone still. Her face is hard as stone, her eyes expressionless. Without preamble, she heaves herself off him, and he inhales deeply, the absence of her cunt around his cock stark. He watches her slip her robe back on, closing it over her breasts, before she retrieves the lamp. He watches her back as she leaves his room, quietly locking the door behind her.

“You’re welcome,” he mutters to the empty room, directing his gaze to his cock. The sight of blood momentarily shocks him until he remembers the look of pain and discomfort on her face as she moved over him.

Of course. She was a virgin.

Suddenly, he feels more exhausted than before. Something akin to self-reproach and remorse start to creep in. Thankfully, blissful sleep overtakes him before he can dwell much longer on it.

When his door opens again the next day, he’s alert, despite the heaviness of his eyes, but it’s just the guards and the servant girl from before. They slacken his chains so he can sit up to eat; it’s awkward, and he has to bow his head to reach the food in his bound hands. When they decide he’s done, they unchain him from the bed completely and take both of his arms to guide him to the baths. He’s grateful for this small dignity, even though he’d prefer to clean and relieve himself. The lingering evidence of his deeds last night left him feeling more than a little repulsed by himself.

They take him back to his room and shackle him to the bed. He has to resist his natural inclination to fight them, biting back a scornful remark. The guards leave, and all he can do is count the stones in the ceiling as he waits. Wondering what happens next. If the Empress will return.

He tries not to think beyond the present, but inevitably his mind drifts to home. His family. Did they know yet what had happened to him and his men? Did anyone survive? Had someone gotten word to the king? Would they mount a rescue mission? Or did they think him dead? Did they care?

He closes his eyes and breathes. Logically, he knows no one is coming for him. More than likely, the Empress and her army cut down all his men, leaving no survivors save himself. Nobody will even know to miss them, not for a while. And Peeta is a soldier, sworn to give his life for the kingdom. Dying is always a risk, an accepted possibility.

But being captured? Largely unprecedented for their unmatched army. He’s on his own now.

The door opens, briefly startling him. The Empress enters, dressed as she had the night before, lamp in hand to illuminate the dim room. He wasn’t sure she would come again tonight. He feels drained already.

“Back for more?” he asks, an edge sharpening his voice.

She sets the lamp down on the table. Unlike last night, she doesn’t hesitate as she sweeps the robe off her shoulders and drops it to the floor. He knows what to expect now, but still, he can’t deny she’s beautiful. Can’t deny the response of his body to hers as he lets his gaze trail over her breasts and legs.

“We should be sure,” she says flatly, moving closer. He clenches his jaw as she straddles him. His cock grows hard. He’s annoyed with how easily excited he gets, just from the mere proximity of her naked flesh. She locks eyes with him, cocking her head. “Are you complaining?”

He can’t help his derisive huff, turning his eyes back to the ceiling. He could almost mistake her for someone with a sense of humor.

“I barely have to do any work here. It’s not an unideal situation,” he says drolly. He looks back at her face and raises his eyebrows. “For me, at least. I could make this much more enjoyable for you if you would just unchain me.”

She narrows her eyes at him. “You must think me a fool.”

“To deny yourself pleasure? Yes,” he says simply. She scowls, and he sighs. “If you won’t let me help you, then touch yourself. Get yourself…ready,” he says delicately. “It will be easier for you if you do.”

Her gimlet gaze is skeptical, distrusting, but he waits. Finally, she reaches between her own legs. Her hand moves cautiously, rubbing tentatively. Her knuckles graze him through his loincloth, making him twitch in anticipation. The sight of her touching herself pulls all the blood to his groin, and by the time her fingers push inside herself, his cock is hard, straining against his belly. This time, her breaths are as labored as his, her eyes half-lidded.

When she finally withdraws her fingers, they’re slick with her arousal. He licks his lips, fighting the need to thrust toward her, toward the respite she offers. He sucks in a breath as she wraps her wet fingers around his painfully engorged shaft.

It’s a welcome relief when his tip breaches her slippery, petal-soft folds. The Empress braces herself on his chest as she sinks onto him. She’s just as tight as before, her walls snug around him, but this time her wet heat envelopes him like velvet.

He sighs, straining against his manacles. “Better, yes?” he murmurs. Her cheeks are flushed, but she glares at him.

“Don’t speak,” she commands.

“Or what–you’ll muzzle me?” he asks sharply as she starts to move, her knees digging into the bed to leverage herself over him. Something in her otherwise composed demeanor snaps, and she angrily grabs his hair, tightening her fist to pull at his scalp and jerk his head back. He hisses as she leans her face close to his. Her familiar scent invades his nostrils, her hair soft against his chest. She overwhelms his senses completely. It’s impossible to think straight.

“I can make this miserable for you,” she threatens lowly, giving his hair another tug. Her eyes are brighter than before, breasts rosy from her efforts, lips parted with the soft issuance of her heavy breaths. He suppresses a laugh, biting down on his bottom lip. Because, bizarrely, her threats only excite him, making his blood run hotter. But he refrains from antagonizing her further, closing his eyes to revel in the tug of her cunt around his turgid cock while she rides him, clutching at his chains when the pleasure becomes too much, overriding his senses.

Gods, he wants to break off these godsforsaken chains, wants to pin her beneath him, wrap his hands in her hair, fuck her until she has no choice but to submit.

At that lurid thought, he comes, his orgasm catching him off guard. With a gasping moan, he arches into her, cock thrusting once, twice, as he pumps her with his seed. His euphoria is a quickly cresting wave, and he sinks into the mattress as he rides it out, breathing hard.

He’s roused from his brief rest when she hastily moves off him. No blood this time, he sees, just the wetness of his cum and her body’s lubrication. He notices the tension in her limbs, in her movements, and licks his dry lips before speaking.

“You didn’t finish,” he says, voice husky. Her glare is withering as she redresses. She snatches her lamp off the table before storming out of his room once again. His satisfaction is short-lived. This time he feels her absence, his solitude, more acutely than ever.

She returns the next day, and the day after that. They carry on in the same way, until one day she doesn’t come. Or the day after that. The only person he sees is the girl who brings him food or empties his chamber pot. He tries to engage her in conversation, but she ignores his attempts and leaves as quickly as she can.

The guards leave him freed from the bed during this time period, at least, and he can stretch his muscles, exercise himself in the small space. On the fourth day, they finally enter his room and take him to bathe. By now he’s curious about the Empress’ absence. Anxious, even. Maybe he should be grateful for it, but what happens now? Will she kill him?

He can’t bite his tongue any longer. “Where is she?” he asks.

The spiky-haired one scoffs. “The Empress doesn’t answer to Panem scum.”

Her taunt rankles him. After he’s cleaned, they lead him back to his room, jerking on his chains when he lags behind. “I would think I’d be deserving of better accommodations if I’m to be the Empress’ own personal inseminator,” he says, not without bite. They just flash him unamused glowers before locking the door.

Finally, Katniss returns, though she’s forgone her usual robe in favor of her regal attire once more. Peeta sits up on his bed, hands and feet still bound but not chained to the bed. He’s surprised by her appearance, though he’s been anticipating her; he’s not sure what to make of his unrestrained state in her presence.

“I can cut your throat before you even stand,” she warns, as if sensing his thoughts. His eyes catch on the dagger strapped to her thigh. He smiles slightly at her.

“I thought we were past all that ugliness.”

She stares at him, her expression blank; she doesn’t rise to his bait of sarcasm. Looking at her, he can see the dullness in her eyes. The exhaustion. Some kind of melancholy lurking in the depths.

She looks away and moves toward the small table, but she doesn’t sit. “I have my woman’s blood,” she says. He doesn’t immediately understand, but then it dawns on him. Why she hasn’t been to see him. Why she looks resigned.

He’s not sure how he feels about this news. Disappointed. Relieved. Apprehensive. He watches her from the perch on his bed. “Sometimes it takes a while,” he says, keeping his voice even.

She turns back to him, arms folded over her breasts. When she actually rolls her eyes, he’s reminded of how young she is. “Yes, I’m aware. My mother was a healer. An occasional midwife, too.”

“Was?” he asks curiously, seizing on the first personal scrap of her life she’s offered.

She tenses, her eyes growing steely. After a moment, she waves her hand through the air, as if to dismiss the statement. “I’ve been meeting with the High Council and with my people. Leading raids around the kingdom. Once my woman’s blood has passed, I’ll return.”

He realizes she’s leaving, and he stands suddenly, stepping after her. Steel flashes in front of him, and he pulls himself up short before he can impale himself on her knife. She holds it out between them in defense. He didn’t even see her unsheath it. Gods, she wasn’t kidding.

He holds his hands up in supplication and forces a smile. “I wasn’t going to attack you.” She narrows her eyes disbelievingly; her suspicion makes him want to laugh. He’s the captive, isn’t he? He’s the one at her mercy. He forces a steady exhale through his nose, trying to make his voice more placating. “If you’re going to leave me for days on end, can I at least have something to occupy my time? A book, perhaps? Anything.” Anything to stop him from staring at the ceiling, failing not to think about his family and his kingdom as the crushing hopelessness takes root in his chest.

She pauses at the door, appearing pensive. “Tomorrow,” she says. “I will find something for you to do.”

Then she is gone.

Early next morning, the guards take him from his room and temporarily unchain him. Instead of his loincloth, they dress him in a man’s long tunic and buckskin trousers. The boots they find for him are ill-fitted, but he’s grateful to have something to cover his feet again. And the rest of his body, for that matter.

Afterward, they put the manacles back on his wrists and take him to the long hall where the Empress waits for him, dressed again in her ceremonial attire, with her armor and headpiece. This time her hair is plaited in an elegant braid over her shoulder, her eye makeup dark and heavy. Her eyes flash like moonlight over a pond; they are cold and hard as he approaches her. She’s beautiful, terrifyingly so.

He lifts his eyebrows, slightly puzzled by the change in his routine. “Empress. To what do I owe this honor?”

His favorite guard makes a noise like a snort under her breath. The Empress ignores his prodding. “Today I will show you around our village. You will see what your people have done to us, how we have suffered, but also how we have prevailed.” Her full lips thin in the hint of a scowl. “And if you hurt any one of my people, I will kill you myself.”

He wants to ask how she supposes he can hurt anyone handcuffed and weaponless, but her threat rankles him. He frowns at her. “I don’t hurt civilians.”

She’s silent as she studies him; he feels as exposed as he did in the loincloth. The Empress watches him carefully, a wariness hooding her eyes. He returns the look, unflinching, until, with a nod to the guards, she turns and strides out of the hall. One of the guards falls in step with her, and Peeta brings up the rear with his escorts.

He’s happy to get out of the fortress, to inhale fresh air, to feel the sun on his skin. A large stone wall surrounds a courtyard in front of the palace, but beyond that sprawls a marketplace. Small buildings and carts line the dirt roads that lead away from the gate, people milling in and out of shops and alleyways as they buy and sell goods. It’s not too much different from home, or at least what he remembers. He’s been away fighting for six years now.

As their contingent walks through the marketplace, the people they pass defer to the Empress, moving out of her way, bowing their heads, or turning to watch her. She acknowledges them, more warmth in her face than he’s ever seen, and he watches in wonder as she stops to speak to vendors or touch a small child’s head. The King and Queen would never do such a thing, walk among the commonfolk.

Peeta gets strange looks, some fearful while others more hostile. Someone even spits at him. He begins to wonder whether his escorts are more for his protection than the villagers’. The only faces he sees are largely those of women and girls; he can count on two hands the number of boys he sees. Even then, the children are few and far between.

He remembers the Empress’ harsh words, about what his people have done to hers, and he swallows hard, keeps his gaze trained ahead as he shuffles along. He understands now he’s being paraded before the crowd.

They move beyond the marketplace, where cottages and houses scatter the hills and edges of the wooded areas. Little girls run to greet the Empress, and she stops to engage them or stops at villagers’ thresholds to listen to their concerns and offer them reassurances. They slide their questioning glances in his direction many times, and with the way she gestures at him when she speaks, her face hard, he know she’s explaining exactly who he is.

She walks ahead of him but eventually falls back closer to him. He watches her from the corner of his eye, the defiant tilt of her chin, the long line of her neck, the prideful glint in her eyes.

“What is the purpose of this?” he asks lowly.

“You wished for something to do,” she reminds him, and he flexes his jaw before responding.

“You’re parading me like a prize won,” he accuses. “Don’t pretend there is anything noble in this excursion.”

The way she stiffens tells him he hit his designated mark. “They know we fight battles occasionally. I try to give them some measure of reassurance and hope, so they don’t fear or panic.”

“Ambushing us while we sleep is hardly a battle,” he reminds her. Her nostrils flare, and she pushes away, putting distance between them again. Unable to resist, he calls to her, “Give me a sword and put me in a training room with your fighters. I can teach them how to defeat us fairly.”

She ignores him, and when they return to the castle hours later, she leaves the guards to take him back to his room.

Dusk has fallen when his door opens, and at the sight of Katniss in her robe, Peeta sits up, more eagerly than he would like to admit. She lingers by the closed door, studying him. He stays seated, hands flexing around the edge of the thin, lumpy mattress. He takes note of the lack of any weapons in her hands. His manacles remain on his wrists, but he’s not chained to the bed.

“Does this mean you trust me now?” he asks, bracing his elbows on his thighs. The look she gives him is scoffing, amusingly so.

“My guards are outside. They will come if I scream.”

He smiles. “Well, that might impede on our activities then.”

She scowls. He really is starting to like that scowl.

After a moment, she disrobes. He watches the robe fall, condensing like a puddle of oil at her feet. He sits up straighter, slowly, eyes drinking in the tantalizing view of her breasts, the swell of her hips, the dark thatch of hair at her cunt. His cock responds accordingly, lust streaking through him as it does every time he feasts upon her nude body.

“Would you like me to undress, or would you prefer the honor?” he asks. They left him in his pants and tunic when they’d returned him to his room earlier but sadly took his boots. At her nod, he stands. He manages to shed his pants, but he gestures to his shirt and then his manacles. “I guess this will have to stay.”

She looks unsure but eventually slinks toward him. He lifts his gaze to her face. She looks determined, her mouth pinched. “Lie down,” she commands.

He doesn’t immediately make a move. He knows he doesn’t have to, with no chains to force him to. He could take control right now. He could possibly even overpower her. But she would alert the guards, and he’d rather not be fully chained again. He’s willing to earn his freedoms back, one at a time. To earn her trust. He’s ready for a long, arduous battle.

His lips quirk into a small smile, and as a show of good faith, he obeys her, stretching out on his back lengthwise along the bed. Like she is approaching a caged animal, Katniss sits astride his waist, hovering on her knees. She waits. He remains impassive, his arms over his head. With them shackled together, he can’t really place them anywhere else. Seemingly satisfied with this, she grips his stiffening cock. Peeta closes his eyes as she strokes him, his breaths becoming shallower, pleasure spiking through his blood.

Once he is fully hard in her hand, she positions him between her thighs and sinks down onto him. He can’t help his relieved exhalation, the pained groan as her cunt sheaths his cock entirely in its tight, hot grip. But it is an effort for her to work him inside her, and he knows she is barely wet.

The Empress begins to move, rolling her hips against his. Without thinking, he lowers his shackled hands to grab her hips, to aid her movements, but she snatches his hands in her own just as quickly, clutching them tightly as she glares down at him, alert, fiery. Her hips go still, and he spreads his fingers in deference, wrists still held up between them. When she relaxes enough to resume rocking on top of him, he carefully, slowly, lowers his hands to the bed, sliding them above his head. She doesn’t let go, and the movement brings her closer to him, her black hair spilling over her shoulders and across his chest. Like a curtain enclosing them.

Her eyes narrow suspiciously, darting around his face, but he witnesses the precise moment everything changes for her. The widening of her pupils. The parting of her lips. Her breathing increases, just like his does, and she grinds down on him harder, more wantonly.

A soft, shaky “oh” escapes her throat on a hot breath, and he inhales it, his chest swelling, just as his cock does, excited by the wetness he can feel slicking his shaft.

“There you go,” he murmurs, canting his hips to thrust up into her. She grips his wrists and rides him faster, breasts and hair swaying above him. He wants to lift his mouth to them, to suck the pert little tips between his lips, but he fears scaring her, losing this little ground he’s managed to stake. So he spreads his arms out as wide as he can, forcing her face closer to his. When her mouth is in reach, he lifts his head and presses his lips to hers.

She falters, inhaling sharply through her nose in surprise, but he nips her with his teeth before grazing her lips with his tongue. When she opens her mouth reflexively, he seals their lips together and strokes his tongue into her mouth with brutal fervor, kissing her deeply.

Her whimper is lost in his mouth, swallowed so it warms a trail down his throat to his belly. He burns hotter for her, his cock painfully swollen inside her as their hips meet restlessly, rocking and thrusting together. She is incredibly wet around him now, tight and swollen, and he groans, feeling his sack tighten in response.

Abruptly, Katniss jerks away from him, pulling her mouth back, sitting up straighter above him. He feels her cunt grip and tighten, fluttering around him; she cries out as an orgasm takes her. Peeta shakes off her hands and, when she slows, grabs her hips to spur her on, pulling her down to him as he thrusts up into her, milking her release and drawing his own out. After a few rough strokes inside her, he comes with a relieved groan, his face contorting in pleasure.

Once he is done emptying himself into her, his body slumps to the mattress, sated and spent. But he’s startled a second later when she quickly climbs off him. Her cheeks are flushed red, and her dark, lusty eyes are narrowed at him in betrayal. Her chest still heaves. He sighs raggedly as he watches her redress with hasty, angry movements.

“It can feel that good every time, you know,” he tells her.

She doesn’t reply, doesn’t even look at him; the only response is the slamming of the door behind her, the resounding thud of the lock sliding into place.

He’s not surprised when he doesn’t see her for a few days. He doesn’t see anyone save for the servant girl, but he remains unchained in his room, at least. It’s not much, but it allows him more freedom to move around his room. He fills his time by exercising what little he can. He finds a small piece of rock that has crumbled off the stone wall, and he uses it to start marking the passing of the days. Then, when he’s completely bored, he uses it to sketch rudimentary etchings into the wall. It’s been years since he’s drawn–being a soldier doesn’t leave much time for such leisurely activities–but it was something he enjoyed as a child, and it helps pass the time.

Still, he’s nearly overjoyed when the Empress returns. Once again, she’s dressed in her regal attire. The guards are with her, eyeing him with particular disdain. He thought they’d gotten rather indifferent to his presence at this point.

Standing from his crouched position, he drops the stone and dusts his hands off on his pants.

“Good morning, Katniss,” he greets cheerfully then squints up at the windows. “It is morning, isn’t it?”

The spiky-haired guard growls, lifting her ax. “You will address her as Empress, worm.”

“Johanna.” Katniss waves her hand dismissively. Peeta looks to the guard with delight.

“So it has a name after all,” he muses, not quite succeeding in restraining his smirk at the glower the guard gives him. Katniss scowls, stepping toward him. She motions for the other guard, who brings forth the boots they previously took.

“Captain Mellark, you will come with me.”

So formal, even after everything, he thinks wryly, but he obliges and, after they help him into the boots, he follows them out of the room. Inwardly, he rejoices to be free of the small room. He doesn’t even care where they’re taking him or what they plan to do with him. He’d suffer facefulls of spit just for a trek outside again.

They take him through the castle and up the stairs to another wing. He’s surprised when they lead him into a different room. The bed is large, the furnishings much more accommodating. A table. Chairs. A wardrobe. A vanity with a looking glass. A large empty tub for washing. Someone’s bedchamber, fit for royalty.

For the Empress.

He looks at her curiously, and she nods at the guards. “You may leave us.”

The women don’t look pleased, but they step outside the room, shutting the doors. Katniss turns away from him and walks farther into the room. Peeta follows her a few steps.

“What is this?” he asks. She faces him again, lifting her chin.

“This is my bedchamber. This is where you’ll be staying now.”

“With you?” he asks in surprise.

“It’s impractical to keep you in the servants quarters while we are…”

“Copulating?” he offers. Her mouth tightens.

“It will be some time before I know with certainty if I am…” she trails off. “For the time being, I will keep you in here. Specifically, there is a smaller adjoining room you will sleep in.” She motions to another closed door.

He rubs at his jaw, still amazed and a little speechless. He wasn’t quite expecting this development. It’s better than he could have hoped.

Katniss moves toward him, a certain menace to her approach and in her face. “But make no mistake. You are still a prisoner here. You will be watched. And if you try anything, you will be dealt with accordingly.”

“And will you relegate me back to the servants quarters once you are with child?” he asks, dropping his shackled hands in front of him.

She stares at him, her eyes calculating, then she replies, “If I keep you at all.”

He hears the threat in her voice and presses his lips together momentarily. Maybe he’d not made as much progress as he thought. “You would kill me still? Even after I’ve held up my end of the bargain?”

“I never agreed to your fate after the deal has been filled,” she says flatly. He frowns, trying to subdue his rising anger.

“I guess I shouldn’t be surprised by your lack of honor,” he retorts, his insult hitting the mark. She flinches, her nostrils flaring as she glares at him, and she stalks closer to him.

“You speak to me of honor, when you slaughter my people?”

“And you’ve slaughtered mine,” he fires back. “You’re no better than we are.”

Her hand strikes out palm-first, slapping him across the face. His head jerks to the side slightly, his cheek smarting, and he grits his teeth, breathing through the pain. “We fight because we have to! You kill us, and then have the gall to be shocked or upset that we fight back?” she shouts.

He chokes back his anger, forcing himself to pursue a different argument.

“What if something happens to the child? What if you lose it? Is one heir enough? How do you hope to repopulate your village with only a hypothetical?” he asks. She falters, and he pushes his advantage, his voice dripping with disdain, “You would kill me, even while pregnant with my child? And what would you tell him about his father, someday when he’s old enough to ask?”

She looks away, silence falling between them as his words seem to echo. When she meets his eyes again, her expression is stony. “I’m used to making hard choices. The unpopular decisions. But I will do what I need to in order to protect my people. You are still a threat. Who are you to ask me to choose between you and my people?”

He doesn’t have an immediate response, but she seems uninterested in hearing one because she stalks around him and out of the room. With a frustrated growl, Peeta tunnels his hands through his hair and collapses onto a daybed, dropping his head forward.

It’s nighttime when Peeta sees Katniss again. She enters the room silently, and he merely observes her from his spot by a window. Her clothes are dirty, her arms and face smudged with mud and blood. Confused, he frowns at her as she unclasps her leather armor, pulling it over her head and off her body. It thumps to the floor in a discarded pile.

“What did you do?” he asks.

“Defended my village.” Her voice is solemn. He glances out the window, squinting in the fading sunlight, his attention on alert.

“Was it my people?” he asks, a tightness in his voice.

“A small group of Panem soldiers came upon our fields,” she says. “Some women were harvesting olives from the trees when they were ambushed. They would have raped them.” She speaks almost defensively.

Peeta presses his lips together, bracing his elbows on his thighs. He mulls this over for a long moment. “Did you kill them all?”

“Yes.”

He rubs his eyes, his thumb and forefinger gouging the tiredness from deep in his sockets. Then, he just nods silently. For once he is without words.

After a moment, when the silence has drawn out, he looks at her. She’s watching him curiously. Finally, she strips out of the rest of her clothes and strides to the bathtub, unstrapping her dagger around her thigh to place it on a stand beside the tub. Servants came not too long ago and filled it with hot water. He can still see the steam curling from the smooth surface as Katniss steps into the tub, sinking into its depths. She submerges her head, then resurfaces like an otherworldly creature emerging from starlight. Water sluices down her face, between her breasts. She blinks open her eyes and looks over at him, and he finally remembers to take a breath.

Gods, she is breathtaking. Walking the line between resenting her and wanting her has muddled his mind.

She reclines in the tub, dutifully scrubbing her body with a thin slab of soap. They sit in silence, the only sounds the soft splashing of water. She washes herself as a purely utilitarian process, and though he detects no deliberate seduction in her moves, he can’t help but admire the stimulating effect of her hands moving sinuously over her curves, around her breasts, beneath the water, no doubt between her legs. His cock stiffens against the placket of his trousers, but he makes no move, not until she’s finger-combed the suds on her hands through her long dark tresses.

“Would you like help rinsing your hair?” he offers lowly. He almost doesn’t recognize the husky quality of his voice.

Her eyes flicker to him, her lips pressing down at the corners in a scowl. “Help? You’d likely drown me given half the chance.”

He smiles despite himself. “You’re very paranoid, aren’t you? I don’t have nearly as active an imagination as you seem to think.” She just stares at him. Assessing. Despite her accusation, she’s taking a bath, alone, with him in the room. If he wanted to, he could find a way to kill her, even with his hands shackled, before she could alert her guards. Her grudging trust of him must mean something.

Peeta stays seated as she ducks under the water again, once, twice, to rinse the soap from her hair. Not until she wipes her face off and wrings out her hair does he stand from his seat, purposely crossing the room. Her wary gaze stays locked on him, and even though she doesn’t move, he can sense the tension in her body. Like a predator ready to strike at the smallest provocation. Her dagger is within reach, and she eyes it surreptitiously. But he merely grabs a drying cloth and opens it for her.

Cautiously, she rises and steps out of the tub, allowing him to wrap the cloth around her frame. His arms linger around her, holding her within his embrace; she’s rigid in his arms, staring up at him. The corners of her eyes are creased, tight, and he can read alarm in their depths. He takes a deep breath, filling his lungs with her fresh scent. Soap and lavender and something indelibly female.

He makes himself release her, stepping back. She takes the cloth from him, clutching it around her body. After a moment, she begins drying herself, sweeping the cloth down her arms, her belly, her legs. Then she squeezes the rope of her hair between the cloth, drying it as much as she can. Once she’s done, he takes the soggy cloth from her to set it down, then he offers her his hands.

Her eyes narrow, and she takes one of his hands as if she were reaching for a snake. He forces himself to be patient. He doesn’t blame her for her suspicion and hesitation. But he wants her to trust him. He needs her to trust him.

So, with her small, nimble hand in his, he guides her to her bed. She stops at the foot of the bed and looks at him, like she expects him to go first.

“Lie down,” he instructs. She pulls her hand away from him with a frown.

“No.”

He suppresses a sigh and wills his eyes to be as guileless as possible. “I want to pleasure you, Empress.”

She looks doubtful, even perplexed, as she studies him. “I’ll scream if you try anything,” she warns him.

He smiles plainly. “Again. That might interfere with our activities,” he murmurs as she carefully lies back on the bed. Her eyes are alert and focused on him, body tensed and ready to defend or strike, so he lightly clasps her ankles in his hands to spread her legs as much as he can with the manacles at his wrists. When he leans forward, her hand snaps out to push on his chest, stopping him. Her gray eyes flare, a late afternoon storm rumbling over a wheat field.

“No—”

He doesn’t crawl over her or cover her body with his own; instead he kneels between her open legs, lowering himself to his belly. His gaze lingers on hers before darting down. Her cunt is open before him like a budding blossom, with pink and dusky plump petals. Again, he locks eyes with her and opens his mouth over her, slowly flicking his tongue over her slit. Her eyes widen, and he hears her suck in a breath as she jerks up on her elbows. But he licks at the small pearl at the apex of her folds, pressing and circling it with his tongue.

She moans, just a barely restrained keening sound. Encouraged, he drags his tongue up the entire length of her cunt, passing over her hole where she’s leaking now, like sap seeping from a tree. She tastes just as sweet, tangy and earthy. He tries to wrap a hand around her hip to pull her closer, to press his mouth against her. He dips his tongue inside her, lapping up her nectar with eager, quick strokes of his tongue as she grows hot and slick for him. Her hips jerk against his face, and when he nudges her clitoris with his nose, she gasps.

He focuses his attention there, lifting his mouth to tongue the swollen bud eagerly. Katniss arches beneath him, spine curling off the bed as her breasts lift in the air with her sharp cries. He watches her hungrily as a flush darkens her chest, her nipples tight with excitement. His hard cock swells and twitches inside his pants.

She’s so wet now, her scent pungent around him. He inhales deeply and thrusts his tongue inside her for more. She’s molten and swollen. She squirms under him, and when he laps at her clitoris again, she fists his hair, trying to push him away. “Stop,” she orders, voice broken and raspy. He just sucks her between his lips, steadily flicking his tongue back and forth. She attempts to push him away once more before collapsing, her moans louder. She writhes on the bed, nearly bucking into his face, and he holds her down until she comes, her guttural moans pulsing in her throat with her rapid heartbeat and fluttering cunt.

When she sinks into the bed, boneless, he sits up and swipes his thumb over his lips and chin. She watches him warily through half-lidded eyes as he stretches out beside her on his back. He unfastens his pants to pull his cock out, wincing with relief. Then he just waits, turning his head to look at her.

Eventually, she pushes herself into a sitting position. He holds her waist to help her straddle him, and without further delay she sheaths his cock inside her. Peeta groans and closes his eyes, releasing her waist to stretch his arms over his head, hands and fingers relaxed and nonthreatening.

Katniss begins moving, slowly at first, until she finds her rhythm. Then she rides him, hard and fast, her cunt unbelievably tight around him as she slides his cock in and out of her passage. He doesn’t last long, giving himself over to his swift-moving orgasm. His hands tighten into fists as he comes, pumping his seed into her with a full-bellied groan.

He’s still breathing hard when she climbs off him. He opens his eyes to watch her slink across the room, pulling her robe on as is her usual routine after these moments. But when she turns back to face him, her expression is troubled.

“Why did you do that?” she asks. He licks his lips where her taste lingers, the flavor igniting once again along his tongue.

“I wanted to.”

The Empress’ room overlooks an archery range. From a small window in his room, Peeta can watch her warriors as they run through exercises, on horseback and on foot, sending arrows into targets with near-accurate precision. They’re good. Better than most of the archers in his kingdom’s own army.

Around midday, he’s surprised to see the Empress join the exercises. Faintly, he can hear her yelling instructions, but when she takes up a bow to demonstrate, he’s absolutely stunned. She hits every bullseye with lethal accuracy, leaping obstacles, climbing trees, tumbling on the ground. A coldness settles in his chest as he watches her, despite his awe.

It’s been easy to forget, lost among their nightly rendezvous, how dangerous she is. He can see now just how easily she and her army overwhelmed his men. How they might have even overwhelmed them in the light of day. A rage simmers in his chest as he thinks about his men being ambushed and cut down, unable to at least try to defend themselves, but it’s a fury that’s hard to hold on to it when he remembers the faces of the Mimidae people he saw, the widowed women and orphaned children. When he imagines the terrified women caught unawares at the olive trees.

Frustrated with himself, he stalks away from the window.

He’s permitted to eat his dinner in the grand hall with the Empress. They keep his hands shackled but slacken them enough so he can eat more comfortably. Guards watch over them, and they are attended to by servants, but otherwise he and Katniss dine at the table alone. He can’t help but wonder what happened to her family. She spoke of her mother in the past tense before.

Peeta tries to cut the slice of venison on his plate with his shackled hands, clumsily wielding a fork and knife. The guards watch him carefully, but no one offers to help. Katniss observes him from the other end of the table, her own use of silverware unencumbered as she brings a bite of pink steak to her mouth. He thinks he sees amusement dancing in her silver eyes. When he manages to spear the chunk with his fork, he lifts it toward her victoriously with a nod before popping it in his mouth. Her huff is just barely audible across the table, and he smiles as he chews.

It’s sublime. He swallows his moan of appreciation along with the tender meat. After days, weeks, of mostly soup and mushy root vegetables, the venison is a culinary delight.

“This is delicious,” he says, sincerely but with probably more enthusiasm than necessary. She arches her eyebrow. “Who felled the deer, may I ask?”

“Me.”

His fork halts, and the carrot on the tines plops back down on the plate. “You?”

“I like to hunt. It’s relaxing.” She sounds defensive in the face of his surprise, but she shrugs. “Most mornings, I wake at dawn and take my best hunters to the woods. We catch as much prey as we can to help feed the village.”

He doesn’t know why he’s surprised. He remembers her efficiency on the archery range, the way she wielded the bow like it was an extension of her body. He nods after a moment. “That’s admirable.” And he means it.

She keeps eating, sawing into her steak with her knife. His gaze lingers on her a moment longer, his curiosity growing. “Katniss—” Her eyes cut to him sharply, and he stifles a sigh. “Empress. You mentioned your mother…What happened to your family?”

Her whole body has gone rigid, her fists tight around her utensils. He’s certain she won’t answer him. He’d almost wager she’s a second away from lodging that knife in his eye with a quick flick of her wrist.

Instead, she sets her silverware down slowly. Her eyes flit down to the table, and her voice is quiet when she speaks. “My father was the leader of our people. As was his father, and his father before him. We were…peaceful. We had no reason to fight.” Her face hardens, and when she lifts her chin, she sets her gaze on him. “He was killed by Panem soldiers 15 years ago. My sister, my little sister, was killed 10 years ago, when a group of soldiers happened upon her where she was playing near a lake. And my mother…she died five years ago, by her own hand, too distraught to suffer the loss of her husband and youngest daughter any longer.”

Face paling, Peeta flexes his fingers around his fork, digging his blunt nails into the flesh of his palm as he listens. The silence that follows is oppressing, and he drops his gaze to his plate. Suddenly, the bloody juices pooling around the venison make his stomach turn.

“I’m so sorry,” he says. He feels a disconcerting rush of affinity for her, a prickling tenderness that lodges itself just under his sternum. It’s a dangerous feeling, but one he knows he’s not immune to.

“Don’t be. I don’t want your pity.” Her expression is almost blank but chilling still. “At least I can say I had family who loved me.”

He winces at that, not missing her subtle insult. She’s not wrong; he can’t say his relationship with his family would ever be described as loving. And she knows they’re not coming for him since he told her as much.

With a humorless grimace, he nods his head once and moves to cut another bite of venison. “You’re right. I suppose we’re both lonely in different ways.” His words render her speechless, and he blandly chews his steak in the silence that follows.

The Empress is gone for two days. She doesn’t normally tell Peeta where she goes before the fact, but most of the guards are gone, and the archery fields are empty. Whatever she’s gone to do, he assumes her army is with her. Darkly, he wonders which unlucky unit of the King’s army she plans to attack this time.

In her absence, however, Peeta is at least not confined to his adjoining room in her living quarters, though he can’t leave the parameters of her room, due to the two unfamiliar guards stationed outside her door. Perhaps the only two left behind, just to make sure he doesn’t escape. He takes the time to snoop around her room, rifling through her wardrobe and chests. He finds some hairpins but can’t manage to get his manacles unlocked. He really should have learned how to pick a lock when he was training to wield a sword, he thinks ruefully as he returns the pins back to where he found them.

His further perusal of her bedchamber turns up nothing of use or much interest; there are surprisingly little personal affectations in her room. He does find a locket in one bureau, a miniature contained within. He squints at it, studying the fine brushwork of the two little girls. One, the older girl, is olive-skinned with dark hair, the other pale and towheaded, much like his own coloring. The older girl is undoubtedly Katniss. That scowl is unmistakable. So the blonde must be her sister.

He brushes his thumb over the miniature, a strange sadness settling over him, but a commotion outside the door startles him. He hurriedly stashes the locket and spins around as the door slams open. Katniss storms in, blood-splattered and dirty, her black hair whipping behind her in a plaited rope. Her face is contorted in rage and anguish. She yells at the guards outside, who look stricken—”Help the others!”–and they run off.

Peeta watches in bewilderment at the spectacle before him. She doesn’t seem to take notice of him at first, so he steps toward her carefully. “Katniss,” he starts, pulling up short when she whirls around on him, her gray eyes wide and flashing thunderously. She doesn’t speak, so he takes another step closer and tries again. “What happen—”

His voice finally stirs her from her stupor, and she snarls at him. “You!” She shoves at his chest, pushing him back. “Get away from me! You’re one of them!” She yells, pushing him again. He holds his hands up, jaw gritted, but he resists the urge to grab her hands, to shove back.

“What happened?” he asks again, hoping his voice is soothing, cajoling.

“Your men killed my women!” she screams. He takes a deep breath.

“You killed my men,” he reminds her, voice low. Her eyes flash again. “I’m a captive here. Whoever attacked you has nothing to do with me.”

“They were part of your king’s army, the same brutes who’ve slaughtered my people, over and over!” she snarls, but her voice starts to tremble. “They ambushed us, killed…killed some of my women. My friends. Johanna…” She trails off, the fire in her speech dwindling. She blinks at his shirt, and he looks down to see the bloody handprints smeared across his chest. She lifts up her hands, palms toward her, seeming to see for the first time the blood there. Sucking in a tremulous breath, she presses her hand to her face and shakes her head.

“I saw them killed. There were too many. I had to retreat, order my women to fall back. I had to leave…leave the dead…”

She looks so lost, her eyes glazed over like her mind is still back there on the battlefield. Peeta’s chest aches, and he swallows down the same memories that plague him. He knows all too well what she’s experiencing, how if you let it consume you, you’ll never leave that place.

He reaches for her, grabbing her wrists. She looks up at him wildly, panicked, but he squeezes gently, his face and eyes soft. “I know. I understand. I do, more than you know.” She stares at him, fists clenched, but when she doesn’t pull away or lash out, he releases her and carefully loops his shackled arms over her head to wrap them around her shoulders. She tenses but allows him to pull her against his chest in his embrace.

After a moment, a great shudder racks her body, and she slumps against him, burying her face against his chest. He crushes her against him as if he can wring the misery out of her, mindless of the blood dirtying his own self now. He just listens to her harsh breaths gradually slow, and he realizes, there is no strategy here. This is just one person comforting another. If he could find a way to carve this pain from her heart, he would.

Eventually, she pulls herself together and straightens, trying to push herself off his chest. He relents and lifts his arms over her head, dropping them in front of him. He eyes her critically. “Would you like help getting cleaned up?”

She looks away and shakes her head, absently wiping strands of hair out of her face and streaking rust-colored blood across her forehead. “No. I need…I have to go tend to the wounded. I just needed a moment.”

“I can find some servants to fill the tub for you. When you’re done helping your fighters,” he offers.

Her eyes flit to his then away, but she nods. With that, she turns and leaves, shoulders back.

She comes to his room late that night, long after he falls asleep. He wakes when she climbs into his bed, barely able to make her out in the silvery moonlight. She’s naked and clean, her hair wet and clinging to her shoulders and breasts. She must have taken the bath the servants poured for her–hours ago at this point. He shifts onto his back, hands still bound between them. Her skin is chilled and goosebumped, her legs quivering against his sides as she straddles him.

She undoes the placket of his pants without speaking. He lets her, breathing shallowly when she reaches inside to stroke his cock until he’s full and thick in her hand. Then she sinks down onto him with some effort, sitting astride him tall and commanding. She fucks him, riding him hard and without mercy. His chest expands and contracts with his increasingly labored breaths, as he revels in the physical pleasure of her tight cunt around his cock, but his mind remains detached from the moment, like he is merely an observer. Like she is, too. Her eyes are deadened, rosy lips barely parted. He watches her, her hips lifting and twisting against his, but she’s still somewhere else in her head.

Reaching a hand between her legs, his fingers find the bud between her petaled folds. Her body shudders and concaves in on itself when he starts to rub it. Finally, she gives a moan, pleasure shuddering her face as she shuts her eyes and tips her head back. He strokes her until he feels wetness on his fingers and around his cock, until her moans grow louder, freer, until she tightens around him and comes. The pulsing, squeezing of her cunt around him ignites his own orgasm, and he grunts, stroking himself into her until he’s spent.

Her eyes are glossy and open when she looks down at him, her face unguarded, briefly, until she draws herself back inside, tries to lock him and everything else out. But when she climbs off him, she collapses beside him, curling into a fetal position. Peeta turns on his side to look at her. He lifts a hand to her face to push her hair back, and she turns her face into the pillow.

After a moment she stands from his bed and makes to leave. He calls after her, sitting up as she turns back to him.

“I can train you so you know exactly how to fight us next time.”

She stares at him for a while until she finally nods.

Katniss takes him to the training room days after the ambush. She’s been distant since that night, stuck inside her head as she deals with the aftermath of the attack, but now, she looks determined as she unlocks his manacles. Guards wait outside the training room as a precaution, he assumes; even so, he’s grateful for the small freedom. His wrists will likely be permanently marked from their time enchained, but the scars are pink, tender new skin. At least the wounds never festered or became infected.

He’s rubbing the spots graciously when the Empress hands him a practice sword. He eyes it hungrily, holding it with a sort of reverence. It might be wooden and lighter than his usual steel blade, but it feels right in his hand, natural. Before, he wouldn’t say he necessarily got any joy out of fighting, definitely not out of killing others in battle. But after weeks in chains, impotent and incapacitated, even this rather ineffective weapon gives him a modicum of power.

He looks up to Katniss, who’s watching him closely, her own practice sword in hand. He smiles. “You’re going to want a shield.”

She arcs an eyebrow at him. “And you as well?”

His smile widens, hooking to one side. “I’ll manage without one.”

She scowls. “I’m not ignorant of how to use a sword. I can hold my own, even against you, Captain.”

He swings the sword through the air carefully, getting a feel for its heft. “Of course. But your weapon of choice is the bow, is it not?” he asks. She cocks a hip to the side, looking to argue more, so he cuts her off, “It’s no weakness to use a shield. It’s just smart. I can show you how to fight with both in hand so you’re more likely to survive.”

Grudgingly, she grabs a shield from the weapons rack. They square off in the center of the room, Peeta sizing up his opponent as she does the same. She’s wearing just her buckskin dress, two slits up the sides allowing for range of motion. Her leather slippers keep her light on her feet, and her long hair is braided back off her face, hanging down her back. Her mouth is twisted in a fierce frown, her brow knotted. He can’t help but smile.

“Now, remember, I’m a little rusty, so go easy on me,” he says, falling into his fighting stance.

She scoffs. “Right. You think so little of my fighting skills, you refuse to use a shield. Don’t mock me.”

“Mock? I think quite highly of your fighting skills, Empress. As you’ll remember, the last time we met in battle, you won,” he says, placating. He smiles again. “I just look forward to evening the score.”

She smiles, the first since his initial meeting with her. It’s quite lovely on her normally severe face. “And I look forward to besting you again, Captain.”

He has to fight back his grin, his blood already pumping from the challenge.

With their swords up, they begin circling each other, sizing each other up. He assesses her posture, making sure her feet are spread. Satisfied with her stance, Peeta attacks with considered movements to warm them both up, allowing her to easily block his swings with her sword.

“Keep your shield at shoulder level,” he warns her, before attacking again, with more power than before. She grits her teeth and parries, but he gets around her guard, whacking her on the outside of her ribs with his sword. She flinches but doesn’t buckle. He shakes his head at her, falling back. A growl rumbles in the back of her throat, and they reset.

This time, Katniss attacks. He easily blocks her thrusts, but she moves too fast for him to counter attack. “Good,” he grunts before swinging his sword so hard, the collision of it against hers jars her enough that she stumbles back a few steps. They circle again, and he can tell Katniss is studying him, trying to plan out her next attack.

“You should thrust forward with your shield too, not just the sword,” he tells her. “It’ll deflect my attacks to the shield, and you can hit me outside my guard.”

Narrowing her eyes, she attacks again, more frenzied and aggressive each time she swings her sword or shield toward him. But she’s too unpracticed, too clumsy with both items that he is able to block her before she has a chance to make contact on his body. She parries, sliding back on her feet, but he presses her with razor-quick flourishes until he hits her arm with the flat of the sword. She nearly drops her sword, unable to swallow the surprised yelp that squeaks out of her throat.

Her face instantly flames red, but she doesn’t let her humiliation deter her. She charges him again, and they spar, Peeta yelling out instructions each time she makes a mistake or misses an opportunity.

He can tell he’s infuriating her, frustrating her every attack. It hasn’t been as easy as it once was for him, but the Empress is no match on the sword, not against his well-honed military training, and she knows it. Sweat pours into both their eyes, faces flushed from the exertion, but Peeta feels more energized than ever.

As if she can sense it, Katniss growls at him and unleashes a new round of attacks. Their wooden swords clash, the loud clacks bouncing off the tall walls of the room. Peeta parries and counterattacks, pushing her back, back. She tries to strike again, but with a few quick jabs and flick of his sword, he disarms her, sending her sword skidding across the floor. Instinctively, she brings her shield up and charges him, surprising him. She bats his sword out of the way with her shield, ducking around his guard so he can’t reach her with the sword. Then she flings her shield aside and lashes out at him with her hands–punching and clawing.

“Gods!” he gasps, dropping his sword so he can grab at her flailing arms. But she twists and evades his grasp. To avoid a broken nose, he pulls her against his chest and wraps a hand in her braid. A sharp tug rips a cry from her throat, pulling her head back. Then he jerks her away from him and flings her halfway across the room with an enraged roar.

She tumbles with the momentum, skidding to a halt on her knees, facing him. Panting hard, Peeta wipes at his eyes to clear the perspiration. Her scream startles him, and he looks back at her just in time to see the dagger flying at him. He jerks his head as the small blade whistles by him. Stunned, he cranes his head around to see it clatter to the ground, but by the time he turns to face Katniss again, he realizes his mistake.

He doesn’t have time to brace himself as she tackles him to the ground. They wrestle, Katniss atop him, her face contorted in anger. His own blood surges with adrenaline, a strange thrill igniting a fire in his gut. This time, he grabs a hold of her wrists, leveraging his hips and legs to flip her onto her back, rolling her underneath him.

“Get off!” she yells at him, cheeks flushed red as she struggles, squirming beneath the wall of his body.

He widens his eyes at her. “You’re the one who tackled me!” He pins her hands to the stone floor by her head, pushing her legs out so she can’t get them under him. She attempts to headbutt him, but he lifts his head back, pressing his pelvis into hers so she can’t buck him off.

He shouldn’t be as aroused as he is, gods help him, but her writhing has his cock surging. Her feistiness, her stubbornness, her unwillingness to quit even when she’s obviously beat, excites him. She’s truly a worthy opponent.

“I’m gonna kill you as soon as you let me go,” she threatens on a sibilant hiss through her teeth.

“Then I guess I better not let you go,” he says. Her eyes flash, narrowing dangerously, but she strangely goes still, only her chest heaving with her harsh pants. Then, she rolls her body, pushing her hips into his. His nostrils flare, his teeth grinding together as he tightens his hold on her wrists. When she opens her mouth, he ducks his head and kisses her. Thrusts his tongue into her mouth, prying her lips apart, steeling himself for the sharp clench of her teeth. Instead, she kisses him back, eagerly stroking her tongue against his, fighting him for control of the kiss, trying to thrust her tongue into his mouth. Her body doesn’t relent, doesn’t soften beneath him. She wriggles under his weight, and her legs come up to wrap around him. Not to fight him, but to spur him.

With his mouth opened wide over hers, he clamps her wrists together with one of his hands over her head. Her chest thrusts up, a muffled grunt catching in her throat, and he uses his free hand to cup her breast, squeezing it through her dress. Then he rubs her budding nipple with his thumb, rolling it into a straining peak. He swallows her moan, but he breaks away to yank the neck of her dress down, tearing the material some as he frees her breast to catch the nipple with his teeth. She gasps when he sucks it between his lips, suckling until her skin is slick with his saliva. His hand hikes up her gown and her smallclothes so he can reach her cunt. A cursory dip of his fingers inside her finds her wet and clenching, needy for the intrusion of his cock. But he just pulls his fingers out and seeks her clitoris, rubbing it.

Katniss moans and arches beneath him, hips bucking with every swipe of his fingers over the swollen bud. His teeth pluck at her nipple as his fingers pinch her clitoris gingerly, and the combined sensations seem to break her.

Her cry is loud and unhindered, a sob of pleasure as she comes. He thrusts his fingers inside her just to feel her passage pulse around him, drawing him inside her. Desperate, Peeta pulls out and fumbles with his pants to get his cock out.

He’s so distracted, he doesn’t hear the guards burst into the room, likely alerted by Katniss’ scream. He doesn’t register the sounds of shouts or stampeding footsteps until they’re nearly on top of him. Even then, his reaction is too late; before he can pull away, one of the guards swings the butt of her weapon at the back of his head. Pain lances through his skull, and he staggers as he’s hauled off the Empress, guards swarming him. They yell at him, but his head swims, black peppering his vision so he’s unable to gather his bearings. Katniss lies on the floor, dazed, panting hard, as a guard kneels to help her.

That’s the last he sees of her before he’s dragged out of the room.

They take him back to his old servants room, tossing him down onto the ground. He’s too disoriented to object as they shackle his hands again then lock the door when they leave. He curls up on his side, suffering through the mild throbbing in his head. At least he didn’t fall unconscious this time.

After a while, he rolls onto his back when the pain subsides, then he drags himself onto the bed, exhausted. He has to assume Katniss will sort out this misunderstanding and release him.

He must fall asleep at some point because he’s woken by the lock turning. He squints blearily at the door. Katniss. He’s more relieved than he could have anticipated, but she shuts the door behind her, pitching them into near-darkness. It’s night outside, he realizes with a start.

She moves closer to him, still dressed in her attire from practice. “Are you alright?” Her voice is soft when she breaks the silence.

He exhales roughly, wincing as he pushes himself into a sitting position. “Other than the headache? Sure.”

Katniss sighs, too. Then she surprises him. “Forgive me,” she says solemnly. A surge of anger hits him, that she waited this long to come. He swings his legs over the side of the bed, planting his feet on the ground, but he doesn’t stand.

“You waited hours to clear this up?” he asks, feeling quarrelsome.

She dips her chin down, her mouth hard. “I was confused. I needed…I needed to think.” She rubs absently at her forehead, her eyes distant.

He frowns, irritated with her, with himself, with everything. He doesn’t know what he’s doing anymore, what it matters. “What was there to think about? We fought, then I made you come. We were going to fuck. That’s what I’m here for, isn’t it?”

Katniss shakes her head uncertainly but doesn’t reply. Instead, as if fighting herself, she slowly kneels at his feet. His lips part in surprise. Her eyes lifting to his, she reaches for his manacles. For the first time he notices the key in her hands. He watches her mutely as she unlocks his shackles, letting them and the key fall to the ground.

They’re both silent as they stare at each other, Peeta trying to read her face. He doesn’t quite understand what he sees there.

After a moment, she inches forward to pull his flaccid cock out of his pants. “What are you doing?” he murmurs. She shows him, stroking him in her firm grip until he’s hard. “Katniss,” he says when she hesitates, but she leans over and takes him into her mouth, tentatively licking her tongue across the head of his cock. He inhales sharply, his stomach tensing at the sensation of her suckling gently on the crown. Then, he leans back on his hands, giving her more room to work.

She seems unsure of her movements as she opens her mouth around him, sliding her lips farther down his shaft. With a gusty sigh, Peeta threads one hand through her hair to palm her head, encouraging, and she swirls her tongue around his shaft, his head, licking along the ridge, up and down the thready vein underneath. Arousal and lust cloud his vision, but he wills his eyes to stay open, to watch her pleasure him. Freely. Willingly. The realization is heady, satisfying, and his cock swells even more under her tongue.

He lets her suck him for a while longer, her lips and tongue growing more confident, more adventurous. The sight of her cheeks hollowing around him and the saliva slicking his cock makes his sack tighten, the wet sounds of her mouth as she swallows and sucks thrilling him. He won’t last much longer like this.

Regretfully, he tugs on her hair, pulling her off him. Her lips are shiny with the spit that stretches and snaps between her mouth and his cock, and her wide eyes peer up at him. He’s never seen her look so servile, so obeisant. Her on her knees before him, it’s a potent sight. He feels powerful.

Helping her to her feet, he guides her onto the bed beside him, laying her down. But he doesn’t roll onto his back to submit; this time, he hovers over her, much like in the training room, spreading her legs with his thighs. She lets him, her chest heaving slightly with her short, shallow breaths. He would think her afraid if not for the sanguine flush of her cheeks, the wide, black pupils. Peeta pushes her dress up and twists her smallclothes out of the way until he can shove the blunt head of his cock inside her.

She gasps, back arching as he thrusts inside her the rest of the way, the root of his cock flush with her cunt. She’s tight and wet, the snug fit of her pulling a groan deep from his chest. He braces his arms against the mattress then starts moving inside her, slow and deep. She grapples at his shoulders, fingers twisting in his tunic. She bites at her lip to contain her moans; he thrusts into her, snapping his hips against hers with relentless force until she has no choice but to cry out loud. The sounds make his chest swell with savage pride, and he fucks her faster, sliding a hand under her rear to angle her hips off the bed. Katniss wraps her legs around his waist to hold on, her breasts bouncing beneath her dress with each thrust.

His skin grows damp with perspiration, his breaths harsh and gasping. His release takes hold of him, but he staves it off until he feels her cunt clench around him, sees the pleasure wash over her, hears her moans sharpen. Then he gives himself over to it, panting as he pumps his seed into her tight passage.

Once the waves of pleasure crest and recede, Peeta lowers himself on top of her, spent. He makes to roll off of her, but she simply clings tighter, holding him to her.

Peeta no longer wears the manacles, a sign of the trust forged between him and Katniss after that night. The guards still regard him warily, but they don’t watch him as closely anymore, or stand sentinel everywhere he goes. He doesn’t take advantage of this new freedom, though, not yet. Instead he stays close to the Empress’ side. She involves him in her daily activities more, taking him around the village.

On one such walk, she takes him to a courtyard outside of a temple but stops him outside. “This is where the High Council meets.”

He studies the stone building, shading his eyes as he glances up at the crumbling steeple and mostly broken bell. “And what do they do?” he asks, turning to her.

“Convene with the gods,” she says, looking upward. Then she shrugs, her mouth twisting in a curiously wry smile. “Or so they say. They give me their input on what they think I should do for Mimidae–what the gods say–and I take it into consideration.”

“You sound skeptical,” he points out. She shrugs again.

“Mostly, they exist to provide comfort for the people,” she says. Peeta looks back up at the steeple in thought.

“Should we go in?” he asks, but Katniss puts a hand on his arm to stop him. Her face is serious, and she shakes her head.

“No. You are not one of us. Your presence in our temple would be a desecration.”

He cocks an eyebrow at that. “I thought you were a skeptic.”

She smiles wanly. “In any case, I’d rather not take any chances.”

She nods to the guards as she turns around to walk out of the courtyard, and Peeta follows her with a small smile.

In his repeated tours of the village, Peeta surreptitiously takes stock of their surroundings, taking note of any strongholds. When they reach the edges of the village, he realizes there is no wall or barricade surrounding them.

“You have no defenses,” he tells her, almost incredulous. “Anyone can storm your village at any time, and you could do little to stop them.” And of course, that’s what happened all those years ago, isn’t it?

Katniss folds her arms over her chest with a frown. “In the beginning, we had no need for them,” she reminds him caustically. “And then it was too late. Now we don’t have the manpower to erect a miles-long wall.”

He mimics her stance. “Put your people to work. They could afford to construct a section a day, if the price is their safety.” Her face retains that stubborn shade. “Empress, this is what I do. Don’t waste my talents. You could lose your village completely should the King decide there’s something worth taking here.”

“He’s not my king,” she snaps. He stares at her, and she looks away, scowling. Finally, she huffs. “Fine. I will discuss it with the High Council.”

The discussion settled, Peeta follows her back to the castle, rethinking the wisdom of his suggestion. It will take them months, years even, to build a wall, but with a barricade, it won’t be as easy for his army to get inside.

Then again, with him on the inside, that won’t really be a problem when he can just welcome them through the gates.

The High Council agrees when Katniss presents the idea of a wall to them, and she authorizes the construction. When she goes out to supervise, she brings him along for consultation. She even puts him to work hefting and stacking stones on his own section, away from the other villagers, watching him with smug satisfaction. He’s grateful for the back-breaking work, however. It’s what he does best, and he needs to recover the strength he’s lost over the weeks.

“It might be good for your people’s morale if they saw their Empress working alongside them,” he grunts as he slaps some mortar on top of a stone then secures another stone on top. He casts a glance her way, and she smiles faintly, the expression tight.

But then her brow knots together, and her face pales. Stepping away, she whirls around, hunches over and retches violently. Stunned, Peeta merely blinks as she heaves her stomach contents onto the dirt. Her guards are at her side instantly, grabbing her elbows, but she waves them off. Finally, after spitting a couple more times, she straightens.

“Are you alright?” he asks. There’s a gray pallor to her face, and with a grimace she wipes at her mouth.

“Yes. I just need to go back,” she says, valiantly trying to summon her authority with a regal lift of her chin. She indicates for two guards to stay behind to watch him; the rest follow her to the fortress.

Dutifully, Peeta resumes his work. It’s consuming, methodical work, spreading mortar, stacking stones. It doesn’t hit him till later what was so peculiar about the scene with the Empress.

When he’s finally relieved of his work and taken back to the castle, he finds Katniss in her bedchamber, combing her hair in front of her looking glass.

“You’re with child,” he says, his voice hollow. Her hand pauses, and she meets his eye in the reflection. The silence spans.

“Yes,” she replies quietly. “I think I am. I missed my last two woman’s blood.”

Peeta just nods, feeling inexplicably numb. Then he retreats to his room to sleep.

His new labor proves to be fortuitous because once Katniss determines she is, indeed, pregnant, she ceases his original labor in her bedchamber. He should be relieved. He is relieved.

He’s allowed to keep his room, and he spends less and less time with the Empress. Work on the wall takes up most of his days, and every day that passes, the possibility of her killing him as she once insinuated seems to shrink.

He’s occasionally allowed to clean himself now, in hot water poured into the Empress’ bathtub by her servants when she’s absent. He’s just finished cleaning himself, dunking his face into the water to scrub grit and dirt from his skin, when Katniss enters her bedchamber. The doors shut behind her, and he wipes the soapy water from his eyes as she approaches. He can’t stop himself from studying her abdomen, searching for any hint of the child in her womb, but if her belly has rounded at all, the buckskin material doesn’t reveal it.

“Peeta,” she greets. He reels slightly at the sound; it’s the first time she’s ever addressed him by his given name.

With a nod, he stands up in the tub to grab a drying cloth and pat his face. His eyes land on her when he scrubs at his wet hair, and he sees the blush that consumes her as her gaze sweeps down the full length of his body, lingering at his groin. It’s a curious reaction, considering everything that’s occurred between them, one that momentarily catches him off guard. He smiles but quickly wipes it from his face with the towel and continues drying off. She waits, turning toward the windows. Peeta steps out to wrap the cloth around his waist.

“Empress?” he asks lightly, wondering why she came looking for him.

She takes a deep breath and looks back at him. The blush is gone. He sees her throat constrict with a swallow, but her eyes are impassive. “I came to discuss the terms of our agreement,” she says. “Since I am now…with child, our deal is at an end.”

He freezes, foreboding trickling into his bloodstream.

“I can’t keep you here. But…” Contrition flashes in her gray eyes, and she looks away before forcing her gaze back to him. “I won’t kill you either. You were right–it wouldn’t be fair.” He narrows his eyes, and she licks her lips. “So, I’m releasing you. To return to your kingdom.”

He blinks at her. “You would just let me go?” He shakes his head in disbelief, then he laughs. “That’s ludicrous.”

Her eyes first flash with incredulity, then grow dark and stormy. She presses her lips together. “Don’t test the limits of my mercy, Captain—”

He cuts her off, leaning forward. “You let me go, and I will warn the King and Queen. I will have to tell them what happened, you know that, yes? What you’ve done, what you want to do. They will fall on you and your village with the force of our entire army, and trust me, it will not be as simple as an ambush in the middle of the night. You will not win this time.”

“What are you doing?” she snaps, slashing her hand through the air. “Do you not want to leave? Telling me this–do you want me to kill you?”

“Be smarter, Katniss—”

“Empress,” she hisses.

“Katniss,” he reiterates, angry himself. “I am a soldier. My loyalty is pledged to Panem. I cannot return without my men and not inform them what happened. More than that, I’ve sired a child with an enemy combatant.” He barks out a dry laugh at that. “Let me go now, and you will most assuredly bring death to your people.”

She glowers at him, and when she does not immediately respond, he tempers his voice. Gentler, this time. “I’m afraid you have no choice, Katniss. You have to keep me here.”

Even as he says it, he’s not entirely sure why he’s telling her. He should leave, be grateful for this ill-advised reprieve, return home and let his kingdom have her. Some voice inside him thunders, what are you doing?

But he has a plan. And he did not expect her benevolence. Or her sympathy.

She shakes her head, anger still simmering in her eyes, but a sort of helplessness settles there too. “Why warn me? Why would you not grab this opportunity to run back to your kingdom and tell them everything?”

He falters, only briefly. “Being responsible for the further slaughter of women and children…” He shakes his head. “I do not want that.”

That much is true; he wouldn’t likely be able to stop the King from retaliating, from sending in soldiers to kill her and others who get in the way. They might even raze the entire village, not seeing the potential here; Peeta does, at least.

Katniss sighs, looking back to the window, the turmoil of her thoughts on her face. He takes a step toward her, then another, and she turns her stare back on him, watching him hawkishly. He softens his face, lifting a hand to cup her cheek and tilt her face up toward his.

“And…I don’t want to leave,” he says. Strangely, it’s the easiest lie yet. Her face goes slack with disbelief. “I want to stay. With you.” He swallows thickly. “With our child.”

Her eyes widen at his declaration, and he takes the opportunity to kiss her. Sweetly. Plying her mouth open with his lips and tongue until her body loosens, and she leans into him, brushing her tongue to his with surprising eagerness. Peeta lets the cloth drop while maneuvering her to her bed.

He peels her gown and smallclothes off before he lays her back, covering her body with his own. She latches onto his arms, hiking her thighs up around his waist. Balanced on his elbows, Peeta pulls back from her mouth to gingerly lift her headpiece off. Her eyelashes flutter as he sets it aside, then he captures her lips again, plunging his tongue between them to stroke hers. She keens against his mouth, arching into him. He’s hard already, but he strokes her breasts, kisses her neck, sucks at her nipples until she’s wet and ready for him before he thrusts inside her.

Their pace is slow and unhurried, a surprisingly tender joining as he sinks his cock into her, over, and over. Katniss cries out when he nudges her over the precipice with deliberate flicks of his fingers–then again, before his own orgasm takes him under. She cradles his head to her breasts while he comes, the physical euphoria and a bewildering sense of peace stealing his presence of mind for those few minutes.

After, she keeps him in her bed, her head on his chest, hair spilling over his shoulders, as she drifts to sleep. But Peeta remains awake, staring at the ceiling.

“I want you to train me again,” Katniss tells him one night in her bedchamber. Peeta doesn’t respond right away as he rubs a wet cloth across the back of his neck, scrubbing away the grime of the day. Another afternoon spent building the wall. He worked slowly today, his thoughts preoccupied with home. When was the last time he saw his own people? Four months ago? Five?

He turns from the looking glass to look at her, eyebrow arching slightly. “Would your guards attack me this time?”

She looks chastened, even as she sharpens her dagger with a stone. “Obviously not. They know not to interfere now.”

“And are you going to fight dirty again?” he asks with a pointed glance at her dagger. She huffs, striking the blade a little harder.

“You have many advantages over me, including your size. I have to use whatever’s in my arsenal. Especially against people who would hurt me,” she says brusquely. At his eyebrow quirk, she relents, “If you’re that scared of a little dagger, I’ll leave it behind.”

Peeta thinks about it, watching her, studying her thoughtfully. Then he shakes his head. “I don’t think so.”

She looks at him in disbelief, rising to her feet. “What do you mean? You won’t train me? I wouldn’t have killed you last time–I purposely missed when I threw my dagger!”

Unimpressed with her argument, he just lets his gaze linger on her belly. Now, there’s a noticeable swell under her dress that hints to the life inside her. “I don’t think you should be fighting. Period.”

Her hand subconsciously grazes her abdomen, then she frowns. “I can still fight. I’m not an invalid.”

“I didn’t say whether you can, but whether you should. You could endanger the child if you fight, even if it’s just training.” At her deepening scowl, he adds placatingly, “It’s really quite normal. Most women take it easy when they’re pregnant, really, Katniss.”

“Maybe where you come from, that’s normal. Maybe your women are weak.” She sneers petulantly.

He lifts his eyebrows, weighing the offense with the truth. Then he shrugs. “Maybe.” Women certainly are not soldiers where he comes from and are often confined during pregnancy. “But they do have their virtues.”

She picks up her dagger to resume sharpening it. “Yes, and I’m sure you availed yourself of those ‘virtues’ often.”

He smiles, intrigued by the jealousy shading her words. “Often is debatable. But I assure you, I’ve been the least virtuous with you, Empress,” he says, moving closer to pry the dagger from her. She lifts her unamused gaze to his, her expression flat, so he cups her cheek. His thumb smoothes over her cheekbone until her lips part slightly. “You should rest. Until the baby comes.”

Her eyes widen. “Rest? And leave my people to fend for themselves?” She shakes her head in his palm. “What would you have me do, hide in my castle like a coward? No.”

“Let me help you then,” he insists, rushing to continue when she begins to protest, “I can be an ally to you, if you let me.”

“And how would you help me?” she asks, skeptical.

He licks his lips. “Let me command your army for you—” She growls, trying to pull away from him, but he wraps his arms around her, locking her in place. “This is what I’m made for, Katniss. You don’t need me here every night, not anymore. I was a captain. Put my other virtues to use.”

Something akin to hurt flickers in her eyes, even as she continues to glower at him. But she seems to be considering his words. “What would you do, exactly?”

“Take charge of building the wall. Train your warriors, on the sword, on horseback. Develop defensive and offensive strategies so you’re never overwhelmed again,” he says.

Her mouth is still twisted in a frown, but the grooves between her brow relax. “I don’t trust you,” she whispers after a protracted moment of silence. He smiles and cups her cheek again, gingerly stroking.

“Don’t you?”

Despite her reluctance, Katniss acquiesces to almost all of his suggestions. He leads the construction of the wall, enlisting more aid from the villagers. They are distrustful of him initially, but once they see him putting in the work himself, often all day, they begin to work beside him willingly. With the extra hands, they get the eastern side of the wall erected within weeks.

She doesn’t give in fully, however; she allows him to train her fighters but won’t relinquish command to him. Not yet. He’s not surprised. But he knows where all the weapons are stored, has access to the stables. It’s something, at least.

And he notices that she’s being more careful than before. She doesn’t go out on raids or scouting missions, she doesn’t participate in most of the training, and her archery lessons are more stationary, less involved. She spends more time visiting with a midwife, with the High Council, with the villagers.

Her belly grows bigger still.

He’s hoisting a stone onto the wall when the alarm sounds. A few Mimidae riders who typically scout the perimeter for potential attacks come charging through the open gate cut into the new wall. All the laborers freeze in their tasks, startled, until the women riders yell at them to get back to their homes. Confused, Peeta drops the stone in his hands and runs to the gate, dodging the crowd of retreating villagers who push and shove in their terror.

“What’s going on?” he shouts over the din, grabbing the attention of one of the riders. Cressida, he recognizes; she knows him, doesn’t actively distrust him. She reels around on her horse, face red and sweaty from her hard ride.

“Soldiers are attacking,” she pants, spurring her horse toward the direction of the fortress, but Peeta grabs the reins to stop her.

“Panem soldiers?” he asks. She nods, irritated he won’t release the reins. He’s momentarily paralyzed, panic and indecision warring inside him. Panem soldiers, his people. Coming here.

“How many?”

She shakes her head. “Too many. I don’t know. I have to alert the Empress, round up everyone who can fight—”

“Take me with you, I can fight,” he says, suddenly snapping into action. She regards him warily, but only briefly, before she lets him hoist himself up onto the horse in the saddle behind her. He holds on as they race for the fortress, then jumps down inside the courtyard before the horse even comes to a full stop.

He flies up the stairs through the open fortress doors, quickly finding Katniss conferring with her harried fighters and guards. She looks up at him, alarmed, but continues issuing orders. A guard brings her her armor and weapons, but Peeta grabs her hand.

“You can’t.”

Her eyes flare with disbelief and anger. “Don’t presume to tell me—”

“Katniss, you can’t,” he swears emphatically, then he says, “Let me go instead. Let me fight. I can–I can help. I can stop them.”

“No—”

“You can’t fight like this!” he shouts, gesturing to her belly. “You won’t be able to balance yourself on the horse, or swing a sword! You’ll get yourself killed–or you’ll get the baby killed!”

She reels, cheeks flushed indignantly, but her mouth hangs open without sound. He pushes his hair off his sweaty forehead and tries to soften his agitation. “Stay here. Let me fight. I know what to do.”

She wavers, only momentarily, before she turns away, face stony. “Enobaria, find him armor and a sword!”

He’s quickly outfitted as the other fighters take to the wall and beyond. He rushes to the stables to find a horse; there aren’t many left, but he finds a tall, sturdy steed that doesn’t fight or try to buck off his weight once he’s in the saddle.

Then he’s galloping through the village toward the wall and through the gate. His stomach drops at the sight of fighters and soldiers clashing. On horse and on foot. Women and men fall from their steeds as he dashes past them, dodging swinging swords and axes. He realizes he could be mistaken for one of the Panem soldiers in the heat of battle–a fact that hopefully works in his favor. He hunkers down in his saddle, digging his heels into the horse’s flanks as he steers the beast toward a group of Panem soldiers surrounding a woman–Cressida.

Peeta swings his blade, striking the sword arm of one man right before he brings his weapon down on Cressida’s head. He cries out, dropping his sword. Blood starts to soak through his sleeve, pouring through the cracks of his armor, and he struggles to get control of his steed while cradling his injured arm. Peeta wheels his horse around and charges another soldier, jamming the point of his sword between the shoulder joint of the man’s armor.

He can see the bewilderment and betrayal flash across their faces when they get a good look at him, but he pushes his horse on, cutting through the onslaught of men.

But he never delivers a death blow. Just cuts in strategic places, enough to disable them, enough to startle them so he can unseat them and drive their horses away. He can’t kill them. He won’t.

Arrows fly through the air, embedding themselves in horses and men’s chests. Screams, both animal and beast, rend the darkening sky. Blood soaks the ground, fallen Panem and Mimidae fighters trampled underfoot. Peeta narrowly misses an arrow to the back, but he cries out when a sword slices across his elbow, nearly taking off his forearm. He pulls hard on the reigns with his uninjured arm, the horse rearing back and nearly knocking him off.

He spins the steed around in time to dodge another blow. The furious, astonished eyes of one of his own flash at him as the man circles back. Releasing the reins, Peeta launches himself from his horse and slams into the other soldier, knocking him from the saddle.

Their bodies slam to their hard ground with a teeth-rattling thud, but Peeta manages to roll the man beneath him. Getting his feet under him, he drags the soldier upright and thrusts his sword against his exposed neck. Pain lances through his arm, blood dripping to the ground.

“Do you know who I am?” he yells to be heard over the battle din engulfing them.

“Traitor!” the man hisses, struggling, his own sword lost in the fall, but Peeta shakes him.

“Listen to me! My name is Captain Peeta Mellark, nephew to King and Queen Undersee! Do you recognize me?”

Confusion and rage war in the soldier’s expression, his eyes darting around Peeta’s face. He must recognize him, even if not personally; Peeta bears the prominent blond hair, blue eyes and pale skin inherent to the Mellark and Undersee families.

Peeta glances around quickly, seeing the waning fight around him. There weren’t as many Panem soldiers as he feared, only a couple dozen or so; more women than men stand now, and the numbers dwindle still. He shakes the soldier again. “Listen to me, soldier! Leave, go back home! Go before they kill you too, and tell the King that Captain Peeta Mellark has taken Mimidae. Tell him—” Peeta struggles for his words, adrenaline fogging his brain. His chest heaves from the exertion of the battle. “Tell him I’ve infiltrated the Mimidae village. Tell him I am taking it down from the inside. Tell him to send an army in two fortnights. Come from the west, through the mountains–they won’t be able to defend against an attack from that side. You can ambush them from there. I will get you into the fortress, and then Mimidae will be Panem’s. Go!”

Peeta shoves the soldier away. He stumbles backward, scrambling on his hands. Peeta waves his sword at him, frantic. “Go!” he shouts once more, and when the soldier climbs to his feet, he turns and runs.

Finding a nearby horse, Peeta launches himself onto its back and spins the steed around. Primed for another attack. But the fighting has abated, riderless horses fleeing and whinnying in terror, but some lope nearby, shaking out their manes. The only fighters left standing, or seated on their steeds, are women, though there are considerably less of them now, as well. Maimed bodies litter the ground, moans of pain echoing around the field.

Peeta settles his horse down, still breathing hard. His blood pumps violently, sweat soaking his clothes. When he finally registers the pain in his arm again, he winces and cups the wound to try to stem the blood flow.

He takes stock of the carnage, a heaviness settling in his chest. Finally, he jumps down from his steed and slowly stalks across the field, side stepping the bodies. When he comes to the first wounded man, wailing in agony, he kneels down beside him. Blood bubbles from his lips and seeps from an arrow embedded in his chest. His glossy eyes barely focus on Peeta’s face when he touches the man’s shoulder.

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs mournfully, then he slices his sword across his throat to put him out of his misery.

When the light fades from his eyes, Peeta stands and moves on to the next.

It’s dark when he returns to the fortress. The bodies have been cleared, the Panem soldiers taken to a pit for burning, and the Mimidae women taken to the temple for proper burial and mourning. Katniss greets him in the throne room, her face ashen as she takes in his state. His clothes and armor are soaked with the blood of others and his own, and he drops his sword and scabbard tiredly. He tries to remove his armor, but flinches when he bends his arm. She notices, her eyes immediately finding the wound. The gaping hole in his sleeve sticks to his skin with clotted blood, the cut only oozing slightly now. Her eyes harden with purpose.

“Come with me.”

In her bedchamber, she carefully cleans and stitches the wound, a tenderness in her touch that wounds him further. Then she has a bath poured for him, and she washes him, scrubbing each rivulet of blood and streak of dirt from his face and body. When she’s done, Peeta lies back against the side of the tub, exhaustion making him heavy, the warm water soothing the aches in body. But his mind and heart rage still.

Katniss kneels beside the tub, stroking her fingers through his wet hair in silence. After a while, she speaks. “Peeta.”

He wearily opens his eyes to look at her. She keeps caressing his forehead, her lips parted with unspoken words. Then, she leans forward and presses a soft kiss to his lips, his cheek bone, his brow, his temple. He doesn’t move, simply watches her when she pulls back. Her hand slides down his cheek to cup his jaw.

“This is your home. You belong here. You’re one of us now,” she whispers, and he sees her other hand settle protectively over her stomach. “We’re your family.”

He stares at her belly, not seeing the child within.

He feels nothing.

She invites him to her bed every night from then on. And between her legs. She seems more desperate for him now. But he just feels a low-simmering anger, a coldness that ignites and explodes once he’s pinned her down in bed and fucks her. Hard and mercilessly, like he used to want to before, but now…now, there’s a sense of vengeance in the way he takes her. A punishment.

And she takes it. On her hands and knees usually, her belly too round and protruding for anything else, her face pressed into the bed or jerked back as he pulls on her hair. But she likes it, gods damn her, she likes it, if the slickness of her swollen cunt, the way she clenches around his cock when she comes, means anything. And he resents her for it, pounds her harder, until he’s coming inside her, until all those negative festering feelings seep out of him.

Then he just feels empty after, and a hollowing sense of guilt when she clings to him as she sleeps.

Peeta wakes to find Katniss gone. He knows she must be out hunting–it’s the one thing she refused to give up during the last few weeks of her pregnancy. He’s relieved for her absence, and he rises to dress, with plans to work on the wall.

But she returns as he’s putting his tunic on. He stifles a sigh, meeting her small smile with little expression.

“Good morning,” she says.

He nods. “How was your hunt?” he asks, bending over to put on his boots.

“Not very fruitful. With the weather turning cold, there is less game these days.” With an acknowledging jerk of his chin, Peeta starts to walk toward the door. Katniss’ gaze follows him. “Are you going to the wall today?”

“Yes,” he says flatly, pausing when her eyes narrow slightly with displeasure. He knows she must sense it, the change in him, but he just can’t bring himself to fake it anymore, not around her.

She doesn’t say anything more, so he continues on his way out. He opens the door, but her sudden gasp stops him. Leery, he glances back at her. “What?”

But she’s cradling her belly, and suddenly she sits down on a chair. “Oh,” she says, blinking up at him. Her expression is dazed. “The baby is moving. I thought–I mean, I wasn’t sure before, but…”

He blinks at her uncomprehendingly. She gasps again, her hand sliding under the swell of her belly. “There it is again.” Then she laughs, the sound full of so much joy and disbelief, Peeta remains rooted to his spot. Her eyes shine up at him. “Do you want to feel? I think he’s actually kicking this time.”

That startles him out of his stupor. “He?” he asks dumbly. She smiles.

“I don’t know for sure, but…yes, I think it’s a boy.” Peeta just stares at her stomach. “Come. You can feel for yourself.”

He doesn’t move right away. Part of him wants to run, to keep walking out that door, out of this fortress, out of this village. He sways on his feet, indecisive. Eventually, his feet carry him to her. He carefully kneels down before her. She takes his hand and presses it to her belly. At first he feels nothing. A sickening relief swells inside him, a desperate affirmation that this isn’t real—

Then he feels it. A bump against his palm. Then another, and another. He almost jerks his hand away in surprise, but Katniss holds him firm. And she’s laughing, teary gasping laughs, as he gapes at her stomach in stunned disbelief.

He doesn’t realize he’s crying until she touches his face, and he feels the tears on his cheeks. “My gods,” he chokes out, dragging his gaze to her face. Tears glint in her eyes. Something else swells inside him, and his heart suddenly feels too big for his chest, like it’s taking up too much space in his throat. Looking at her, he feels like he’s looking at a whole new person.

“My gods,” he repeats again. “That’s my child. Katniss, that’s our child.”

Blood arcs through the air, splattering his face. He yanks his sword back, and the Panem rider crumples to the ground. Peeta spurs his horse forward. Hooves pound the dirt. His heart pounds in time.

Another swing, another thrust of his blade, another rider dead.

He charges on, soaking the ground with the blood of his enemies. He dodges arrows and swords, slamming his horse into the flank of another steed before the rider can sink a blade into one of his soldiers.

Women ride on either side of him, cutting soldiers down with masterful thrusts of their swords or whistling volleys of arrows.

Screams rend the air, all too near–but distant, too. He tries to drown them out. Still, his mind slips to Katniss, and he wonders if the faraway screams belong to her.

He cuts another soldier down. Another yet. His riders fall too, but not as many. This time the element of surprise was on their side.

And he will kill every last one of these men.

Peeta charges through the castle, startling the servants. Most of the guards remain on the battlefield, so the defenseless girls scatter as he runs through the hall, thundering up the stairs.

He throws the doors open to the Empress’ bedchamber. His labored breaths are loud in the silence. Blood and sweat sting his eyes as they search the room wildly. For her.

She’s in the bed, face ashen. Bloodied cloths surround her, and his heart expands in his throat. Her eyes widen at the sight of him. She struggles to sit up, and instantly he’s stalking toward her.

“You’re alive,” she whispers.

“So are you,” he breathes out harshly, his body nearly sagging. But he looks at the blood, and his heart trips over itself.

“She’ll be alright.”

He didn’t notice the midwife at the bedside before, and he turns his blistering blue eyes on her. She cowers slightly but tips her chin at a nearby cradle. “So is the baby.”

His heart stops then. Suddenly, he feels small and scared. His steps are less sure, but cautiously he picks up the bundle of blankets and squirming limbs. He holds the baby to his chest, peering down at the squished pink face.

“It’s a girl,” Katniss says softly. She sounds proud but uncertain, and her eyes regard him warily when he glances at her. He looks back down, breath catching in his throat when bright blue eyes slit open to peer up at him. He gingerly touches his fingers to the thick shock of black hair on her head.

“She’s perfect,” he whispers hoarsely, voice raw. Tears prick his eyes and clog his throat.

Katniss finally smiles, her exhaustion and relief apparent. Peeta carries their daughter over to her and sits down on the bed as the midwife clears away the dirtied cloths before hurrying out of the room.

“Are you hurt?” Katniss asks quietly, propped up on pillows as she surveys him, running a hand over his arm to inspect for injuries. Her voice quivers lightly.

He shakes his head, his mind already far away from the battle he just fought–and won. He can’t stop looking at the gift in his arms. “I’ve never felt better,” he murmurs, then he looks up at Katniss. The woman he loves. “You’re safe now. You both are. I will never let anyone hurt you. I swear it.”