Katniss Everdeen, you have caused a spark, wich left unattended, may cause a spark that could cause a whole rebelion
I don't know what it is with Finnick and bread, but he seems obsessed with handling it.
So that's who Finnick loves, I think. Not his string of fancy lovers in the Capitol. But a poor, mad girl back home.
Lucky thing were allies, right? -Finnick Odair
It'd be better if he were easier to hate.
Then I get it, what it means. At least, for me. District 12 only has three existing victors to choose from. Two male. One female... I am going back into the arena.
I don't want to lose the boy with the bread.
It’s the first time I’ve ever kissed a boy, which should make some sort of impression I guess, but all I can register is how unnaturally hot his lips are from the fever.
Katniss Everdeen, the girl who was on fire, you have provided a spark that, left unattended, may grow to an inferno that destroys Panem," he says.
I had to do that. At least once.
Now he's [Cinna] arranging things around my living room: Clothing, fabrics, and sketchbooks with designs he's drawn. I pick one up and examine one of the dresses I supposedly created. You know, I think I show a lot of promise," I say. Get dressed, you worthless thing.
Haymich finally drops the good-natured act. "you know who else, Katniss. You know who stepped up first." Of course I do. Gale.
My lips are just forming his name when his fingers lock around my throat.
My name is Katniss Everdeen. Why am I not dead? I should be dead.
Flight is essential, but I can't let my fear show.
Yes. I killed him. And buried her in flowers," I say. "And I sang her to sleep.
You would think after all the hours I’d spent with Gale– watching him talk and laugh and frown– that I would know all there was to know about his lips. But I hadn’t imagined how warm they would feel pressed against my own. Or how those hands [...] could entrap me… I vaguely remember my fingers, curled tightly closed, resting on his chest.
Sometimes, when I clean a kill, I feed Buttercup the entrails. He has stopped hissing at me. Entrails. No hissing. This is the closest we will ever come to love.
They can pump whatever they want into my arm but it takes more than that to keep a person going once she's lost the will to live.
This perplexing, good natured boy who can spin out lies so convincingly to be hopelessly in love with me ... and I admit it there are moments when he makes me believe it myself.
I feel like I owe him something, and I hate owing people. Maybe if I had thanked him at some point, I'd be feeling less conflicted now. I thought about it a couple of times, but the opportunity never seemed to present itself. And now it never will. Because we're going to be thrown into an arena to fight to the death. Exactly how am I supposed to work in a thank-you in there? Somehow it just won't seem sincere if I'm trying to slit his throat.
I can feel Peeta press his forehead into my temple and he asks, 'So now that you've got me, what are you going to do with me?' I turn into him. 'Put you somewhere you can't get hurt.
Why? Do you find this" - he strikes a ridiculously provocative pose - "distracting?
A verbal promise behind closed doors, even a statement written on paper-these could easily evaporate . . . .
Happy Hunger Games! And may the odds be ever in your favor.
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