Chapter Text
Prologue
Don’t cry. Don’t cry. Don’t cry.
The words beat against the inside of my skull until it’s all I can hear. It’s no longer a thought, it’s a demand that the tears stay behind my eyes. My chest expands and deflates with shallow, shaky breaths. But the tears remain hidden. I flex my fingers at my sides, trying to hide their tremble but it doesn’t work. The tremble spreads up my arms and through my whole body until I have to clench my jaw to keep my teeth from chattering.
The artificially cooled air mixes with my shame and sticks to my naked skin, coating it in a layer of something I don’t think I’ll ever be able to remove. My cheeks burn. The heat radiates outward, crawling down my neck and spreading across my chest. The obvious flush pisses me off. It feels like a betrayal, a reaction I can’t control. But who am I kidding? Any control I’ve imagined I had died with the person I used to be, the one who disappeared inside the arena.
And then there’s my traitorous cock, hard and ready, reacting without my permission. Without thought. I’m sixteen. Random words get me hard. My body doesn’t care about the guilt and resentment threatening to suffocate me or the panic clawing at the edges of my mind. It only knows what’s in front of it: the woman lying on the bed.
She’s completely exposed, every curve and contour illuminated by the soft glow of the bedside lamps. She looks perfect in that unnatural way that all Capitol citizens look perfect—not a hair out of place, no blemishes, bumps or scars. I can smell the faint scent of vanilla and roses clinging to her skin, see the subtle way her chest rises and falls with each breath she takes. She looks completely calm which only makes everything worse.
I don’t want to do this. Not when it’s my first time. Not ever.
“Mmm, I love a virgin. So shy. So eager,” the woman purrs, each syllable curling around me like smoke.
Her eyes rake over every inch of my body, lingering too long in the places where she knows I feel most vulnerable. The hunger in her eyes makes my stomach churn. I swallow back the vomit in my throat. If I’d known that this is what it meant to win the Hunger Games—this humiliation, this degradation—I would’ve let the Careers kill me in the bloodbath. If I let myself, I can still hear the clash of weapons and the screams that filled the meadow holding the cornucopia. It would’ve been quick. Brutal but clean compared to this…this slow death. At least that death would’ve been my choice. Now, I’m nothing more than a plaything. A prize for the Capitol’s amusement. A puppet they dress up and parade around before tossing me into rooms like this one, expecting me to perform.
I could refuse. I could gather whatever dignity I have left, put my clothes back on and walk out of here with my head held high. But my oldest brother and his wife just had a baby. My middle brother finally aged out of the Reaping and asked Carmina Braselton to be his bride. My father still loves running the bakery and even my mother smiles when she sees me now that I’m a victor.
Haymitch had warned me. Finnick had warned me, his sea-green eyes dull with the weight of knowledge he wished he didn’t have to share. Even Johanna Mason—brutal and unflinching Johanna—had taken me aside and spelled it out in no uncertain terms. “You’re theirs now. You can’t refuse. You’ll pay for that in blood. Not yours. You’re too valuable for that. But those you love aren’t."
The woman slinks off the bed, prowling toward me like a cat toying with its prey. "I'm going to have fun with you," she says, her bare feet sinking into the plush carpet as she closes the space between us. Her fingers trail up my arm and then across my back, the nails scraping hard enough to leave lines on my skin. I jump and she laughs, a low sound that sends a tendril of ice down my spine.
"Do you know how much you cost?” she murmurs as she circles me. “Such a high price for such a pretty thing." Her hand slides down to grab my ass hard enough that I stumble forward half a step before catching myself.
Her laughter grows louder bouncing off every surface in the room making me want to scream.
She leans closer again, her breath hot against my neck. "So pure too." She moves around to face me, her hand moving from my ass, across my stomach and up to my chest. I want to gag. I clench my teeth together instead. "Not so innocent, though…isn't that right?”
I force myself not to look at her directly, to focus on a point behind her where the canopy of the bed meets one of the four ornate posts. But she grasps my chin, jerking it forward until our eyes meet.
“I watched your games,” she continues, her voice an almost conspiratorial whisper. “The way you killed that last one…" her fingers wrap around my bicep suddenly like she can relive the moment through that touch alone. "…with your bare hands." She leans in so close her lips brush against my ear and she whispers: "It made me so wet."
Don’t cry.
She sinks to her knees and takes my cock in her hand, stroking up and down the length. My teeth press into my bottom lip to stifle the moan clawing its way up my throat. I won’t let it escape. I can’t. Letting her hear even a flicker of my desire would only make this so much worse. Because no matter how much I wish I was anywhere but here, the sensation of a hand on me that isn’t my own feels good. Too good. Her rhythm speeds up as if she can sense the war of pleasure and agony inside my body. I suck deep breaths in through my nose, desperately glancing around the room for something—anything—to distract me from the heat pooling low in my abdomen.
The room is lavish in a way that only Capitol rooms can be: walls draped in shimmering fabric; thick rugs with intricate patterns that feel too soft under my feet; furniture carved from dark, polished wood and embellished with silver inlays that catch the light from the flickering chandelier above. It’s beautiful in a horrific sort of way. Like everything else in this city, this room is nothing more than a gilded cage designed to trap you in its elegant embrace until you forget what freedom feels like.
My eyes land on a chair tucked into the corner of the room. Its floral-patterned fabric stands out in the overwhelming opulence of everything else—a sort of rebellion against uniformity. Dandelions. An odd choice for Capitol furnishings where roses reign supreme in honor of the president. A symbol of power and control. Dandelions feel…wrong here. Too wild and untamed for such a carefully curated environment. The sight of them stirs something in me, a long buried memory.
But then her lips descend on me, warm and wet, and the fragile distraction I’ve clung to shatters like glass. The moan escapes, mocking me as it echoes through the quiet room. And I hate myself for it. Hate that I’m getting any pleasure out of this at all.
My eyes drift from the chair back to the woman and I watch her lips as they slide over me, my cock disappearing and reappearing over and over again. The familiar tightening signaling that I’m about to come sends a new wave of panic coursing through my veins. I’m not ready for this and I don’t know what to do. Stupidly, absurdly, my first thought isn’t about what’s happening to me. It’s about how embarrassingly little time has passed since she started. I haven’t lasted very long at all. Humiliation floods through me burrowing into my bones where it nestles alongside the shame already at home there.
My breath comes out in rough, uneven gasps as I teeter on the edge of release. My hands hover uselessly near the woman’s head, fingers twitching with indecision. I’m not sure if I can touch her or if I should warn her. Would she care if I did?
My hand shoots out to the side, blindly grasping one of the bedposts beside me. "I—I'm…I," The words tumble from my lips as I stutter, unable to articulate my impending orgasm.
It doesn't seem to matter. She doesn’t need clarification. Her movements grow more eager and insistent. She lets out a low groan that vibrates up my length and makes my grip on the bedpost tighten painfully. I squeeze my eyes shut and try not to despise myself as the waves of pleasure crash over me, each one more intense than the last. My breathing hitches as I ride out the orgasm with gritted teeth. My hand shakes as it falls away from the bedpost, hanging limp at my side. She moans, releasing me with a soft 'pop,’ her tongue darting out to lick her lips.
She rises to her feet, looking at me with a self-satisfied smirk. “I won’t be doing that with you again,” she says, delicately wiping the corners of her mouth.
“Again?”
She laughs in my face, leaning close. "How sweetly naive,” she coos. “I have more money than I know what to do with. I'm prepared to spend the full asking price on you again and again."
She snakes around me, her fingers digging into my shoulders as she directs me towards the mattress.
"As I said,” she continues, her tone dripping with condescension as though explaining something painfully obvious, “don't expect that from me again. I only do it once and only with the virgins.”
She steps back around to face me, her finger ghosting along my jaw. “I like to have the first taste. It makes the hefty price tag worth the money."
She climbs onto the bed and stretches out languidly before twisting onto her back. She looks like a cat with her deliberate movements and a fleeting thought crosses my mind that I’m surprised she doesn’t have any whisker implants like I’ve seen on other Capitolites. With her knees bent and her legs spread, she beckons me forward with a single crook of her finger.
I freeze. I know the mechanics of what I’m supposed to do. I grew up hearing the whispered jokes of my two older brothers. Finnick and Haymitch also made sure I wasn't going into tonight completely blind. But none of the jokes or advice prepared me for the reality of this moment. My heart is pounding so hard I can see the vibration in my cheeks. I can't breathe. I glance down at myself to see that I’m still hard despite everything.
The woman notices too and lets out a throaty chuckle. “God,” she breathes, her voice tinged with amusement and something darker I don’t quite understand. Her eyes have a wicked glint as they trail over me. “I love the young ones. You can just keep going and going. But we aren’t going to need that quite yet.”
My brows furrow in confusion and she throws her head back with another bark of laughter. It makes my skin crawl.
“So pure,” she cackles between breaths. “Come.” She pats the mattress impatiently.
Releasing a slow breath, I climb up and position myself between her legs because I’m not sure where else I’m supposed to go. She reaches behind her head and pulls open the nightstand drawer. From its depths, she retrieves a long piece of black cloth. Adrenaline courses through my veins as soon as I see it. It’s a reaction that has become ingrained in my body and mind. Every inch of me trembles now. If I reach far enough back in my memories, one of my first is being bound and trapped. The mattress beneath us shakes.
If the woman notices or cares, she says nothing. Instead, she scoots closer to me until our groins almost touch. I suck in a ragged breath. With what seems like a purposeful slowness, she wraps the cloth around my head and covers my eyes.
Blindfolded.
I exhale and try to get my shaking under control. I don’t like not knowing what’s coming, but it’s much better than having my hands or feet bound. Actually, maybe being blindfolded won’t be so bad after all. I can pretend I’m somewhere else. With someone else. Someone I haven’t seen in a very long time. Someone with gray eyes.
The door to the room opens and closes. My body jolts at the sound and I lose my balance, clasping the woman’s thighs to keep from falling over. She lets out a dark giggle again, but another voice joins hers this time. Deeper, rougher, and unmistakably male.
“He’s a jumpy one,” a man says far too casually for the way my heart races.
Before I can react or process any coherent thought at all, large hands skate slowly down my arms like they are savoring the texture of my skin. Rough hands. Masculine hands. My breath snags in my throat as lips brush my shoulder, and stubble scratches against me like sandpaper.
DON’T CRY!
The bed dips under the man’s weight as he climbs onto it. The expansive mattress feels impossibly crowded now. Claustrophobic. A cold sweat forms at my temples.
A whimper slips past my lips. The pair laugh openly, mockingly. Reveling in cruel delight at my obvious discomfort. Their breathing quickens. They're feasting on this moment, gluttonous for more. Wet sounds fill the air as they kiss each other. Their hands roam over me. It’s too much. Too invasive. Too overwhelming. I can’t tell where one of them ends and the other begins. My mind screams for escape. My senses drown in them: their heat, their movements, their whispered words that blur together against the roaring in my ears.
And then…someone’s lips find mine. I don’t respond at first, still numbly kneeling on the mattress.
This is my first kiss.
It’s not something sweet or tender or special in the soft scent of spring or the glow of a starlit sky. It’s this. Another piece of my life stolen away.
Eventually, I remember Haymitch's words. Finnick's words. Johanna's warnings. And I force myself to move, to respond. I try desperately to match their rhythm. Mimic their movements. It’s mechanical and detached because that’s what survival requires now: submission and silence.
Suddenly, I’m pulled down. Another pair of lips are on mine while a mouth descends on my length again. I cry out. Whoever has me knows what they are doing. It feels good. And I don’t know if I’ve ever hated myself more.
Is the blindfold wet? I told myself not to cry.
Things start happening faster. The weight of a body on top of me, the soft skin of someone’s inner thighs straddling my hips. I feel myself enveloped in a tight, slick heat. My fingers dig into the sheets as my back arches off the bed uncontrollably. And I know. I’m no longer a virgin.
This isn't how I imagined it. How could I possibly have imagined this? I turn my head to the side. The damp material of the blindfold sticks to my cheeks, soaking up my tears.
My mind drifts. I think of those gray eyes and wonder if she’s happier now that she’s dead. Can dead people truly be happy? Perhaps death is nothingness. The thought doesn’t scare me. In fact, it’s comforting—this idea of a vast, endless expanse where pain and longing can’t reach you. My body is moved into different positions.
It’s uncomfortable. It’s painful. It’s nothing I’ve ever wanted.
I think of the dandelion chair in the corner of the room and the field of dandelions and daisies in the meadow back home. I used to sit there for hours sketching in the sun.
Then there’s only pain. Sharp and splitting, like I’m being torn in two as the man thrusts into me. My breath catches, the fabric of the pillow smothering me. I sob in earnest now, not caring if they know I’m crying. My shoulders shake with each shuddering breath.
The man’s rough hands stroke my back as he grunts platitudes meant to soothe me. The woman moans loudly in pleasure beside me, her nails raking down my arm.
When it's over, when they've finished with me, and I curl in on myself feeling more used, dirtier, and more abused than I ever thought possible, the door creaks open again. The sound is faint, but it feels like a crack of thunder in the silence that has settled over the room. I tuck my knees further into my chest. Fingers, gentle and hesitant, grasp the blindfold and carefully lift it from my eyes. The dim light stings, and I blink, my vision swimming until Finnick's troubled green eyes come into focus. They’re wide and glistening with a mixture of anguish and helplessness.
"I didn't know," he says, low and soft. His hands hover in the space between us, unsure. "I didn't know there would be two of them. I thought it would be just the woman. I would've tried...would've tried to bargain with Snow. Taken the man myself if I had to. I would've done something. Anything.”
His voice breaks on the last word. I'm so sorry, Peeta," he whispers.
I stare at him blank, empty. What can I say? What is there to say? I’m not sure I can form words right now anyway. Finnick releases a heavy sigh when I don’t respond, his shoulders slumping forward in defeat. He reaches out again, tentatively touching my arm. I flinch away from the contact.
“Let me help you,” Finnick says softly. “Let’s get out of here…get you cleaned up.”
I nod, pushing myself up and hissing through my clenched teeth. I’m sore and tired. So very tired. Finnick watches me closely, but he doesn’t try to touch me again. Instead, he hovers his hands near enough to be reassuring but far enough to respect the invisible boundary I’ve created around myself.
I dress slowly, pulling my clothes on piece by piece. The fabric feels rougher than I remember or maybe I’m the one who’s changed. My body doesn’t feel like it belongs to me anymore. It belongs to the Capitol now.
I wordlessly follow Finnick out of the room, my eyes trained on the floor beneath my feet. There’s a car waiting for us outside. It’s something sleek and elegant that screams Capitol luxury. The driver doesn’t speak as we climb inside. Finnick sits beside me, his eyes watching the streetlights as they pass by the window while his fingers move in intricate patterns in his lap as though he’s tying and untying an invisible piece of rope. I rest my head against the cool glass of the window and stare at the kaleidoscope of colors and lights from the city buildings until they spin nauseatingly in my mind and I have to shut my eyes to keep from throwing up all over the back seat.
When we arrive at the towering apartment building near the presidential palace, I move mechanically, trailing behind Finnick as he leads me inside. The lobby is all marble floors and glossy, gilded accents. It was built as a monument to wealth to impress the Capitol officials, Gamemakers, and Hunger Games Victors it houses when they are in the city. I want to tear it all down with my bare hands.
Finnick pushes the door to my assigned apartment open with a quiet sigh and gestures for me to step inside. He follows me to the bedroom, hesitating in the doorway for a moment before speaking again.
“I’ll be just outside if you need anything,” he says quietly, his expression etched with worry and a deep-seated anger that make him look far older than he is.
The door clicks shut, and I silently pull off my clothes. I look down at the heap of fabric at my feet and wonder how much trouble I would be in if I burned it. I kick the pile into the darkest corner of the room and head into the bathroom without so much as a periphery glance at myself in the mirror above the sink. I can't stand the thought of seeing myself because I know the reflection will show me someone who looks exactly the same even though I will never be the same again.
With the press of a button, the shower roars to life and scalding water streams from the showerhead above. Steam rises around me almost immediately as I adjust the temperature far hotter than anyone would ever call comfortable. I step under it anyway.
The heat should hurt. I should feel the sting as the water pelts my skin, burning away every trace of them. But instead…there’s nothing. No pain. No relief. Nothing at all.
My knees buckle and I crash onto the cool tile floor. My forehead presses against its surface as I watch the confusingly clear water circle the drain, gasping for breath, my chest squeezing my lungs like a vice. That's where I stay until Finnick finds me an hour later.