Author's Note: I can't say enough about Streetlightlove. Our friendship started when I read an author's note in her story "If This Be Treason..." and the Revolutionary War nerd/teacher in me said, 'hey, I can help her with her request for a beta.' Our first PM conversations were mostly about history and her pregnancy, as she was due in a few months with Baby!Street. And here we are, over a year later, and there isn't a day that goes by that I don't talk to her about anything and everything. (Hell, we don't even fight when the Bruins and Rangers play.) I value her opinion on my writing, and I love watching the responses she gets to hers. She posts my crap for me on her tumlbr page because I'm not on there. She makes me a better person and better writer.

So when I asked her what she wanted for her bday, she said, "Write me an Everlark version of The Town." Yikes—a lofty goal, for it's a phenomenal movie. But I would do anything for her, and this little beast of a one-shot took shape. I hope it's everything that you wanted, my dear. Thank you for being one of my best friends, my partner in crime, and my better half. You are one of a kind, and I love you.

Thanks to iLoVeRynMar and Pookieh for their patience and sage advice. And as always, thanks to Ro for the perfect banner/cover.

THG and the canon lines belong to Suzanne Collins. All liberties I've taken with the law and the protocols of banks is my own, and the fictional state of Panem allows me to do that. :)

~Monday evening~

~Katniss~

"Promise me this is the last one," I say, my eyes holding him in place from where he's pouring over a jumbled stack of floor plans and access codes and alarm details.

He emits a sardonic chuckle, shuffling the papers until he locates the one he needs. "Sure, Catnip, I promise." But his tone betrays the words, and I know it's a lie as much as he does. I ask it every time, and every time, his answer is the same.

But nothing changes.

I sigh and cross the room, sinking down next to him on the threadbare couch, my fingers pulling at the frayed corduroy, plunging down into a hole until they find purchase with the scratchy polyester filling inside the cushion. It's falling apart, just like everything else in this hellhole. Tucking my legs up underneath me, I lean my head on his shoulder, scanning the sheet of paper he is studying so intently.

It looks to be a fairly simple layout. The job can take no more than five minutes if all goes according to his calculations. But that does little to reassure me, little to ease my tormented conscience.

"There's no reason why this one won't go smoothly, just like all the others have," he murmurs, putting down the floor plan and stroking my hand gently. "Relax. It will be fine."

I close my eyes, letting his empty reassurance try to placate my nerves.

But it will never be fine; it never has been. I'm tired, so tired of living this way.

It's not living. It's surviving.

There's a big difference.

~Tuesday morning~

~Peeta~

I bite back a groan when I open the door of the Starbucks and see the line curved around the front of the shop. It never fails that on the mornings I'm running late, the rest of the world seems to be conspiring against me to make me even later. I sneak a quick peek at my watch. I can wait a just few minutes, but if the line doesn't move a little faster, I'll have to bypass my morning tea. There is far too much to do today since we were closed yesterday for Veteran's Day. The armored van will arrive for drop-off around eight, and it's already half-past seven.

The line continues to crawl at a snail's pace, but one of the baristas, a lithe, edgy blonde, catches my eye and winks at me, grabbing a cup to scrawl something across the side. I give her a grateful smile. She's a fast learner, since I haven't been a regular at this Starbucks for very long. Or she could be flirting with me, though she's far from my type. Nonetheless, I'll be sure to jam two or three singles in the tip jar when I pay for my tea.

Several minutes later, tea in hand, I stroll briskly towards the Panem National Bank on 74th Street. I've been working at the east branch for three weeks now, having been transferred from the one on the west side when I received a promotion to branch manager.

My mother was horrified when I told my parents the news. No, she could never just celebrate something good that happened for me. Instead she had to dwell on the fact that her son would be working in the Seam. 'How is that a promotion?' she had gasped, aghast, before she made me promise that I would keep my apartment on the nicer side of town and take public transportation to work each day. I had smiled tightly and resisted the urge to remind her that I am 24-years-old and can handle the big bad world just fine on my own.

Besides, I like my apartment just fine. It had been hard enough to find one that didn't require me to get a roommate. I can't see leaving it any time soon.

But it does make me a little uneasy to be working in the Seam. It's an entirely different environment than the tidy little neighborhood in town where I had been raised, where my parents made (and continue to make) a comfortable living running the bakery that has been in my family for four generations.

Crime is prevalent in the Seam, and among the nearly daily occurrence of petty thefts and drug deals and prostitution arrests, there are countless armed bank robberies, practically one a week lately.

The Seam, in fact, has the highest incidence of armed heists in the country—a less than admirable claim to hang its hat on, but some residents relate that fact with pride. There's been a bump of bank robberies in recent months too: five alone since Labor Day. The papers and news broadcasts are filled with reports and speculation. These heists are well planned and flawlessly executed, and little is known about the gang that is pulling them off, beyond some sparse details that the few witnesses have been able to provide: four robbers who favor grotesque masks and dress as nuns.

So far no bank employees have been harmed—at least not physically. Psychologically, however, I imagine there are years of therapy lying ahead for them.

It gives me pause each morning when I arrive and swipe my access card to unlock the rear door, and today is no different. I peer over my shoulder cautiously, feeling slightly ridiculous for doing so, because there are scores of banks all over Panem, and I know the odds are likely in my favor that mine will not be the next target. I hear the three clicks and the soft 'beep' that precludes the door unlatching, and I slip safely inside.

I release the breath that I'd been holding and begin to flick on the lights. I shrug my suit jacket off my shoulders, draping it across the back of my desk chair, and I set my tea and my cell phone down on the desk.

Just another day at the office.

~Katniss~

I chew on my cuticle anxiously, picking invisible threads off my black pants as I half listen to Gale. Biting my nails is a bad habit, but it's cheaper and less hazardous to my health than smoking. Gale must go through a pack or two a day. The others are partial to their bongs most of the time.

My eyes flit between Gale and his brother, Rory, then across the seat to the fourth member of our gang. Darius's tongue works at the small gap between his front teeth, and when he catches me staring at him, he waggles his eyebrows and rolls his eyes, gesturing towards Gale. I crack a small smile and look out the window, gnawing on my chapped lips. At least I'm not the only one growing weary of Gale's John Dillinger routine.

"We're here. No sight of the van. This is good. Get ready," Gale says, cutting the engine. "Catnip, wake the fuck up."

I startle, tugging at my braid, and I pull the ghoulish mask down over my face, but not before I aim a scowl at the back of Gale's head. I then grab the nun's habit from the seat beside me, tuck my braid under the hood, and adjust the wimple across my forehead. I can practically feel my skin prickling in response.

Gale continues yapping, going on about how we have a short window before the employees arrive for work, and only the manager will be here now. The bank was closed for Veteran's Day yesterday, and the armored van should have just completed a substantial drop off as a result, not to mention the vault should already be full. We've got five minutes. That's it. We can't take any chances, in case any model employees show up early.

I frown beneath my mask, glad that Gale can't see my face clearly. I have an uneasy feeling about this job. I can't explain why, though, because I've had equally bad feelings about all our previous heists, even if we have yet to encounter a single problem during any of them. Gale gleefully shows us the papers constantly; the phrases 'no trace of evidence,' 'no clues as to the identities of the perpetrators,' and 'authorities stumped' pepper the headlines. There are always just too many "what ifs' and uncertainties for my taste.

Furthermore, unlike my three partners-in-crime, I don't get off on the adrenaline. I don't bask in the exhilaration of getting away with hundreds of thousands of dollars. It's blood money. I only use what I have to in order to get by—to keep food on the table, a roof (no matter how shitty and how leaky it is) over our heads, and to keep my sister away from Cray. I've seen far too many Seam girls fall prey to the seedy pimp, and I refuse to let Prim become one of them, because Prim has enough problems without adding prostitution to the growing list. I'm doing my damndest to protect her and provide for her, though the cost of doing so continues to rise.

One day, however, I'll have enough to get the hell away from here—far, far away from here.

Gale's door opens and his voice jolts me back to reality. "You all know what to do," he barks. "Let's roll."

I suck in a breath.

It's time.

~Peeta~

As I prepare for opening, I hum quietly to myself, enjoying the temporary silence, because when the rest of my employees arrive shortly, my peace and quiet will come to an end. The satellite radio will inevitably get set to the schmaltzy easy listening station that Mags Cohen prefers, and Delly Cartwright will chew my ear off about her blind date last night, and the drive-up lanes' chimes will ping repeatedly with people wanting to cash checks and make deposits after the long weekend.

I fill the lollipop jar and add fresh Milk Bones to the dog treat jar, frowning when I see some smudges on the window that must have been left behind when I removed the little holiday closure reminder sign. Grabbing the Windex from beneath the ledge, I quickly clean the spot and nod to myself when the glass is spotless again. Years of cleaning the plate-glass windows at my parents' bakery and bracing myself for my mother's wrath if they didn't meet her approval have been ingrained in me.

Working as a branch manager is hardly what I want to be doing with my life. Far from it, actually. But my parents had scoffed at my love of art, dismissing my natural talent for it, and they had made it clear that they would not pay for me to get a degree in the fine arts. So for now, I collect a decent salary at the bank, putting that shiny business degree to good use, squirreling away most of my earnings by living simply. I continue my art on the side, sketching and painting and occasionally showing my work at little galleries in the city. I've had one or two modest sales. An agent would help; I really need to pursue that.

I'm about to count the drawers when the buzzer at the rear door crackles. A quick peek at the clock above the drive-thru window causes my brows to furrow. I hadn't realized how much time had passed while I completed my menial morning tasks. I expected the armored car to be early today, not late. It's ten after eight. Nonetheless, I close the drawer and head towards the back door.

I punch in the access code for the door, and when I swing it open, I find a pistol pointed directly at me, and a sinister tone, garbled by some kind of electronic voice changer, orders, "Do as we say and you won't get hurt."

Oh, fuck.

~Katniss~

He's younger than any of the other bank managers we've held up. As Gale presses the Glock to the blond man's temple and hastily gestures for me, Rory and Darius to enter the bank, I sneak another peek at our victim. His eyes widen in what must be fear, I'm immediately struck by how blue they are. I've never seen eyes that shade before, and I'm actually thankful for the ugly mask Gale makes us wear because it allows me to stare at the cerulean orbs little longer than would be socially acceptable.

And then I realize how preposterous a thought that is—'socially acceptable.' This isn't some casual meeting in a bar. We're robbing his bank.

"Where's the safe?" Gale demands, his voice scratchy and cold thanks to that stupid little device he insists we all use to disguise our voices.

"In the manager's office," the blond man replies calmly.

"Show me." He moves the gun to the base of the man's skull. "No fucking funny business, no silent alarms, you fucking hear me?"

The man nods, and he slowly walks towards a small room and makes a right into it, with Gale still pointing the Glock at him. I follow them, my heart thumping madly, knocking against my ribs furiously. Is this what it feels like to have a heart attack? Why am I so on edge this morning?

We approach the safe, and the blond man wipes his palms on his pants. I think I see his hand trembling when he lifts it to the keypad. He presses his thumb against the panel, but nothing happens. Grimacing, he rubs his hand on his pants again and tries once more.

"What the fuck is wrong? Open the fucking safe! Mockingjay, the time…"

I jump when I hear Gale say my code name, and I consult my watch, pushing my device before announcing, "Two minutes, eight seconds." I don't know that I'll ever get used to the sound of my voice when it comes out of the little black box—it's a stranger's voice. It's easier for me to think of it that way, anyhow.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck!" Gale yells. "C'mon Pretty Boy, what the fuck is the matter with you?"

"It's a fingerprint sensor. It's unique to my print, but sometimes, ah, sweat can interfere with it."

I gape at the man. So he is nervous. He covers it well. He's certainly acting calmer than Gale is. I can't recall the last time I've seen our fearless leader so frazzled.

Gale paces, waving his gun wildly. "Well, fucking figure something out. We don't have much time."

"If I try it a third time," the man begins in that same steady cadence, "it will alert the central office, and I'm certain that you don't want that."

"We emptied the drawers. I'll be waiting in the van," Rory's electronically altered voice announces, and he waves a large satchel as he darts past us. "Peacekeeper is watching the front entrance," he adds, invoking Darius's code name.

"Mockingjay, time check!" Gale snarls at me.

"Two minutes, forty-eight seconds," I reply, my eyes trained on the blond man. He closes his eyes briefly, and I'm drawn to the curl of his golden eyelashes. I've never seen lashes as long as his, at least not real ones, and definitely never on a man. How do they not get all tangled up when he blinks?

Gale cocks the pistol and prods it against the man's temple with more force. I see the man wince, and a sharp pain seizes my chest, so I take a shallow breath and blow it out slowly.

"You need to open that fucking safe now," Gale says lowly, and the abrupt change in his tone chills my blood.

This is not going according to plan.

~Peeta~

If my palms would stop sweating, I could give the keypad one last try.

If I could get to my desk, I could trip the silent alarm and have Panem PD here in eight minutes—though I doubt I have that long, especially not with the one robber constantly checking his watch and reporting the time.

If I didn't have a gun pressed to my head, I could do a lot of things.

Fear sluices through my veins, and my heart hammers in my chest. I can sense the leader—at least I presume the man who holds the Glock to my temple is their leader—is growing increasingly agitated. And I can't assume that just because this gang hasn't harmed anyone in their previous heists that things won't escalate if I don't give them what they want.

The pressure on my temple increases, and I swallow the cannonball that has lodged itself in my esophagus in the last three minutes "You've got two minutes to open this fucking safe," the strange robotic voice snarls.

"I told you," I try to keep my voice from shaking in spite of the tremors quaking through me, "if I try the keypad one more time, and it doesn't work, that will automatically contact the bank's headquarters of a potential security breach."

"Well, how else do you open the goddamn thing?"

I hesitate. "There's a code that can override the fingerprint panel—"

"Then fucking do it!" the leader yells, and I wince in pain when the gun is jammed against my skull harder.

"But," I continue, cutting my eyes to the other robber, who bounces back and forth on the balls of his feet, "that code has to come from the central office too."

"Fucking hell! Goddamn security systems." He finally lowers the pistol and starts to pace angrily, muttering to himself.

I suck in a greedy breath, feeling the oxygen inflate my lungs, but my heart continues to race and my pulse continues to gallop in my veins, and I say a quick prayer that the armored van will finally show up and see that something is awry.

The leader whirls about. "Mockingjay, your gun." The other robber vacillates, and then leader is in his face. "Get your fucking gun out and help me! We're taking him with us."

The second one falters again. "What?"

I freeze at the voice, which is not disguised. It's their first obvious mistake. The voice is soft and raspy, but it's definitely female.

"Fucking hell, Catnip, your voice!"

"Well, you just forgot to use my code name, dumbass!" she snaps back, and I gape at the two bickering thieves. The leader lets out another vicious growl and then levels the gun right between my eyes.

"Let's go, Pretty Boy." He motions towards the rear of the bank. "You'll make this a lot easier on yourself if you cooperate."

I nod numbly, and I feel a hand squeeze his elbow. When I look to his right, I see the female robber is now at my side, holding me by the arm.

"Mockingjay, I told you to use your fucking gun."

"I don't need my gun," she says softly. "He's not going to resist, right?"

In spite of the mask, I sense that she is looking directly at me, and there is something about her voice that assuages me, as ludicrous as that sounds. The woman is about to take me hostage, and I'm admiring the dulcet tone of her voice? What the fuck is wrong with me?

"Right?" she asks again, more firmly this time, and she grips my elbow a little tighter.

"Right," I echo.

~Katniss~

"Peacekeeper, we're done!" Gale shouts, and within seconds, Darius rejoins us. "Change of plans. This one is coming with us."

Darius remembers to use his voice synthesizer, though his shock is apparent. "What? What the fuck?"

"I'll explain in the van. Let's move."

I lean closer to the blond man and whisper, "We won't hurt you. I promise."

It's a foolish promise for me to make, really, because there's no telling what Gale intends to do with the man once we're back to our hideout. We've never had a heist go off without a hitch before, and Gale's temper has yet to be thoroughly tested, not in the years we were pulling small inside jobs, and not since we made the leap to bank robberies.

Still, I don't think Gale has what it takes to be a killer.

I let my steps fall in rhythm with the blond man's as I urge him to follow Gale and Darius to the bank's rear door. The man hesitates. "I need my security card to lock the door behind us."

"Fuck your security card. Shut the damn door, Peacekeeper," Gale snaps.

As Darius pulls the door shut, the blond man coughs quietly. "If the door isn't properly locked within sixty seconds of closing, an alarm is tripped."

"We'll be gone by then if you stop stalling. Move your ass," Gale snaps.

I give the man a sympathetic glance, but it's stupid because he can't see my face, which is probably a good thing considering the heat I feel creeping up my neck.

"What the fuck, man?" Rory sputters when I open the van door and prod the man to climb in.

"Change of plans," Gale mutters again as he slides into the passenger seat. "Drive. Get us the fuck out of here." He begins to speak to his brother in hushed tones, neither one using their voice devices, though the masks that remain in place do muffle things a bit. Rory guns the engine and veers the van into oncoming traffic.

I keep my hand wrapped around the blond man's arm as he awkwardly secures the center seat belt across his lap. It's a simple action, such an instinctive one, that he's thinking about his safety at a time like this, and I look at my own restraint, fumbling to adjust it with one hand. The man reaches across me and grabs my belt with his free hand, his fingers brushing mine as he fastens it into the slot between them. I catch a faint whiff of cinnamon with his body angled across mine.

His small act of kindness causes me to stammer out my 'thank you,' and inadvertently I clutch his arm tighter.

I feel Gale's eyes on me in the rearview mirror. The mask hides the steely grey irises from clear view, but I can picture them perfectly: icy, accusatory, and indignant. Then he orders Darius, "Put your gun on him. She's gone fucking soft on us this morning."

"Fuck you," I spit. Now the heat spreads to my cheeks, and my free hand furls in aggravation. But then I see Darius's Glock raise and jab into the blond man's right side, and our hostage inches towards me.

With my disguise still in place, I can again study the man at our close proximity without being obvious about it. Tiny beads of sweat stipple his temple and his brows, which are only a shade or two darker than his wheat-colored hair. His lips twitch, and a small vein just below his left temple pulses imperceptibly. A pang of sympathy seizes me, seeing these visible signs of his fear.

He's incredibly handsome. Easily one of the most attractive men I've ever seen. It seems like he should be modeling for GQ or something, not managing a bank in the seedy part of Panem.

I look down to his left hand. No wedding band.

Of course, that doesn't mean he doesn't have someone who cares about him, someone who will be missing him as the hours pass and there is no word from him. A fiancé? A girlfriend? Children? He looks relatively young, but in this town, there are scores of parents who still aren't old enough to drink. Some girls have two or three babies by the time they're 21.

But I'm being naïve. There's no way this man is Seam.

His clothes definitely indicate that he isn't like the rest of us in this van. His pinstriped shirt looks crisp and new, and his dress slacks appear freshly pressed. His tie might be real silk, and the blue accents in it complement his hypnotic eyes perfectly. He's not wearing a suit jacket, though I vaguely recall seeing something draped over his desk chair.

At the very least, then, his coworkers will notice his absence when they arrive. And there's a better chance, if the blond man was telling the truth about the rear door alarm, that the police are already en route to the bank.

I wonder if Panem County uses orange for its prison jumpsuits. It's never been my color, and that very bad feeling I had this morning is rapidly snowballing into an altogether hopeless one.

~Peeta~

I grit my teeth as the gun jams into my rib cage when the van hits a pothole— at least all those years of dealing with my mother and her rolling pin have been good for something. I'm thankful that none of the robbers can hear the frantic beating of my heart or the blood thundering in my ears. It feels like there's magma oozing through my veins, and heat blooms across my chest, making my skin feel too tight. Sweat slithers down my temples and soaks my shirt.

The robber to my left—the woman—shifts when we bounce over another dip in the road, and her fingers dig into my forearm. She wears gloves, as do the other three, and the leather is worn and faded, nearly rubbed down to the cloth in places. I hear her rapid breathing, as well as the drumming of her fingertips of her other hand on the windowsill.

In spite of my terror, I'm the tiniest bit intrigued by the fact that one of my captors is female. What kind of girl turns to this lifestyle, robbing banks and taking hostages?

But it seems that she may not entirely comfortable with her illegal line of work. Her reluctance to train her weapon on me seems to suggest so, as does her labored breaths and her constant fidgeting. Or is she new to this?

One thing is for certain: I want to hear her voice again. It could only be on account of the circumstances, but there was just something about it that reached down into my too-tight chest and offered me the tiniest thread of comfort.

The van slows at a traffic light, and the leader of the gang leans down, and I hold my breath when he straightens back up in the passenger seat and tosses something over his shoulder.

"One of you, blindfold him."

The black strip of fabric lands across my lap, and the woman and the one the leader called Peacekeeper turn and stare at each other. I try to remember what the leader called her when he slipped. It didn't sound like a real name either, though. Some kind of pet nickname? A term of endearment?

But her code name was something bird-related. Mockingbird? Jaybird?

"I've got the gun on him. You do it," the Peacekeeper says to her.

"I'm holding him," she replies, her tone icy.

The Peacekeeper scoffs, "And you sure as shit don't need to be doing that when I've got a fucking gun on him. You can let go."

The leader leans over the front seat. "Blindfold him, Mockingjay. Now."

Mockingjay. Unusual.

She grumbles a string of expletives, and I feel my arm release from her grasp. She tugs off her gloves with her teeth, tossing them to the floor, and she reaches into my lap to grab the bandanna or whatever it is. Her fingers come dangerously close to my groin when she retrieves it.

"Sorry." The apology is so quiet, barely audible, but as before, she does not use her device. She stretches out the cloth and wraps it around my head, my vision going black immediately. Her nails graze my scalp as she fumbles to knot the blindfold. When her hand accidentally brushes the nape of my neck, a frisson skitters down my spine, and I don't think it's wholly out of fear.

The darkness is disorienting, especially once the van starts to make turn after turn. They're probably taking me to some kind of hideout or safe house. But being blindfolded actually gives me a ray of hope, because if they were planning to just kill me when they reach their destination, why would they care if I can see where we are going?

I guess only about five minutes have passed since we left the bank. I was telling the truth about the vault code, but the story of the rear door had been pure fabrication. (I've always been decent at thinking on my feet, and I've been told I'm good with words.) But by now the armored van has to have arrived, and I can picture the driver ringing the buzzer impatiently, especially if it happens to be that burly dude…Cato, I think is his name. Would he call the authorities? I'm unsure what protocol the drivers follow if they are not received at arrival. It never happened at my old branch, and it has yet to happen at the new one.

What I do know for certain that when my coworkers start to filter in, someone will notice the emptied drawers, and then the police will be contacted for sure. My jacket and phone are still at my desk. A slight ripple of anxiety roils through my stomach at the prospect that I could emerge as a suspect, if the police speculate it to be an inside job. Really, no one at the branch knows me that well after only a few weeks, though any of my former colleagues at the old branch in town can vouch for my character, my work ethic, and my honesty.

The van lurches to a halt, and I hear the engine sputter and cease. One door opens, then another, and the gun prods my rib cage before my right arm is seized roughly. I'm dragged across the seat and yanked to my feet, and then another much stronger hand clamps around my left bicep, and I feel cold metal just below my jaw.

"Walk," a gruff voice commands. It seems I'm now in the clutches of the leader.

I hear the shuddering rattle of a garage door rising, and footsteps, and then my feet shuffle forward and I'm hauled up some steps. A door slams, and there's some rustling and whispering.

"Get the fucking cuffs," the leader orders.

Hesitation, and then a voice—not the woman and not the Peacekeeper—answers, "They're in the van. We've never had to use the emergency—"

"Go get them!" The fingers gripping my arm clamp around it more fiercely, and the pistol under my chin jabs upward, jerking my head back and sending a hot spear of pain ratcheting down my spine. Fuck, that hurt. Gingerly, I move my neck from side to side, but the leader drags me several yards and then pivots us around a corner, shoving me over a threshold.

When I regain my balance, I gather my bearings and ask calmly, "What are you going to do with me?"

Silence.

I blow out a slow breath. "You don't have to do this," I try again.

"Shut the fuck up," the leader growls.

More footsteps, and a floorboard creaks, and I hear the third voice mutter, "Here," and then the footfalls retreat. Something metal clinks, and I'm shoved forward, landing on what can only be a bed, and then my arms are wrenched above my head. Obscenities spew from the leader's mouth.

"Fucking cooperate," he snarls. I keep quiet, biting my bottom lip to staunch the pain when what can only be handcuffs close around both wrists and hold me in place. But he's crisscrossed my hands and bound me in such a way that I can't lower my arms. Not a fraction of an inch. The clanking on what has to be an iron headboard mocks me.

I harbor a slight hope that the blindfold will lift, but it doesn't, and instead, I feel hands roughly hold my jaw in place, and something smothers my nose and mouth. An odd aroma—not foul, and somewhat sweet—floods my nostrils.

Fuck. They're knocking me out. Don't breathe. Don't breathe.

But I have to inhale—otherwise I'll pass out anyway. As I draw a breath, instinctively, my eyes start to slip closed.

And that's the last thing I remember.

~Katniss~

I tug another piece of skin between my teeth and savor the harsh sting when it tears away from my lip. My scalp itches from the stupid nun's habit, though our disguises are off now, and my stomach continues to pitch and roll. I can't stop thinking about the guy chained to the bed in the spare room. This fucked up situation just gets worse if kidnapping is thrown into the fray. It adds at least twenty years to the charges if (when?) we're caught. I tuck my knees under my chin and wrap my arms around my legs, watching Gale pace across the carpet.

"Gale, man, chill," Darius mumbles around a mouthful of oatmeal that he heated up in the small kitchen. He holds the bowl out to me, but I shake my head vehemently and resume gnawing on my lip. It's not like me to turn down food, and Darius knows it. He cocks an eyebrow at me. I shake my head again and motion towards Gale. His erratic behavior has effectively killed my appetite.

"Why did we bring him back here?" Rory asks. "Why didn't you just tie him up in his office and be done with him?"

"Cause he panicked," Darius replies, earning a vicious glare from Gale.

"Because, shithead," Gale scowls, more at Darius than at his brother, "we don't leave jobs unfinished. We need him. Now shut the fuck up and let me think."

Thinking on his feet is not one of Gale's strengths. He's impulsive, even more so than me, and it's why he plans our missions meticulously, down to every last punctilious detail.

But he is bright, brighter than most give him credit for, since he dropped out at sixteen. I'm not stupid either, and I consider it a major accomplishment that I managed to finish high school. With different circumstances, I know my grades would have been good enough to get into a decent college.

Just another pipe dream that was snuffed out before I could even harbor hope for it. Hope dies a swift death in the Seam.

Gale finally stops pacing. "We're going to go back to that bank and finish what we started."

"What the fuck!" Rory exclaims. "That's insane, Gale! We got a shitload of money from the drawers. There's at least ten or twenty grand in those bags."

"That's child's play. This was supposed to be a huge haul. I'm not giving up on this one."

I swallow down the bile rising in my throat as Gale begins to detail how he plans to use our hostage to go back to the 74th Street branch after it closes on Saturday afternoon. When he finishes, I look to Rory and Darius, and being that neither of them is asking the obvious, I cough and ask him why not sooner. Gale ignores me, offering no explanation.

"It's Tuesday," I continue. "So you want to keep him here for five days?"

Gale shrugs. "I'm sure he'd rather be kept here alive for a while than have me put a bullet between his eyes now, yeah, Catnip?"

My blood runs cold, and I think about those bright blue eyes. The thought of those eyes closing permanently…his young life ending so prematurely…my skin prickles with goose bumps, and I stutter, "G-Gale, you wouldn't…"

"Why the fuck would you care, Catnip? He's just some merchant Townie. You don't know him."

"He's someone's son, maybe someone's boyfriend, or fiancé…someone will miss him," I say quietly. "Someone needs him."

"Did you get a good look at him? There's no black under his fingernails, no battle scars on his face. He hasn't had to struggle to get by. Did you see the watch on his wrist? That's not some Walmart shit. It probably costs more than you make in a week at the Stop-N-Shop."

I press my lips together tightly, not because I agree with Gale that the blond man's more privileged background justifies him as collateral damage, but because I know he's right about the other stuff.

Gale pulls his cigarettes from the pocket of his work shirt and jams one between his lips, fumbling for his lighter in his jeans. After he takes a slow drag off it, he exhales. "Someone is gonna have to stay here at all hours and keep a fucking eye on him. Most of this neighborhood is probably too strung out or indifferent to care if he yells, but we take no chances. That chloroform only lasts so long. I don't give a fuck if you three rotate in shifts or whatever, but 24 hours a day, he's guarded. Got it?"

"What about you?" Darius asks.

I narrow my eyes before rolling them disdainfully. "He's got better things to do. Namely Madge Undersee."

"Fuck off, Katniss," Gale snaps, and from the harsh way he says my name—my real name—I know that I stepped over the line.

But I don't care. I don't like the mayor's snooty daughter, and I don't think much of her for cheating on her fiancé with Gale.

Sure, it's a little hypocritical of me to criticize Madge's morals when I've been holding up banks and stealing, but mine is a choice of survival. Madge fucks Gale for the simple thrill of sleeping with a Seam guy, or perhaps to see how long she can get away with it. Plus, it's even more hypocritical of Gale for all the hatred he spouts about merchants and Townies that he spends most of his nights clandestinely sleeping with one.

If I didn't I think Madge's fiancé, Seneca Crane, was an immoral, pompous asshole I'd probably have ratted the bitch out by now. All it would take is one phone call with the aid of my trusty voice changer. It always gives me a secret thrill to think about using that stupid little box for another purpose.

Gale says Seneca doesn't really give a shit about Madge. Their engagement is a political arrangement, since the aspiring state senator has a penchant for kinky sex and nose candy. Madge gives him a pleasing public image to run his campaign on. So I question whether the man would actually care that his fiancé spends so many of her nights in a criminal's bed.

But as I think about having to stay around the safe house for a while, it actually sounds kind of nice, not to having to restock shelves and clean up spills and pretend to smile as I ring up groceries. Not having to answer to that hard ass manager, Coin. Not having to wake up before dawn or stay past midnight, given whichever hellish shift I'm on. Almost like a mini-vacation, or what I imagine a vacation must be like, because I've never left the Seam a day in my life.

"I'll do it," I blurt out, swinging my feet back down to the floor, standing and facing Gale full on. He fixes those stony grey eyes—the ones I also see anytime I look in the mirror—on me and stares me down for a few tense seconds.

"The whole five days?" Gale says doubtfully. "What about work?"

"I'll tell them I have the stomach flu."

"Whatever you say, Catnip," he laughs, sucking on his cigarette again. He blows the smoke over his shoulder and smirks at me.

"But Prim stays with you while I'm here," I implore, plucking the smoldering cigarette from his mouth and stubbing it out in a dented ashtray that sits on the old television. "And you'd better be sure he—" I jerk my head toward Rory, who twirls his pistol around on his index finger, "doesn't let her relapse while I'm gone. I'm counting on you, Gale." It's unlikely, cause Rory was as pissed as I was to find Prim was using again last summer, but he likes his weed almost as much as he loves my baby sister, and he does stupid shit when he's high.

Gale's eyes soften, and he reaches out to tuck a strand of my hair behind her ear. "Haven't I've always looked out for you—both of you? You know I'll watch over her, Catnip. That's a promise."

Darius agrees to stay with the unconscious blond man until I can run back to my apartment and gather some clothes and toiletries and some basic groceries to live at the safe house for the next few days. Gale adds that the place could stand to be cleaned up a little while I'm there, and I don't think he's joking—though it is humorous that he thinks the dump can be improved. He tells me he'll be in and out to check on things, and he pulls out his keys. Our heist van is parked in the dilapidated shed behind the house (where Gale also stashes our money) and we all have our own crappy cars in the driveway, right where we left them when we met just before six that morning.

"Say hi to Madge for me," I call over my shoulder, and Gale shoots me a poisonous glare and extends his middle finger at me.

I laugh the entire way to my rusted old Civic, my boots crunching on the gravel as I go.

~Peeta~

My first thought when I try to open my eyes is that I've gone blind.

My second thought is how my tongue feels like sandpaper and about five times too big for my mouth.

And as I slowly regain consciousness and attempt to scratch at my twitching nose, my wrists burn when I move, and both arms are like lengths of kindling. My entire upper body feels as if it's on fire, my eyelids are lead when I finally get them to raise, though I remain in blackness.

I work my jaw, opening and closing my mouth several times, desperately trying to generate some saliva to quench the dryness in it. My throat burns when I swallow. I'd kill for a glass of water.

With the blindfold still in place, I have no way of knowing how much time has passed…or how long I've been passed out. It could be night by now. It could be Thursday, for all I know.

But my ears prick when I hear something. It's soft at first, but the more I strain to listen, the better attuned my hearing becomes.

It's singing—she's singing.

The voice that I got a tiny taste of earlier becomes clearer and louder. The song is familiar, but in my woozy state, I can't place it immediately. I think it's an old song—classic rock, maybe? Something about giving a devil its due and burning…

Whatever it is, I've never heard anything so beautiful. It sounds so clichéd, but for a split second, I actually start to consider that I never regained consciousness, and I'm dead, and there's an angel welcoming me to the pearly gates.

But the searing pain at my wrists when I shift my weight on the bed reminds me that this is real, that I'm a hostage of this gang, and apparently, at least the woman is still here with me.

The singing fades, and I frown, immediately missing the warmth of her voice.

I wonder what she looks like. I'd love to see her face. Even if I weren't blindfolded, I figure that she'd never allow it, that she'll be forced to keep her identity hidden, lest I be able to identify her, or any of her gang for that matter. But she has to be beautiful with a voice like that.

What the fuck are you thinking? It shouldn't matter. She's a criminal. She's holding you hostage.

I sigh, and a pronounced tickle in my throat causes me to cough loudly. It's a harsh sound, given the desert that my mouth has become.

"You're awake."

Her voice startles me, and I jerk my body slightly, immediately regretting it. I groan. "I-I…" My voice is foreign, raspy and raw, so I swallow past the heat in my throat and start again. "I didn't hear you coming."

She laughs quietly. "I've been told I move pretty stealthily."

"Guess that's an asset in your line of work."

She's silent for a moment. "Are you in pain?" she asks gently.

"Not really." It's not entirely true, but if I don't move, nothing really hurts. Most of my discomfort can be traced to the rag that knocked me out, and if I get some water in me, my throat will be soothed and my mouth won't taste like cotton.

"Hold still." I feel the bed sink down, and something cold touches my lips. Her finger tilts my chin back just slightly, and she murmurs, "Drink."

I must down half the bottle before she pulls it back and asks, "More?"

"No, that was good, thank you." I don't want to think about how I'm eventually going to piss. The tea I drank earlier still sits in my bladder, and if I dwell on it, I know the urge will come on strong. "How long have I been out?"

"It's almost five o'clock." She pauses. "Are you hungry?"

I'm not, really, but I could stand to eat something, I know, so I nod.

The bed shifts again, and I feel her weight leave it, though it doesn't feel like a substantial change. Like most Seam girls, she's probably thin.

While there are about a thousand things that I want to ask her, not the least of which is to unlock the cuffs or take off my blindfold, what I ultimately call out is, "Why are you doing this?"

She doesn't answer immediately. But her throat clears, and then she replies, "I volunteered. Someone had to stay with you, and—"

"That's not what I mean," I correct, though I suppose I should be grateful that she's the one who offered to stay here with me, and not one of the men. "Why do you rob banks?"

There's an even longer silence this time. Her voice has an edge to it when she finally answers me. "I'll get something for you to eat in a little while. In the meantime don't call out or yell. I really don't want to have to put a gag in your mouth."

I can barely make out her footsteps retreating.

At least I'm left conscious this time.

~Katniss~

As I exit the bedroom, I pad into the bathroom and tug the rubber gloves back on. Then I pick up the sponge to quietly resume the cleaning that I temporarily abandoned when I heard him cough. I start to sing again as I scrub at the grimy walls of the shower. I have no idea the last time it was used.

None of us have ever really used our safe house as a residence before. It belonged to Gale and Rory's grandmother, and when she died a few years ago, it was in such disrepair that their mother figured it was futile to try to sell it, and she simply rented it out to a revolving door of undesirable tenants. The last one OD-ed in July, and she's had no takers since then. Until she does, it's ours.

It's one of our rules that no one but the four of us steps foot inside—otherwise I suspect that Darius would be using it as a fuck shack for his revolving door of trashy girls. Gale would never dream of bringing his precious Madge Undersee here, nor would Rory bring my sister here, even if I allowed it. And for all his faults, Rory is at least faithful to Prim.

Rory all but lives with her and me, in my apartment. She's a grown woman, so it's not like I can stop her from sleeping with her boyfriend, and I'd rather know where they are. So as long as she makes him wrap it up, I just pretend I don't know what they do at night when her door closes. (I learned, thanks to a scary three weeks last summer, that putting Prim on birth control wasn't enough alone. Apparently any number of drugs can interfere with the Pill's effectiveness, and the two false positives before the clinic doctor assured us she was not pregnant were enough for me to convince her to amp up her contraceptive usage.) I've taken to sleeping with headphones on, since the walls are like tissue paper.

Once the shower looks passable and I've scoured at the grout until my arm burns with the efforts of my labor, I yank at the faucet and the showerhead sputters to life. I wrinkle my nose as the rusty water plinks down until it runs for several minutes, though it's ice cold, and eventually the spray becomes clearer. Satisfied, I smack the nozzle and the water ceases. It would be good enough, provided the hot water heater kicks in too.

I shove the generic tile cleaner back under the sink, and on my way out of the bathroom, I glance at the bag of clothes that sits on the closed toilet seat. For all I know, he won't even want them. But I'll make the offer nonetheless, perhaps after I feed him later. Gale failed to consider that chaining a hostage to a bed leaves the man completely dependent on me for simple things, like the water I gave him just now, and the food I'll have to give him to sustain him while he's trapped here.

I decide to chance another peek into the small bedroom where the blond man is, and I lean against the doorframe, my arms folded across my chest, as I stare at him. It can't be comfortable the way Gale chained him to the headboard, his arms raised above his head like a pretzel. His dress shirt hides his physique from my prying eyes, but if he is in great shape, as I suspect he is, it will be taxing on his muscles sooner than later, being more weight to bear.

My phone buzzes in my pocket, and I flip open the ancient thing, retrieving the text message. Gale and Darius and Rory all got themselves fancy iPhones after an earlier heist, but I balked at one. Only the necessities, I remind myself constantly.

4:54 p.m. GALE: looks like we r the lead story on the 5pm news

Frowning, I type back a quick and insincere 'cool,' but my less than enthusiastic reply will be lost in translation. Still, I am a tiny bit curious as to the details that will be reported. Not about our crime, but about our hostage—like his name, perhaps.

I spin on my heel and move quickly through the small kitchen to the front room, and I click on the television. The familiar logo of WCAP-Panem NewsChannel 12, flashes across the screen, immediately followed by the beaming face of Effie Trinket. As always, her blonde hair is perfectly coiffed, her makeup a bit much, and her teeth gleaming white as she welcomes the viewers and dramatically announces that there is a new twist in the brazen bank robberies that have been occurring all over the Seam in recent weeks.

I hold my breath when she throws the feed to another perky blonde reporter, wearing an expensive looking trench coat.

"Thank you, Effie," the reporter says. Apparently, her name is Glimmer, and like her stupid fucking name, she beams, her toothy grin completely inappropriate for the severity of the story, but that's what happens with these journalists. They don't bat a false eyelash at the gritty news they report on. They can hold the indignities and tragedies and horrors of the real world at arm's length, like a hologram that will fade as soon as the camera does.

"…safe was not opened, but something else makes this robbery different from the other recent ones is that this time, there appears to be a hostage involved. The bank's manager, 24-year-old Peeta Mellark, is missing, and it is presumed that he…"

I don't hear the rest of what the vapid blonde says.

Peeta. His name is Peeta. And he's my age.

He's my age. That piece of information hits me hard.

His life could not be on a more different path than mine is.

This Peeta has clearly made the most of whatever opportunities have been provided to him. He probably has a happily married mother and father who nurtured him as a child, and went to his football games (or soccer or baseball or whatever athletic shit he did, cause he's got that 'aw shucks' all-American-boy look to him), and saved up so that he could go to college and make something of himself.

His father didn't die in a car wreck when a drunk plowed into him on the night before his 40th birthday. And his mother didn't turn to booze and pills to cope until even that didn't numb the pain and she ended it all with one of her dead husband's hunting rifles. And his little sister—if he has one—didn't nearly die in a grease fire trying to cook herself dinner one night when her big sister was at the only school dance she ever went to, trying to feel like a normal teenager for one night. One lousy night.

Nope. Not this guy. He's already bank manager at his young age, probably making a nice salary and living in an apartment (or maybe a nice little townhouse with a yard) that doesn't have cockroaches, and taking his pretty girlfriend out to dinner, then making love to her on silk sheets at night. Unconsciously, my thighs clench together at the thought of him naked.

And I remember the bag of clothes again.

Hastily, I rush into the kitchen and make him a turkey sandwich, giving me an excuse to go back into his room. I grab another bottle of water on the way.

He's murmuring quietly to himself, and I think he's saying names.

Lincoln…Johnson...Grant…

He's naming the presidents. God he must be really bored.

"Peeta?" I say, and he jolts. "Peeta," I say again, the bed sagging as I sit down, "I brought you something to eat."

"How do you know my name?" he asks cautiously.

"I heard it on the news. Open your mouth again." When he does, I hold the sandwich up, letting the bread bump his teeth, and he instinctively moves to bite down and break off a chunk.

"Thank you," he mumbles around the first mouthful, finishing the sandwich in several quick gulps, and I offer him more water. He shakes his head, and he grimaces.

"What's wrong?" I ignore the thought that ricochets through my head that he's still really good looking even when his face is all distorted in pain.

"I, uh, have to use the bathroom."

"Oh," I say. "Oh." Shit. Yeah, you really thought this through, Gale. Of course Peeta (it feels a little strange to get to use his name now, like now that I know his name, it makes him even more real to me) is going to have to pee while he's trapped here with me for the next five days.

And I realize all the little things that I've been anticipating—offering him a pair of sweats to be more comfortable, getting the shower ready so he can clean off once or twice—are equally foolish and furthermore, impossible, if I can't undo his cuffs.

Cursing quietly to myself, I grab my jacket and stalk to the van, opening the door and rummaging around in the emergency box, where the cuffs are usually kept. To my dismay, there's no key. Not that I can see. I comb through the contents several times.

What did Gale do with the fucking key?

My frustration rises as I stomp back to the house and shed my coat. I pad back into the bedroom, sighing loudly as I try to think.

Peeta is quiet, but he licks his lips, his tongue darting out to swathe along the bottom swell. I have to look away, because there's something so sexy about the way he does it, and it's completely inappropriate for me to have such a thought.

Goddammit, why does he have to be so attractive? What is it about him that's drawing me to him?

I've become somewhat of an expert at keeping my distance from men. It would have been so easy to be like the other Seam girls, to part my lips and spread my legs to get ahead. But my tits were never going to be big enough to be profitable as a stripper (nor can I dance for shit) and I swore I would never, ever whore myself out to a guy like Cray.

But it's more than that. Sex is a commodity in the Seam, and so I promised myself when I was sixteen that when I slept with a man, it would matter. It's not like I'm saving myself for marriage or anything. I just want to feel something for whoever it is, and I sure as hell want the guy to treat me like more than just a roll in the hay.

It's why eight years later I'm still clinging to that promise. No guy has even come close to being worth my time. No guy has stirred any kind of want in me, no hunger for more.

So there has to be something else beyond Peeta's chiseled features and charming smile.

Because technically I should hate him. Or resent him. I should let my jealousy of him fuel my distaste and make me a bitter shell who doesn't give a fuck if he has to pee, or if his arms hurt, or if he's gonna feel gross without showering for a few days, or if he's so bored that he has to run through the names of the presidents in his head. (He must be smart if he can do that.)

"Shit," I sigh again, grabbing my phone from my pocket to call Gale.

But it goes right to voicemail, and a minute later, an incoming text message buzzes.

5:41 p.m. GALE: im at work. whats wrong?

I chew on my lip as I tap out a message asking where the key to the cuffs is. I'll only need it for a second so our hostage can use the bathroom.

5:42 p.m. GALE: no fucking way catnip. dont you dare uncuff him. let him piss himself

"I'm not going to let him piss himself. You don't fucking doesn't trust me?" I growl, reiterating that exact thought in my message back, my fingers flying over the keys.

5:43 p.m. GALE : its not u i don't trust.

"I understand why you'd be reluctant to un-cuff me," Peeta says, and his voice catches me off guard.

"It's not that. I don't have the key," I grit out, staring at Gale's last message.

"Ah." He clears his throat and wets his lips again. "That is a problem."

I scowl, more annoyed at Gale than anything. Does he think I can't fend for myself with this guy? Peeta is unarmed, and though I get that he's bigger than I am, and stronger than I am, but I have been doing a damn fine job protecting myself for years. My gun is in the other room. I hunted with my father for years. I'm quite adept with a weapon. It's a safe bet that Peeta has never had to fire a gun in his 24 years.

"Can I ask you something?" he asks.

I hesitate. "That depends what the question is."

He takes a deep breath and winces, and I notice him shifting his lower half awkwardly. But my phone jumps with another message, and as I read what Gale has written, I heave a long sigh.

"Hold that thought," I sigh, and go into the kitchen to find a bucket under the sink. It smells like bleach and ironically, it doesn't look very clean, but it will have to do.

Peeta's nose twitches when I place it down on the nightstand.

"There's, ah, a bucket there for you."

He frowns. "Okay, I'm not really understanding…" he stops. "Oh…well…ah…this is not really going to be easy with my blindfold on." His chest inflates with a deep breath. "Or my hands not available."

He's right. Shit. The tremor that crests through my abdomen betrays me. He expects me to help him.

Fuck Gale. I'm going to have to risk un-cuffing him so he can pee in the bathroom. There's just no way I can unzip his pants and help him get his dick free to…

Nuh uh. No way.

Not even if the thought of getting a glimpse of him…of that…sends another wave surging through my belly.

~Peeta~

There's a marked silence in the room as she obviously contemplates what to do. But there's no other way for me to do what she's suggesting without her help if she's not going to un-cuff me.

But then I feel her weight shift on the bed, and something grazes my left leg, and there's a tug on the back of my blindfold, and her fingers work at the knot that she put there this morning. When the cloth slips from my eyes, I blink intuitively, but the room is not that bright, and it doesn't take long for my eyes to adjust to the dimness of it. I blink a few more times, and suddenly I'm gazing into a pair of silver eyes that hold me in place, wide and curious.

She sits back on her heels, her knees still straddling my upper thighs, and at first I'm stunned that she doesn't have her mask on. I can't believe she's actually letting me get a look at her.

I'm even more stunned when I get a good look at her.

She's naturally beautiful, because she's not wearing any makeup, not that I can detect, and she has the clearest skin I've ever seen. It's olive with gold undertones, and I imagine it would take me forever to get it just right with my pastels or oil paints. Her hair is dark and pulled back in an intricate braid.

I knew she'd be beautiful. I wish I had my hands free, and I could get the beauty before me down on paper. The sketch would come quickly. I draw fast when I'm sufficiently inspired.

She starts to fidget under my stare, and her teeth sink into her bottom lip as she looks away. Then she produces a nail file and some kind of a long hairpin, and she scoots forward in my lap, rising up onto her knees. She reaches for my cuffs, and when she leans over me, her breasts are inches from my eyes, and I try not to look directly at them. The top two buttons of her simple grey Henley shirt are undone, and if she were to lean forward any more, I could easily peek down the front of it. As tempting as that is, I do the noble thing and keep my vision trained on her face.

"I'll have you know that my Glock is loaded on that nightstand, and I got an A in self-defense in high school, and I'm going against all laws of logic by doing this," she says, then clamps the hairpin between her front teeth, which I notice are not perfectly straight, but they're close, especially if she never wore braces. She takes my wrists in her hand, turning them carefully to search for the keyhole on one cuff. I slide my eyes to the left, not really wanting to take them off of her, but I indeed see her gun sitting on the table, not more than a few feet from me. I look back up at her, and her braid slips over her shoulder and brushes my cheek.

"You can trust me," I reply quietly, remembering that she was muttering something about trust earlier.

She snickers and rolls her eyes that, at the moment, resemble smoldering embers.

She struggles with the lock and the nail file for several minutes before she tosses it aside, exhaling noisily. She plucks the pin from her mouth. "Are you okay?" she asks.

"Ah, yeah, I'm fine, why?"

"Just don't want to hurt you," she answers softly.

When we finally hear a pronounced 'click,' the corners of her lips lift. She's even prettier smiling. She pulls the cuff from my left hand and gently lowers my arm down to my lap. I shake it out to the side so as not to smack her, and it's like a thousand hot needles prickling under my skin as I regain feeling in it.

Her tongue juts out between her lips while she works on the second cuff. It doesn't yield any easier than the first, and a few times, she nearly grazes my cheek with her right breast as she jerks on the cuff and jams the pin around.

She smells amazing. It could be perfume, though she doesn't seem like the kind of girl who bothers with that, and so it's more likely the fabric softener in her shirt, or her shampoo or something else, but it's very subtle and tropical and…sexy.

Fuck. I can't control the faint stirring in my groin. This girl is doing things to me.

"Finally," she crows, a broader smile spreading across her face as she frees my right hand and sets the handcuffs on the gnarled bedside table. I rub both my wrists with my palms, and for another brief second she hovers over me, our eyes fixed on each other, her chest heaving with the rapid breaths she takes.

Then she clambers off of me and grabs her gun from the nightstand. She has no qualms about pointing it at me this time.

"Bathroom is that way. Let's make this fast."

My vision blurs as my feet find purchase with the floor, swirls of colors bursting behind my eyes when I screw them shut and take a second to adjust to being upright. I let out a slow breath, and she cocks her head at me, arching her brows quizzically. Giving her a wry, grateful smile, I walk across the creaky floor, impressed that she's able to be so quiet with her tread, but then again, I am in wing-tipped shoes, and her feet are bare.

I hesitate in the doorway, and those lovely silver eyes turn steely. "What are you waiting for?" she asks.

Shrugging, I step across the threshold into the tiny bathroom, where the strong aroma of lemons and bleach assault my nose. It's obviously been cleaned recently.

As I un-tuck my shirt and undo my belt, I move to drag the zipper down, and she falters, the gun wavering in her hands slightly, and she gawks at me.

"What?" I say innocently, taking a little bit of perverse pleasure in the fact she looks appalled that I am about to take a piss in front of her.

"Um, did…did you not want privacy?"

I smile and jerk my head towards the tiny window over my right shoulder. "You're not the slightest bit worried that if you let me shut the door, I'll lock myself in and find a way to escape?"

She worries her lip and levels the gun at me again. "Are you mocking me?"

"Not at all," I reply evenly.

Her nose twitches, and she presses her lips together so firmly that they blanch white. She looks at me, up to the window, and I feel her eyes raking over my chest, then they slide back up to the window.

"You'd never fit," she reasons. "But I'll leave the door open. I can turn around."

I nod, and she quickly turns away from me. I've just pulled my cock free through the gap in my boxers when she gasps, "Oh!" and starts to face me again.

I can't be certain that her eyes don't flit down for a second, but she swallows and uses the gun to point to a plastic Stop-N-Shop bag that's sitting on the floor beside the toilet.

"I, uh, brought back a change of clothes for you. I…that's a really nice outfit and all, but I figured it might not be comfortable and you'd…" She starts getting flustered as she speaks, and it's both endearing and reassuring, because whether or not she's got a loaded lethal weapon in her hand, I don't think this girl has it in me to hurt me.

"Thank you," I say kindly, though I don't ask where she got the men's clothes. Maybe they belong to one of the other robbers. Maybe they're her boyfriend's. Or maybe one of the robbers is her boyfriend.

"You…um, should pee now," she blurts, spinning back around.

I release a long sigh of relief as I empty my bladder, shake my cock a few times, and flush. I can see her bouncing on the balls of her feet, and I think she might be humming softly.

"It's okay if I change now, before you chain me back up?" I ask.

"Well, yeah, if you want," she says, half over her shoulder.

I pull the clothes from the bag: a pair of grey sweats and a long-sleeved button-down navy shirt. There's also a white t-shirt, but I'll probably forgo that. They all smell like pine and fresh air.

As I take off my tie and begin to unbutton my dress shirt, I meet her eyes in the mirror, and I see the flicker of guilt before she averts her gaze abruptly.

"I don't mind if you look at me," I say, shrugging the shirt from my shoulders.

"I'm not looking at you," she retorts, and I think I can see a faint pink coloring her cheeks. I bite back my smile, as I untie my shoes and step out of my pants. I am utterly fascinated by this girl, a girl who can run with hardened criminals and yet seems embarrassed being caught peeking at a half naked man.

Before today, I'd never have used the word 'pure' to describe a Seam girl. But there is definitely something about this beautiful girl that is pure.

I don't really care whatever fucked up chain of events brought me to her. She intrigues me, and I want to learn everything I can about her. I have to get her to open up to me.

~Katniss~

Don't look at him. Don't look at him. Don't…Shit, I want to look at him in the worst way.

"Thanks for the clothes," I hear him say, and it's enough that I lose my resolve and twist my body to the right to venture a glance at him. He's already got the sweatpants on, and they're a little loose on him, sitting low on his hips, and my eyes are drawn to the well-cut grooves of his pelvis and the narrow trail of blond hair that runs from his navel down to the waistband of the sweats. I wonder what it might be like to trace that path with my fingers—or my tongue. His stomach is a plane of ridged muscles, and his chest looks strong and sturdy.

"You're, ah, welcome," I reply.

He smiles at me as he slips on the shirt, not bothering with the t-shirt I grabbed, and I let my eyes follow his fingers as fastens the bottom three buttons, leaving the top two undone, letting some of his defined chest show.

He asks, "Can I wash my hands?"

"Yeah, of course you can. Why wouldn't you?"

He hesitates until I realize that I am blocking the sink, and I shy away, flattening myself against the wall beside the door as he lathers his palms and rinses them off. He dries them and rakes a hand through his styled hair, mussing it slightly, and if he wasn't hot enough before, he looks infinitely more attractive all casual, like he is now.

He folds his dress slacks and shirt, balls up his socks and jams them into his shoes, and rolls his belt into a loop, shoving all the garments into the plastic bag.

"What's your gang going to say when they find me wearing different clothes?" he asks.

I shrug. "I'll deal with them. But I'm going to have to put the cuffs back on you."

He grins at me, all straight, white teeth and dancing blue eyes. "You know in different circumstances, a guy might really like hearing that."

Heat blossoms across my cheeks, and I hope that it's not too obvious. I cough and point towards the hall with the barrel of the gun, and his face falls imperceptibly as he shuffles past me, the plastic bag bundled in his arms.

"Your feet are going to get cold," I say as he climbs back onto the bed, and holds his arms out to me.

"Your feet are bare, too," he points out then jiggles his arms at me. "Come on, cuff me."

I place the gun down on the dresser near the door and stride towards the bed, and for the briefest moment, I imagine that he's not here because he's being held against his will, and what it might be like if a guy like this actually was holding his arms out to me because he wanted me. What would it feel like to be wrapped in his embrace, to feel my body pressed up against his?

I reach for the handcuffs, and I freeze when I feel his hand close over mine.

This is it. I've fucked up. My gun is clear across the room, I've left myself vulnerable, and judging by the toned abs, and broad chest, and strong arms that I discreetly ogled before he caught me stealing glances at him in the mirror, he can easily overpower me. He'll probably cuff me to the bed instead, make his escape, and go right to the cops. And now that he's seen my face….

"Can I just ask that you maybe give me a little wiggle room?" he says.

"Wait, what?" He's not going to turn the tables on me?

The pads of his fingers gently probe the back of my hand, and I shiver. He removes his hand from mine, raising both arms back above his head. He spaces them about a foot apart on the metal frame. "Like this. Your leader was a little rough, and the way he crossed them…I couldn't move them at all."

"Oh…um…yeah…sure," I agree, leaning down to encircle his wrists with the cuffs. They click into place, and he slides them back and forth a bit.

"Thanks. That's better."

We stare at each other again, and I am the first to look away, my fingers wandering to the end of my braid to play with the fringe. "Well, um, good night," I say, though it's only a little after six o'clock. What else is there to do or say? "You can, um, call me if you need anything."

"Should I call you Mockingjay like they do, or do you have a name?" he asks, his blue eyes probing mine.

I've already let him see my face. I can't give him my name. So I say, "Just yell. I'll hear you." As if to prove my point, I leave the door open a crack when I turn off the light and exit the room.

Trying to keep my mind off him for the rest of the night is a futile effort. Even the stupid book that I'm reading makes me think about him—a story of a girl being rescued from a drug lord's compound by an assassin, and on the way to freedom, the girl and the assassin fall in love. I keep thinking about it over and over again. I mean, I guess it does happen. Life and death situations make people do crazy things.

She's a fictional character, moron. You're real. Peeta is real, and he's not going to fall for you. Stop it. He probably has a girlfriend…one who isn't a criminal and doesn't work in a fucking grocery store…

When I silence the voice in my head and finally finish the book, I go into the other bedroom to change into my pajamas and grab another book. It's just after eight. He's been our hostage for nearly twelve hours. He must be so bored in there…all alone…

My eyes land on the old television on the dresser. I flick it on, surprised that it actually works, though it receives nothing but local channels. It's better than nothing. I unplug it and grunt as I lift it and stagger into his room, kicking the door open with my foot. In the darkness, I stub my toe and sputter a curse, nearly dropping the television, and I hear his cuffs clank on the headboard.

"Are you okay?" he asks.

"I'm fine," I grit through my teeth, leaning down to flick on the light switch with my mouth.

He blinks into the light and watches me curiously as I heave the television onto the dresser and peer behind it for a plug.

"It only gets local channels, but I'm sure there's something on. It's better than naming the presidents in your head."

"Thank you," he says, the gratitude heavy in his voice, but I hear a smile, too, when he adds, "but I was doing state capitals tonight. I always forget Pennsylvania."

"Harrisburg," I reply automatically, as I switch the dial a few times—that's how old the piece of shit is—until it lands on some NCIS or Law & Order type show. "Good?"

"Sure, thank you." He smiles at me, and then pauses. "Will you watch with me?"

"Oh, um…" I look down at my feet. The invitation sounds so sincere, and I do kind of want to keep him company. But there's no other furniture in the room. Unless I drag in a chair from the decrepit dining room set, I'll have to sit next to him on the bed.

I think about my book. Sitting next to a hot, handcuffed guy is kind of like being trapped in a small car, right? What if…

I give him a tight smile as I move around to the right side of the bed and settle cross-legged, next to him. He smirks and jerks his chin to my feet.

"Those are going to get cold," he teases. I duck my head, and I think about how if we were a normal couple watching television in bed together, I'd tuck my feet under his to warm them up.

We watch the show in silence for a while, but my body is far too attuned to him beside me to really concentrate on anything but him. I want to know more about him, but I can't bring myself to ask him a single question. Besides, if I ask him things, that opens the door for him to ask his own questions.

When the episode ends, another show starts, and he clears his throat. "I have to say, this is the most unusual evening I've ever spent with a woman." Then his eyes flicker and his gaze seems to wander to my mouth. "But it's certainly not the worst."

~Tuesday into Wednesday~

~Peeta~

She stays by my side for another hour or so. But she hastily leaps off the bed and turns off the set when the ten o'clock news starts. She wishes me a good night's sleep, and rushes out of the room without another word. I hear her moving around in the bathroom—the faucet running, the toilet flushing, and then I hear a door close.

I lay awake for some time longer, my eyes drawn to the slivers of moonlight slanting past the bent Venetian blinds, casting shadows like prison bars across my legs. It causes me to swallow, thinking about the girl on the other side of the wall, potentially locked away in a jail cell someday.

The small acts of compassion she's shown me already confirm what I suspected: she can't be a criminal by nature. She doesn't enjoy doing what she does. But she must have her reasons for doing it.

And then I hear something. The whimpers are quiet at first. It sounds like a cat, or some other small animal, mewling in pain. But they escalate to cries, loud ones, before a scream shatters the quiet. The walls are thin, and the sounds are coming from the room next to mine. She must be having some kind of a nightmare. The scream is followed by a few more strangled sobs, and then all is silent again.

It makes me sad to think of her alone in the other room, tortured by whatever dreams are claiming her. I wish I could show her some kind of comfort too.

I must eventually sleep, because when I open my eyes the room is bathed in a muted yellow glow, and I can hear a few random cars or trucks rumbling past the window.

I don't see her for most of the morning, spending the better part of my second day as a hostage cycling through more random trivia in my head (onto world capitals), and speculating about the girl who I know so little about. I think I hear voices at one point, and it sounds like she's arguing with someone, and I assume the leader or one of the other two are back, and I expect them to look in on me, but a door slams loudly moments later, and an eerie silence prevails until her singing lures me to doze again.

This time, she's there when I close my eyes, and I'm not really surprised that my subconscious mind begins to conjure up sultry images of her. I imagine her straddling me like she did when she un-did my cuffs, only this time, she's on top of me because she wants to be there. I imagine her baring herself to me, allowing me to drink in the sight of her toned, naked body. I imagine her lips on mine, soft at first, but getting increasingly bolder as our kisses grow heated and urgent. I imagine her riding me with abandon, screaming my name when I make her body shatter above me.

Not surprisingly, I awaken hard, my cock stiff and my body hungry for a release.

I should think about other things, things that will get my dick to soften and stop the heat migrating through my veins as I fantasize about all that I want this girl to do to me, about all that I want to do to her.

Plenty of guys in high school sang the praises of the loose girls from the Seam. Hell, my older brothers regaled me with a few tales of 'phenomenal fucking blow jobs' and 'good quick fucks' that these girls so readily gave away.

But I knew plenty of Town girls who were just as loose; there was no shortage of them sniffing around me and the other jocks, and I knew that I could have been having sex with any number of them if I had wanted to. It was never something that interested me. I'm hardly pure—I've had girlfriends before—and I'm definitely no prude, but casual sex is not for me. I need to have feelings for a woman to sleep with her.

I could easily see myself sleeping with this girl—if she'd allow it. She's not your 'typical' Seam woman. There's that purity, that innocence that I sensed radiating off her when we were in that tiny bathroom last night.

It's a good thing my erection has deflated by the time she appears in the doorway. She looks effortlessly beautiful with her hair down in loose waves, wearing charcoal grey leggings and a long-sleeved, pale orange shirt. It gives me pause, because orange has been my favorite color since I was three years old, and I saw my first sunset over the ocean when vacationing with my family. I've tried so many times to capture that shade on a canvas, but I haven't gotten it right just yet.

"Did you want something to eat?" she asks, her fingers toying with the hem of her shirt, exposing just the tiniest strip of skin above the waistband of her leggings. "I can heat you up some soup or something."

I nod, and she disappears, returning with a bowl of something that issues a rope of steam.

She perches beside me on the bed and raises the spoon to my lips after blowing on it gently. It's warm and soothing as it coats my throat.

"Do I have something on my face?" I ask after a few more mouthfuls, because she's blatantly avoiding my eyes. Her brows knit and she wrinkles her nose, offering me the spoon again. But she looks directly at me, unblinking, and after I swallow the next spoonful, I smile at her and say, "There you are."

With her sitting so close to me, I can smell the heady scent of that tropical fragrance over the smell of the chicken soup wafting up from the bowl, and as I'm eating, I let myself admire the lush bow of her mouth, the graceful slope of her neck, the curve of her collarbone. She's like a work of art. The urge to capture her on paper grows stronger. Whenever I get released, it's going to be one of the first things I do: to draw her.

She sets the bowl down when it's empty, offering me several sips of water, and as she starts to rise, I voice my protest.

"Stay with me," I implore. "Let's talk."

She scoffs, "You don't want to talk to me. We have nothing to say to each other."

There's an abrupt change in her demeanor since last night, in her attitude towards me, and I know without a doubt that it's related to the fight I heard earlier this morning.

So I try something. "What's your favorite color?"

She narrows her eyes at me, suspicion seeping into the mercury irises. I like how every time I've gazed into them, I've never seen the same shade of grey looking back at me.

I laugh. "It's not a trick question. I just want to know something about you, and I know your name is out of the question."

"Green," she replies. "What's yours?"

"Orange," I answer without hesitation. She scowls at me, glancing down at her shirt, and I know she thinks I'm bullshitting her. "Like a sunset."

It seems to splinter whatever wall she's constructed, because she smiles faintly, and more cracks form as we lobby a few safe questions back and forth. Soon, dare I say we're bonding a little? I learn she takes her coffee black after I share that prefer tea but never with sugar, and she gets me to confess it took me eight years to learn to tie my shoelaces and I always have to double-knot them after she admits she has no idea how to drive a stick shift. I manage a laugh from her when she confesses that at least it spares her from driving their getaway van.

But then she falls mute again at the allusion to the robberies, and I fear whatever progress I've made will recede like the tides.

"Who's missing you right now?" she asks, picking at a seam on the worn bedspread.

The question surprises me as I consider how to answer. "Well," I begin. "Probably no one."

"That can't possibly be true."

"I guess the bank misses me. I was supposed to work this morning. And I suppose the police have to be looking for me."

Her eyes bore into mine. "There's no one else in your life…?"

"My parents stopped worrying about me once I graduated college, and I don't talk to my brothers that regularly—"

"No, um, girlfriend?"

"No, definitely not," I reply automatically. "What about you? Boyfriend?"

She shakes her head slowly. I wonder if I'm imagining the slight twitch of her mouth again.

"No family?"

A pained look flits across her face, and she looks down at her hands, a wistful smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. "I have a younger sister."

"You take care of her?"

"I try," she replies.

"Is she why you do this?"

Her eyes glitter dangerously. "Why are you so concerned with why I'm doing this? All that should matter to you is that I'm doing everything in my power to protect you so they don't—" She stops and presses her lips together. Then she clears her throat. "Why do you care?"

"Because," I start gently, "I want to get to know you better."

"You don't want to know me. Stop pretending you care, Peeta. This will be easier for both of us if we don't pretend."

But I'm not pretending. I need to make her see that, but I am powerless to do anything about it. My restraints only give so much, and even if I stretched I'd never reach her now that she's not right next to me, feeding me the soup.

Desperate times call for desperate measures.

"I think I have to pee again," I say, giving her an apologetic smile, and she glances down at her watch, then her face relaxes.

"Ga-uh, the Miner said he'd be back around three, before he goes to work, so yeah, this is probably a good time for that."

Ah, their leader was here. That's who she was arguing with.

She raises an eyebrow at me as she grabs the hairpin off the nightstand. "I don't need to get the gun, right?"

"Right," I murmur.

I sit up a little when she climbs over me, her knees framing my hips, and she reaches for my right arm first. I wait for her to start fiddling with the keyhole, and when she angles her neck to the side, I slowly exhale, knowing my warm breath will tickle the soft skin there. Indeed, she flinches, and the hairpin tumbles from her fingers.

"Oh, fuck, sorry," she whispers, her eyes searching the bed around me for it. She must not locate it right away, because her body leans closer to mine as her hand probes around behind me. I can feel her breath coming in quick rasps, and when our eyes meet, I think about how if I only had my hands free, I'd frame either side of her face with them and claim her lips.

"Take your time," I murmur, but I'm not talking about the lost hairpin.

I can practically see the battle she's waging with herself as we engage in this visual standoff. I don't dare blink, challenging her to be the one to look away first.

She doesn't.

But her eyelids flutter shut, and she closes the scant distance between us, and then her lips brush mine experimentally, like a whisper. She jolts back, her hand flying up to cover her mouth. "I'm sorry! Shit…I…"

I say, "I'm not sorry," and I hear the obvious gravelly timbre in my voice when, emboldened by the fact that she kissed me first, I motion for her to come closer, and when she leans down and turns her head, I whisper in her ear, "It's all right to kiss me anytime you want."

~Katniss~

His lips tickle my ear, and my mouth tingles with tiny bolts of electricity. I have kissed men before, but never have I felt the kind of spark that Peeta just lit within me—and our lips barely touched.

And when I draw back after he invites me to kiss him again, he watches me intently with his mouth parted slightly, practically daring me to do it. Those vibrant blue eyes have darkened considerably, with an almost primal glint to them, and as we stare each other down again, the cuffs are temporarily forgotten.

But Gale's warning from earlier resonates through my head like a bell: 'Watch yourself, Catnip. He's going to use that Townie charm on you to get you to let your guard down.'

I blink, and Peeta continues to pin me with his gaze, his lips pursed in invitation.

Don't let yourself feel anything, stupid. He's patronizing you. Gale's right. Peeta's just being nice to you so you don't kill him. He doesn't want to be kissing you…

He's doing what he has to do to survive. I certainly can relate to that.

But for just once, I want to think about something other than surviving. I want to feel what it's like to live.

Can Peeta give me that?

I take a shaky breath and descend on his mouth again, and he arches his chest up to meet me.

The spark we kindled before becomes a raging inferno when he moves his lips over mine, heat blooming in my belly, leeching down to the juncture of my thighs, where wetness seeps out of me. I sigh and kiss him with more pressure, reveling in the feel of how perfectly our mouths seem to fit together, how natural it is to be kissing him. One of my hands winds around his neck, and he tilts his face to capture my mouth from a new angle.

My heart is pounding, and tendrils of heat continue to curl and vine in my abdomen, just below my navel. I feel his tongue sweep along my lower lip, then it moves to trace the outline of my mouth, and a moan parts my lips, allowing him to slip it inside and coax my own tongue to action. It feels so impossibly good that I know I won't be the first to break away.

We taste and explore and eventually he draws back, leaving both of us gasping for air, and he gazes at me with such adoration in his eyes that I find myself whispering, "Katniss. My name is Katniss."

He smiles. "I knew your name would be as beautiful as you are. Hi, Katniss," he whispers, straining up towards me again.

Our lips collide and mold together, our tongues resuming their passionate duel, and I only remember the stupid fucking handcuffs because I find myself aching for him to touch me. But as our kisses continue to intensify, the exquisite tension in my belly spirals, and my entire body hums with current.

I shift my position subtly, but it's enough to feel him hard beneath me, and I can't help myself from rocking against him more deliberately. He groans into my mouth, and he bucks his hips, and it draws a moan from deep in my throat. With each thrust of my pelvis against his, it feels as though I'm balancing on the edge of a cliff, waiting for the inevitable plunge.

"Katniss." My name falls from his lips in a sexy hiss, and my palms roam his back, the occasional clink of his cuffs punctuating our ragged breaths and my whimpers.

So I test his name on my tongue. "Peeta," I gasp, liking the sound of how the last syllable escapes my mouth in a huff. He grins against my lips, and my fingers dig into the corded muscles of his shoulders when he juts his hips more forcefully up into me.

The coil in my belly snaps without warning, and my orgasm hits me faster and more intense than anything I've ever brought about with my own fingers. The dampness soaks my panties, and I spasm against him, unable to keep the low, keening wail from escaping my mouth when I come. I wrench my lips from his, and my cheeks flame, just as much from mortification as the ecstasy claiming my body.

Peeta stares at me, a look of astonishment on his face, and as I move to scramble off him, I graze his hard-on one last time, and the friction sends another wave through my core.

"Katniss! Wait!" he calls, yanking at his cuffs. "Please!"

He has no other way to stop me but the desperate edge to his voice. And that's enough. I perch on the edge of the bed, facing away from him, still trembling with aftershocks in the wake of what his body did to me. "I didn't mean to—"

He doesn't let me finish my thought. "There's nothing to be ashamed of," he says softly. "Please, un-cuff me. I…" he pauses to swallow, "I…need to feel you. I want to put my arms around you."

He lifts his hips so I can feel around for the hairpin and I finally close my fingers over it. Peeta watches me as I swing my right leg over his waist, and I am hyperaware of his erection, which is still quite prominent.

"Katniss," he starts, "I don't know why you're embarrassed. What we were doing felt so fucking good. If you had kept going like that, you would have gotten me off too."

I bite my lip and the right cuff gives. As soon as Peeta has his arm free, he cups my jaw and his thumb traces the curve of my cheekbone. "I liked watching you come," he murmurs, his thumb migrating to the bottom swell of my lip.

I muster a smile, because I've never been very good with words, and as I start to kiss his thumb, debating whether I should tell him that he's the first guy to ever make me come, a loud bang causes me to jump, and Peeta jerks his hand away from my mouth.

"It's Gale," I murmur, not even bothering to use his code name. "He's early. Give me your hand, quick."

I hear the tread of Gale's boots on the linoleum in the kitchen, and once I get Peeta's free hand re-cuffed to the headboard, I grab for the water bottle. I'm just lifting it to his lips when Gale enters the room. It's then that I realize I've failed to re-secure Peeta's blindfold, seeing the anger seep into Gale's steely eyes as he glares at our captive.

"What the fuck is going on here?"

"I'm making sure our hostage doesn't die of dehydration," I reply calmly, cupping my palm under Peeta's chin as he plays up his role, drinking like this is the first water he's gotten in days.

"Put the water down. We need to talk, and I don't have much time."

I scowl at him, knowing he's going to try to squeeze in a quickie with Madge before he starts his overnight shift at the Sunoco.

"Let's go," he snarls, and I meet Peeta's eyes briefly as I set down the water and follow Gale out of the room. He pauses to slam the door, cutting me off from Peeta.

"Have you lost your fucking mind?" he seethes. I can feel the fury rolling off him in waves, and I know he's struggling to keep his voice down.

"Not that I'm aware of," I reply, and I see him clench his fists.

"Dammit, Catnip!" He clasps my hand and yanks me through the kitchen to the front room. "Why the fuck did you take off his blindfold? Why is he wearing different clothes? You fucking unchained him, didn't you? Where did you find the key?"

"I didn't use a key. I picked the lock. Calm down."

"I knew you were going soft on me. I could see it in your eyes this morning. What did I tell you, Catnip? That guy in there is not like you and me. He's used to getting what he wants, and having things handed to him. And in 24-fucking-hours, you've fallen for his smooth-talking bullshit too." He shakes his head at me in disgust. "You brought him clothes, for fuck's sake."

"He's a human being, Gale. We're bank robbers, not killers. We're not in the business of hurting people."

He glowers at me. "You're right about one thing. This is a business. And sometimes in business you have to do what it takes to get ahead. This guy is here for one reason and one reason only—his thumbprint."

I think about that thumb pressed to my lips, and something in my expression must give me away.

Gale steps towards me and lifts my chin, forcing me to look at him. And then I feel his lips press against mine roughly, and my eyes fly open.

In all the years that Gale and I have been friends, he's never kissed me. I think most people assume that we've been together, or that we are together, or at the least that we've fucked. I don't care enough to correct them. I can't be bothered with ignorance. But I've never felt that way about him.

His mouth urges mine to move with his, but I cannot get my lips to budge an inch. It feels foreign, and compared to the easy way my mouth just melded to Peeta's, kissing Gale is like kissing a brick wall. His lips are firm and unyielding, whereas Peeta's are soft and pliable—and passionate. Gale's lips leave me cold; Peeta's have the opposite effect.

He releases me. "I had to do that. Just once."

"I wish you hadn't," I say sadly, wiping my mouth with my hand. This kiss complicates things more than they need to be complicated. I've felt a fault fracturing our friendship since we started the robberies. I'm just waiting for it to widen to a canyon.

"Don't do this to us, Katniss," he whispers.

"Gale, there is no us…"

"This..." he begins, motioning around the living room. "This is us. We're the same, you and me."

"Gale," I sigh, my head starting to throb, "I'm tired of this. I've told you that. I want out. This isn't living."

"I see it in your eyes again, Catnip. He's getting to you. Don't be so fucking stupid. He doesn't give a shit about you. Like I told you this morning, he's just using you so you'll feel sorry for him and set him free. Where's your loyalty?"

"Fuck you," I snarl back. "Don't you dare talk to me about loyalty! Go see your whore, Gale. I'm not going to discuss Peeta with you. I told you I'd keep an eye on him, and that's what I'm doing."

He stares back at me, and he just shakes his head, like he's disappointed in me, and he leaves without even saying goodbye. I clench my fists and scrub at my lips, where nothing lingers from Gale's kiss but the faint taste of the Altoids he sucks on constantly when he's going to see Madge and he's been smoking.

I trudge back to the room where Peeta is, and concern is etched on his face. His eyes show even more worry, and it's so sincere that it's almost enough to completely dismiss Gale's accusation that Peeta is using me, that he couldn't possibly really feel anything for me.

"Are you okay?" he asks. "He sounded so angry…"

"He was pissed," I nod. "But he'll get over it. We've been friends for a long time. He can't stay mad at me."

Peeta is quiet. "So how did you wind up robbing banks together?" he asks.

"Why are you so concerned with knowing why I do this?" I snap. I don't mean to yell at Peeta. But Gale's kiss has made me edgier than I was yesterday morning sitting in the van waiting to go inside the bank. He's had years to kiss me, years to make a move if he genuinely believes that he and I are meant to be together. It speaks volumes to me that he chose this moment to try and stake some kind of claim on me.

Gale feels threatened. He senses this connection that I've forged with Peeta in this short amount of time.

And Peeta, to his credit, has had several opportunities to overpower me and escape. Yet he's still here with me, at my mercy, awakening things in me that I could never imagine feeling.

I want to trust him. I do.

"I want to know everything about you, Katniss," he says softly.

I take a deep breath. "Gale…The Miner says you don't really care about me. He says you're merely doing what you need to do to get close to me and gain your freedom."

"The Miner's wrong," he insists. "Come here, Katniss. Come closer."

I sit down beside him, and he pins me with his gaze. "I'm not using you. This…what I feel…it's real. I don't know what else I can do to convince you."

"Me too," I whisper. "I mean I feel it too."

But I know how I can convince him that I trust him. I run my hand along the line of his jaw and begin to tell him a story.

I tell him my story.

~Peeta~

She talks. I listen. I could listen to her talk for hours.

It feels like she does. She opens up to me, baring her soul about everything from her childhood to her friendship with the one she calls the Miner (I notice she reverts to using his code name after their confrontation), and how he helped her forge papers for the state, saying his family took her and her little sister in after her mother's suicide so Katniss and Prim, her sister, wouldn't wind up in a community home.

She says the first time she stole anything it was Gale's idea. It was supposed to be a one time thing, empty the drawer at the convenience store where she worked after school late at night to get enough money for a security deposit and a few month's rent on a tiny apartment over a Laundromat.

It was too easy. She was never even a suspect, with the amount of petty thefts and more serious crimes in the area, a couple thousand dollars missing was hardly a blip on the Panem PD's radar.

But apparently it had detonated something in Gale. He began scheming and planning, and their little gang was born.

One thing I learn listening to Katniss is that she is a fiercely loyal person. I understand immediately that her allegiance to Gale comes from a strong sense of owing him something.

And she's completely devoted to Prim. She loves her sister with a ferocity that I can't relate to. I like my brothers, but I know neither one of them would have sacrificed shit for me growing up.

I want nothing more than to be able to reach out and hold Katniss's hand when she tells me about the night her sister nearly died and how though her mother had a meager life insurance policy, the medical bills soon bled that dry. And eventually, Prim got hooked on the painkillers she was prescribed, and then she moved on to harder drugs. She started hanging around with a bad crowd, and Katniss feared Prim would fall prey to some local pimp to get the money to fuel her habit.

I can see the shame in her eyes as she quietly admits she funded Prim's first stay in rehab with what she calls 'blood money.

She pauses to take a deep, cleansing breath, and I find myself needing to take one too.

"I don't like doing it," she whispers. "I do it because there's no other way. I couldn't protect her any other way. I wish there had been a better alternative. But not here. Not in the Seam."

"What were you crying about last night?" I ask gently, because I'm starting to see a connection.

"W-what?" she stammers, her eyes wide pools of silver.

"I heard you crying out in your sleep," I explain. "You were screaming at one point. I would have gone to you if I could have."

She stares at me, and her lips twitch faintly. "I have nightmares…about Prim. A lot. Like, if I had just never gone to that stupid senior prom, she never would have gotten burned, and things would have been different. She might have gone to college…she had always wanted to be a doctor when she was little…anyway, in my nightmares, I always see her catching fire, and no one reaches her in time." She trails off and shakes her head, looking away.

"What about you?"

"What about me?" she says wryly.

"Katniss, I've known you for 24 hours, and you're already the most selfless, strong person I've ever met. When will you stop and think about yourself for once? Even right now, you're risking the wrath of your gang to show me some compassion…"

She shakes her head. "I'm not that good. I'm a criminal, Peeta. I don't deserve your sympathy…"

"Where's that hairpin? Undo the cuffs, please?" I beseech her.

I need to show this woman just how amazing I think she is. I want to show her that she is worthy of being worshipped, and that she deserves to be loved.

It takes her a few minutes, but she has me free, and the moment she does I envelop her in my arms, taking a moment to just bask in the feel of holding her so tightly. I bury my nose in the crook of her neck, and I finally get confirmation that the intoxicating, tropical scent is her shampoo. Very lightly I brush her hair away from her ear and kiss the soft skin beneath it. Then I gently suck her earlobe into my mouth, feeling her shudder against me, and I whisper, "You are an incredible woman, Katniss."

A strangled little sob chokes out, and she grips my shoulders so ferociously that I wonder if I'll have little purple bruises stippling my back tomorrow.

My lips blaze a path up her neck until they find hers, and our mouths fuse together, our tongues resuming the erotic waltz we had started earlier. I flip us over, and I sit back to admire her, with her hair splayed over the pillow and her lips looking bee-stung from our kisses.

I let my fingers wander to the hem of her t-shirt and I seek permission from her to lift it over her head, she nods, and sits up a little so I can pull it up.

My cock has already stiffened considerably just from kissing her, but the sight of her breasts swelling over the cups of a simple, white lace bra gets me fully hard, and she bites her lip when her eyes flit to the obvious tenting in my sweats.

"Peeta," she whispers, just as I descend on her stomach and press a kiss to her navel. "I should tell you…I-I've never…"

She looks away, her cheeks flushed.

This beautiful girl has never been with a man. Her silence is my affirmation. That's what she's so apprehensive to tell me. She really is pure.

"You're a virgin," I murmur, dragging my lips back and forth along each of her ribs.

Her teeth tug at her lip again, and she nods, unwilling to meet my eyes.

"Hey," I settle over her, knowing she must feel my erection poking at her thigh as I feather kisses over her collarbone and across the tops of her breasts. "Katniss, look at me. It's nothing that you need to be ashamed of. Do you know how fucking hot it is that you've never been with anyone else?"

Her dubious expression shows that she doesn't believe me.

"I mean it. Feel this." I take her hand and press it to my throbbing cock, which seems to have gotten even harder. "You're doing this to me. I want you this much."

Her lips part slightly, and she swallows, and when she squeezes me experimentally, her fingers nearly wrapping around my cock through the material of the sweats, a pleased smile lights her face when I groan my approval and buck into her hand.

"That feels unreal," I say, returning her smile. She keeps her eyes locked on mine, and then I feel her hand release and seconds later, it slips down past the waistband of both my pants and my boxers. The familiar tingling spreads through my groin and balls, and heat frissons along my shaft that she's now pumping earnestly.

It's not going to take long for her to get me off if she keeps doing what she's doing, looking at me like I put the stars in the sky.

"Katniss," I hiss, as the tingling intensifies and everything starts to tense up, "you have to stop, not like this…" I really don't want to come in the only pair of underwear I have, as much as I'm craving the release that's within my reach. I explain that to her, and she seems relieved that that's the reason I'm stopping her, and not some other reason. My cock is not thrilled with me, but it'll get over it.

And as much as I want to strip her naked and lavish every inch of her body with my tongue and make her fall apart again and again, I'm content to just lie down beside her and hold her for a while. I stroke her hair, carding my fingers through the long waves, and I can feel her heart fluttering rapidly, like a hummingbird's wings, against where my other hand rests between the valley of her breasts. It takes an excruciating amount of willpower not to slide my hand across the lace of her bra and bring one nipple to a peak with my thumb. But I know if I start, I won't be able to stop again, and this is not how her first time should be.

Her fingers wander along the smattering of hair below my navel, occasionally dipping into my bellybutton, making me squirm, and she sighs contentedly against my mouth as we exchange several languid, lingering kisses.

"So when do I get to learn everything there is to know about you?" she asks, and I kiss her forehead.

"It's a very boring story," I warn her, and she laughs.

"Well, I could use a nap," she smiles.

I take her on a little journey through my childhood, and high school, and college. I tell her about my family, and the bakery, and my mother, and how I've always been such a disappointment to her. She stiffens a little in my arms when I talk about my art ambitions and how much I'd love to draw her. I ask her what's the matter, and she quietly shares she figures that one of these days, a sketch artist will be capturing her likeness and it will be plastered all over Panem on 'Wanted' posters.

"That will never happen," I assure her, planting a kiss to her temple.

"We're going to get caught sooner or later," she replies. "You're the first of many mistakes we're going to make if Gale keeps pushing things. I know he's got even loftier goals…he's been talking about codes and routing numbers and things…" Then she catches what she said. "Oh, shit…Peeta…I didn't mean you're a mistake! Like this…us being like this…it isn't a mistake…I meant…"

I chuckle softly. "I know what you meant. But forgive me for not regretting your mistake a little more. It brought us together. And no one is going to catch you. I'll make sure that you're safe, Katniss."

"I won't let anyone hurt you either," she whispers, grabbing for my hand and clutching it tightly to her chest. "So you and I, I guess we can protect each other."

As she closes her eyes and drifts off for a late afternoon nap, I think that I'd be perfectly happy to freeze this moment and live in it forever.

~Katniss~

When I awaken some time later, my lashes are reluctant to lift until I feel his steady heartbeat thrumming beneath my palm. I remember where I was when I nodded off, and I open my eyes quickly to find Peeta's brilliant blue ones smiling at me.

"Hi, he murmurs, and he tips my chin up to meet his lips in a kiss.

It's dark in the room, so it must be early evening by now, and as I let my hand splay back and forth over Peeta's strong chest, I hear a faint grumbling sound, and he gives me a sheepish look.

"I've also had to pee for the last hour, but you were so peaceful I didn't want to disturb you," he confesses. I arch my brows at him.

"You didn't take a nap?"

He grins. "I admired the scenery."

I lever myself up on one elbow, shivering as the cool air hits my exposed skin. "Peeta, go use the bathroom. I'll make you something to eat."

"I'm gonna take a shower too, if that's okay with you."

A ribbon of desire laces through my belly at the thought of him standing beneath the spray—assuming the water gets hot. When I tell him that the water heater is questionable at best, he gives me a dangerous smile and replies that it wouldn't be a bad thing if the shower were a cold one.

It's hardly gourmet cuisine, but I make us grilled cheese sandwiches, and when he walks into the kitchen about twenty minutes later, redressed in the sweats and the white t-shirt, scrubbing at his damp hair with his fingers, he accepts his plate with a smile and kisses me on the cheek.

It feels very domestic. And I like it.

When we finish eating, I lead him into the front room, where there's at least basic cable, but he says he'd rather just talk to me. I learn more about him…little things, like that he prefers to sleep with the windows open, and he makes killer cheese buns, and bigger things, like how he dreams of having a family of his own, and never making his son or daughter feel like he or she isn't good enough.

"Do you want children?" he asks. "Not now, I mean, but someday?"

I ponder the question. "Not here," I say finally. "I wouldn't want my children growing up here in the Seam like I did. Maybe if things were different…but they'd deserve better than to have a criminal for a mother anyway."

"Hey," he scolds, gripping my shoulders and giving me a severe look, "don't say things like that. Look at all you've done for your sister. You've practically been a parent to her. I bet you'd be an excellent mother."

He tucks me under his chin, and we turn on the television for a little while before my repeated yawns have him leading me back to his bedroom.

He holds his hands out to me, intending for me to chain him back up. I shake my head, and I keep my vision trained on him as I peel my shirt over my head and tug my leggings down, leaving me standing in nothing but my bra and panties. I see the pronounced bob of his Adam's apple, and he wastes no time in crossing to where I stand to scoop me into his arms. He lays me down on the bed, then strips down to his boxers and stretches out above me, our mouths connecting, tongues sliding against one another's.

His kisses have me writhing beneath him, and I jut my hips up repeatedly, seeking something to alleviate the mounting tension below my navel again.

Peeta maps a path down my neck, and I gasp when I feel him nip at the stiff peak of one of my nipples through my bra. The wet heat of his mouth radiates through my breast, electric current surging to my already-aching clit.

He makes no effort to accelerate things quickly, continuing to alternate kissing me and teasingly running his lips and tongue over my breasts, my stomach, and along the waistband of my panties. His breath fans out over the thin cotton, and in contrast to how wet I am, it forces me to squirm, and his nose grazes my clit through the fabric. I cry out again, and Peeta sits back on his heels, staring down at me. I can't see his eyes well in the dim moonlight, but the blatant pitch of his boxers and the fast swells of his chest prove he's just as turned on as I am.

"Peeta," I beg, "I want to be with you."

He descends on my chest again, "Not like this, Katniss," he mumbles, tracing the edge of my bra's cup with his tongue before tugging lightly on my other nipple with his teeth. I keen loudly and thrust my pelvis up again. "Besides, I don't have any protection, unless you…"

I shake my head. I've never really thought about birth control—not for myself, I think dryly. I've never had a reason to. It surprises me a little that he doesn't carry a condom in his wallet, which I assume is in his pants pocket, and I also know that on account of our safe house rules, there won't be any lying around here.

I'm not so naïve that I know our actions haven't left him aching for his own release. I grope for his cock, smiling at him triumphantly when my fingers close around the rigid shaft.

He seems to understand, and he rubs his nose over mine and presses a kiss to the tip of it. "I'm fine," he breathes. "I wasn't kidding about the cold shower. I took care of myself in there…didn't take long, thinking about you…" He suckles the pulse point just below my jaw, and I stifle a scream when without warning, his hand snakes down between us to push my panties aside, one finger swirling through the wetness accumulated there. His lips keep worrying my neck and throat, one hand plucks at my nipples, and the inundation of sensations converging catapults me to the edge. He rubs my clit in fast, furious circles and I explode, my back arching off the bed as I tremble and struggle to not fall to pieces. The bliss washes over me in waves, and I bask in them.

I smile, sated, and sigh as he shifts to the left and spoons me against him. He nuzzles the back of my neck, sending a flurry of shivers racing down my spine, as the remnants of my climax ebb and flow through me. His lips graze my ear. "Good night, Katniss."

"Night, Peeta," I whisper back, and as I close my eyes, with him curled around me like a cocoon I feel truly protected for the first time in a long time. His warm breath on my neck and his semi-hard cock nestled against my ass don't hurt either. If it weren't for the Glock on the bedside table, I could be a normal girl falling asleep in her boyfriend's arms.

Even if it's not real, I allow myself to think it as I slip under.

Footsteps eventually rouse me from my peaceful slumber, and groggily, I raise my lids a fraction of an inch, the murky light of dawn filtering in through the tattered blinds. It's early morning, and I realize in Peeta's embrace, I hadn't had a single nightmare.

But when I open my eyes fully, I see a pair of jeans-clad legs, and when I look up, the muzzle of a revolver is aimed down at me.

And for a moment, I think I must still be dreaming. I am having a nightmare.

My mouth opens in a silent scream, and the ominous click of the trigger causes Peeta's arms to tighten around me.

But this is real.

"Gale," I stammer as I meet his stony eyes.

"Isn't this fucking cozy?" he scoffs. "Put your fucking clothes on, Catnip. There's been another change of plans."

~Thursday morning~

~Peeta~

I clutch Katniss to me, feeling her body go taut with fear as the gun—her gun, I realize—points down at us.

"Gale," she chokes again. "What are you doing? Put that thing down."

"What are you doing, Catnip?" he snarls back at her. "Giving it up to a guy you barely know after a couple of days?"

"Whoa," I hold her against me when she sits up, my arm locked across her chest possessively. "Don't go jumping to conclusions, man. Nothing happened last night. I'd never take advantage of her like that."

"Shut the fuck up, Pretty Boy. Katniss, get up. Now."

I feel her shudder against me as she exhales, and she cranes her neck back to meet my eyes briefly. Sorrow floods the grey irises, and my stomach flips nervously as she extricates herself from my grip and stands to face Gale. To his credit, he keeps his eyes on her face and doesn't openly ogle at her half-naked form.

She scrambles for the clothes she wore yesterday and begins to toss me my sweats. Gale shakes his head deliberately, waggling the Glock at me. "Uh uh. Blondie needs his suit."

Katniss bites her lip. "The bag is on the chair by the television." She moves to retrieve them for me, but Gale grabs her arm.

"He can get his own clothes," Gale snaps, and he levels the gun at me. I scoot down the bed and climb off the foot of it, grabbing for the bag. I quickly redress, noting a slight tremble in my fingers as I fumble with my tie.

Two days ago, my fingers shook out of fear for myself. Right now, they're shaking out of fear for Katniss. There's something dangerous, unsettled, in Gale's cold eyes.

"Hurry up, there's a surprise for you in the other room, Mockingjay."

Katniss finishes dressing quickly, and Gale grabs her hand, luring her from the room, turning around to wave the gun at me. "You too."

As we approach the front room, she cries, "No, Gale, no!" Her heartbreaking wail slices into my heart as I see her knees buckle, and Gale's arm has to keep her upright. "No, no, no," she continues to chant, and as I come to stop beside them, Gale rams the gun into my side. I see two men dressed in all black, but they're not wearing their ugly masks. The one on the left bears a strong resemblance to Gale. The other one has a crop of red hair and a boyish face. Between them is a willowy blonde that could be pretty if not for the purplish bruises under her blue eyes and the pockmarks speckling her pale skin. She too is dressed in black from head to toe.

I know instantly that this is Prim.

"You can't do this!" Katniss cries. "Don't drag her into this! Please Gale!"

"Katniss, it's fine," her sister chirps. "I want to do this. I can help."

"You brought this on yourself, Katniss," one of the two men calls, placing his hand on Prim's shoulder. This has to be Gale's brother. Rory, I think she said his name was. "Gale told us you've been playing house with our hostage."

Katniss turns and the look in her eyes shreds my heart to ribbons.

"Little Duck here knows exactly what to do, and this job is going to get fucking finished this morning. Your little boyfriend is gonna unlock his safe for us, and then we'll show him a little mercy and leave him chained to his desk if he promises to keep his fucking mouth shut about what he knows." Gale takes a step towards me and cocks the pistol. "What do you say, Pretty Boy? Can you keep your fucking mouth shut?"

I nod. And it's an easy vow to make, because I will not risk any harm coming to Katniss.

"Good," he sneers, "because if you say one goddamn word, it will set off a chain reaction that will be all your fucking fault." Then he nudges Katniss towards me. "Any last words to your lover boy?"

Her lips quiver, and she stares at me, pleading with me with her eyes. I can almost hear her begging me to look after her sister. "I won't let them hurt you," she says in a low, fierce whisper, her jaw clenched and her teeth gritted.

And then she whirls about and starts flailing her fists at Gale's chest, catching him off guard. "If anything happens to Prim, I'll fucking kill you, Gale Hawthorne!" She knocks the gun from his hand in her hysterics, and Gale clamps one hand around her tiny wrists, and suddenly I see the glint of metal in his other hand, the one that just held the gun, and he plunges the syringe into Katniss's left shoulder. "You told me you'd always protect her. You're a liar, Gale. A l…"

My stomach crests with a wave of nausea, and bile rises in my throat as I watch her body crumple to the floor. An anguished sob leaps from Prim as she yells her sister's name.

Rory holds her back and hushes her. "Shh, babe. She's fine. She's sleeping. I didn't put much in the syringe, just enough to keep her from interfering and fucking this up for us. She'll be fine."

Rage overwhelms me as I see Gale gather Katniss into his arms and gently lay her down on the couch. It infuriates me that he's touching her now, tenderly, like he didn't just knock her unconscious.

And with Katniss's gun lying on the floor a few feet from him, he's unarmed. I know the other three likely have their weapons, but it's a chance I'll take.

I lunge at Gale the minute Katniss is safely on the couch, my hands clutching his throat fiercely, my fingers digging into the corded muscles there. His eyes go wide, as a violet-red flush mars his complexion, and he swings a fist up, connecting with my jaw. It stings and pain lances through my mouth, but I keep choking him until I hear the familiar click of the trigger and find the other guy, the Peacekeeper (for the life of me I can't remember his real name), right beside me, the barrel of the revolver below my ear.

"Let go, or I'll fucking shoot you."

"You won't," I spit out. "You still need me."

Gale gags, and I finally release him. He sputters and gasps for breath, taking huge gulps of air as he glares at me. "I'm…going to…enjoy getting rid of you."

"As long as you don't hurt Katniss, you can have me," I say firmly.

They don't blindfold me this time as I'm led out to the van, and this all but affirms to me their intentions to indeed kill me once I've opened the safe for them. They don't care now if I can identify them, or if I observe landmarks and things en route to the bank. It seems like a futile effort, but as I approach the van, I study the license plate and start repeating the digits in my head: PL489J, PL489J, over and over again.

I memorize the street names, make note of the names of the gas stations and convenience stores and fast food chains that we pass. The safe house is in the oldest part of town, it seems, and I mentally calculate that it's about fifteen minutes from my bank branch. Things start to look more familiar, but when the van slows to a crawl at a stop sign and Rory turns left, we only go a few yards before his eyes cut up to the rearview mirror and he utters a panicked, "Fuck!"

Gale turns around in his seat, swearing under his breath too, and when the Peacekeeper guy pivots in his seat, he hastily takes his gun off me and shoves it under his ass.

I feel Gale's eyes on me. "Not a fucking word." He rummages in the glove compartment and hands something to Rory.

I glance behind me and see the revolving red and blue lights, and my heart hiccoughs, hope seeping into my veins.

Rory lowers the window. "Hey, officer."

"Fuck, it's Thread," the Peacekeeper hisses, and Prim moans softly. They exchange a look over my head, and from the trepidation on both their faces I can assume that one or both of them have had run-ins with this cop before. Or his reputation precedes him. Or all of the above.

"License and registration, Hawthorne," a gruff voice barks.

I've never been pulled over. I've never seen the inside of a police station. But I know when a cop knows your name on sight, that's never a good sign.

"I, uh, wasn't speeding," Rory says as the cop examines the documents. "And I came to a full stop back there."

"Your right rear taillight is out," the cop rasps, peering into the vehicle. His eyes are severe when he looks between the three of us in the back seat. In my dress shirt and slacks, I stick out among them.

"That's what you fucking pulled us over for?" Gale snarls.

"Gale, shut up," Rory says through clenched teeth.

"What is this, some kind of car pool?" the officer asks, darting suspicious glimpses into the backseat, and as much as I want to signal him, give him some indication that something is awry, I know that if the gang is apprehended here, like this, with no chance to finish what they started, there's nothing stopping one of them—Gale, maybe, out of spite—from turning Katniss in, and there's no way I'd get to her before the police do. I don't know what they gave her, or how long it will keep her unconscious. My stomach is still queasy thinking about watching that syringe jab into her.

And so I wait, hands folded in my lap, praying he lets us go so I can get this over with.

~Katniss~

There's a fiery itch on my shoulder where I was jabbed with the needle. My arm feels like an anchor when I raise it to scratch the itch, and my entire body is dead weight as I struggle to sit up. My eyes are gritty when I rub at them, and I stick my tongue out repeatedly to work up some saliva to swallow.

I stumble when I leap to my feet, the events of the morning springing to the forefront of my mind.

Prim.

Peeta.

My phone isn't in my pocket, so I lumber into the kitchen to peek at the clock on the microwave oven. Confused, I rub at my bleary eyes and take another glance.

7:42.

It can't be.

It was only before seven that Gale barged in on Peeta and me entangled in each other's arms. Rory knocked me out. How was I only unconscious for an hour?

Whatever was in that syringe couldn't have been that potent. Rory had to have fucked something up.

Mistake #2.

And it opens the door for me to do what I know I need to do.

Gale isn't going to protect Prim. The fact that he could even fathom using her like this, to keep me in check, proves he broke whatever oath he pledged to me. He's put her in the line of fire, so to speak, and it's severed whatever loyalty I had left to him.

And Gale sure as hell isn't going to protect Peeta. His life is in mortal danger.

With trembling fingers, I raise the receiver of the old rotary phone and dial 9-1-1. There's a sharp crackle, and I hear a woman's voice ask, "911, what's your emergency?"

"I need to be connected to the Panem Police Department," I say calmly. "I need to speak to whoever is in charge of the investigation into the bank robbery where the manager was taken hostage."

She tells me to hold, and some kind of horrible music comes over the line, like the kind they play in elevators, and I wrap the cord around my finger so tightly that the tip of my finger turns blue and it gets a little cold to the touch. Quickly I unwind it, and then rewind it a bit looser. What the fuck is taking so long?

"This is Detective Abernathy," a rough voice says.

"You're the one that's been investigating the bank heists throughout the Seam?" I ask.

"Along with Agent Odair of the FBI, yes. He's here with me. Who are we speaking to?"

There's no going back once I give them my name. I'm fucked either way, because if they're caught, Gale or Rory or Darius will give me up in a heartbeat.

But I'm not concerned for myself. I'm doing this for her. For him. It's always been about Prim. And now I need to do this for Peeta. He deserves to live. He deserves to have the chance to see where his art can take him. He deserves to find some nice, normal girl who can spoon with him at night, a girl he can marry, and have babies with, and grow old with.

A girl who is not me. Because I could live a hundred lifetimes and not deserve someone like him.

All that awaits me is an orange jumpsuit and a little cell. At least I'll be wearing his favorite color while I rot away in jail.

"My name is Katniss. Katniss Everdeen."

"Okay, Miss Everdeen. Why are you calling us this morning?"

I take a deep breath. "I know where the bank manager—Peeta Mellark—I know where he is.

There's a flurry of excitement on the other end of the line, and I hear a lot of voices and bustling.

"How do you know this?" another voice exclaims, and I presume it's the agent.

"Before I tell you anything else," I continue, closing my eyes, a dull ache pounding behind them, "you need to promise me something."

"Sweetheart, we don't know the fuck who you are. Why would we promise you anything?"

"Because a man's life is at stake. And you don't want his blood on your hands and a lawsuit brought against the city if his family finds out you refused to listen to a very reasonable request."

"Miss Everdeen, this is Agent Odair." The second voice again. "Go ahead and tell us what you'd like us to promise, and we'll see what we can negotiate."

I rub at my temples and explain the whole situation to them, keeping my voice as steady as I can manage. "They've been keeping Peeta at a safe house for the past two days, waiting to take him back to the bank branch. They need his fingerprint. It opens the safe."

They both remain quiet as I continue explaining how the heist on Tuesday morning went wrong, and what I anticipate they're going to do to Peeta once they've gotten the money, and I wonder if they've already dispatched SWAT or whatever the fuck they do in situations like this.

"Miss Everdeen, if all that you're telling us is true, let's cut to the fucking chase. You want immunity. You're part of this gang, and in exchange for this information, you want immunity, yes?" Agent Odair says.

"No," I say firmly. "I mean, yes, I am their fourth member. I can tell you every last detail that you'd need to know. But I don't want immunity for myself. I want it for my sister. You promise me that Prim Everdeen will not be prosecuted for any role in this morning's events, and I'll be waiting at the station for you to cuff me when you bring in the other three. Prim is as much a victim of this as Peeta, and they both need to be kept safe after today. Deal?"

There's a long pregnant silence, and I fidget until I hear Detective Abernathy murmur, "Okay."

I release a shuddering breath and smile sadly to myself. "Deal," I repeat.

I hang up and look around the run-down house. I hate that my last moments of freedom were in this shithole, but I guess I have to be grateful that I'll at least have the memories of falling in love with Peeta Mellark here. They should get me through the lonely nights on the narrow, hard cot, be something to cling to when the nightmares come back and the warden puts me in isolation or a padded cell so no one else has to listen to my screams.

After gathering my things, I shed my clothes and take a quick shower. It will likely be the last one I take by myself, and I wish I had thrown caution to the wind yesterday and slipped inside the stall with Peeta when he was in here. A tear slips down my cheek and mingles with the rivulets of water meandering divergent paths along my skin.

I wish we had done more last night. I should have known time…even only a few days… was not on our side.

But who was I fooling? The odds have never been in my favor.

I towel off before I can plummet any further into self-pity. I braid my hair and dress in a blue sweater that reminds me of Peeta's eyes and a pair of faded jeans.

Selfishly, I linger around the house a little longer, and then I fish my keys out of my bag, take a last look at the place, and start my car.

Numbly, I put it in reverse, and as I glance up to look into my mirror to back down the driveway, I gasp and nearly depress the gas pedal in my shock.

~Peeta~

The stunned look on her beautiful face elicits a smile of my own. She leaves the car running but leaps out of the driver's seat and launches herself into my arms. I reel back a little, clutching her to me, and she dissolves into tears.

"You're here. You're safe. How are you here?"

"I'll tell you when you get in the car," I say, gesturing to my Volvo idling by the curb.

Her grey eyes go round. "They sent you to…"

I brush my knuckles over her cheek. "Oh, Katniss, no, no. I would never ever have agreed to that. I'm here for you, to take you away from here."

She shakes her head vehemently. "I made a deal. I'm supposed to—"

"I know what you did. And I told you that it was about time you started thinking about yourself," I say. "So since you won't, I will."

"But Prim…"

My index finger presses against her quaking lips and I hide my smile. "Prim is fine. I'm going to take care of her, too. I promise. But we need to go."

"Go where?" she asks, and I link our fingers together and escort her to the passenger side of my car. She gives me a smile when I open the door for her, and when she sees her sister in the back seat, the relieved cry of joy that Katniss emits is all worth it.

"Prim!" she cries, twisting over the seat to grip her sister's hand. "Oh, god, Prim, you're okay!"

"This has been the most fucked up day of my life," I hear Prim say as I shut Katniss's door. Considering what I know about Prim Everdeen, that's saying a lot.

I move around to the driver's side, slide in, and fasten my seatbelt. I lean across the console, slant my mouth over Katniss's in a long kiss, and secure her seatbelt around her, just as I had when we rode side by side in the getaway van two days ago. She gazes at me with such reverence in her eyes that I know I'm making the right choice. There's no other choice. She's where I belong.

Truthfully, I think I was a goner from the moment I heard her voice.

"Thank you," she whispers.

"I couldn't leave her with them," I reply, knitting the fingers of her left hand with my right. "I knew if I whisked you away and you reneged on your end of the deal you made with that detective, they'd pull their end, too, and god knows what they'd do to Prim. So I persuaded them to let me keep an eye on her, like collateral. They didn't suspect I'd be on your side."

"Peeta…" Her eyes flood with tears. "What about the money?" she asks quietly.

"What money?" I ask.

She points to the shed where the getaway van used to sit idle. "Most of the cash from the heists are in there."

I gaze pensively out the windshield. I'm not a thief. And truly, neither is Katniss, or her sister. I imagine they'll eventually search the premises if and when one of Gale, Rory, or Darius talks, and if they remain silent, the cops will still likely connect the dots since the property belongs to the Hawthorne family. They'll find the money, and it will get returned to the bank.

Katniss called it blood money. And she's right. Money makes people do stupid things, and where we're going, we don't really need much. What I have saved will be enough for a start.

But a spark kindles in my imagination, and I know what we need to do with the money. I'll need to call in another favor, but it will work.

"Go grab it," I urge her. "Hurry."

Prim and I watch her race up the driveway, her braid lashing through the air as she runs, and in a moment, she remerges with large black trash bag. I pop the trunk, and the car bounces a little when she tosses it inside with a 'thump.'

Once she's safely inside again, I veer the car onto the turnpike, away from the Seam, towards the outer limits of Panem, and we—Prim and I—tell her everything about the chain of events that brought about the gang's downfall.

Prim tells her about the broken taillight, and the cop. I tell her how when we arrived at the bank, my security card failed to open the rear door. I tried several times, but the bank had to have deactivated the swipe and issued new cards in light of the security breach when the gang attempted to hold up the branch the first time. We tell her that as Gale and Rory were arguing about what to do next, the sirens wailed and cop cars swarmed from all directions, and within minutes, Gale, Rory and Darius were in cuffs, and Prim was detained for questioning.

And we tell her how we learned of the deal that she made with Detective Abernathy: Her own freedom for that of her sister's. And my safety.

"You were willing to give everything up for her. For me," I say, reaching across to place a hand on her knee, which bounces up and down nervously.

She closes her eyes, and buries her face in her hands. "Gale was going to kill you, Peeta."

"He didn't. I'm here with you. And I will be from now on. Always."

It takes about forty minutes to get to the small private airport two towns away from Panem. I smile when we pull up to the tarmac and the plane is right in front of us.

Katniss gawks when I usher her out of the car. She and Prim and I grab the black trash bag and my briefcase from the trunk, and we walk along the runway. She shakes her head, her mouth opening, but she can't form words.

I grin at her. "I already called in one favor."

When we reach the stairs that lead up to the private jet, the pilot greets us, and we're led up the stairs, no questions asked, no documentation required. Katniss gazes at me skeptically as she looks around the opulent space.

"I've never been on a plane before," she whispers, "let alone a fancy private one."

"You have a lot of firsts waiting for you where we're going, Miss Everdeen," I murmur, kissing her neck softly.

"I'm so confused, Peeta," she turns, and I fold her into my arms.

"It's a two-hour flight. I'll explain everything. Now that I've got you, I'm taking you someplace where no one can hurt you."

Prim flops into a seat near the rear of the small plane and closes her eyes. I pull Katniss down into my lap. I unwind her braid and untangle the plait, massaging her scalp with gentle pressure from my fingers as I tell her about my plans for us.

"The plane belongs to an old friend of my father's, a software developer named Beetee Latier," I say. "He's a multimillionaire, a genius, and he himself has done some things that may not be entirely legal, but most of what he does is his own silent protest against the government. He gives millions of dollars to charities and non-profits and lives with his partner of nearly thirty years, an eccentric professor named Wiress, in a secluded compound in the northwest.

"But he keeps his jet at this airport, and with one phone call, he assured me it was mine for the next few hours, to get us to the small island I chose purposely for its extradition policy with our country. Or rather the fact that it doesn't have one. Once we set foot on the island, we're free to live the rest of our lives without looking over our shoulders."

"But we can never go back to Panem," she finishes softly. "You're okay with that?"

"When you first had me hostage, you asked me if anyone was missing me," I remind her. "As long as I'm with you, Katniss, I'm not going to miss anyone ever again. Without you, I wouldn't have been living. I'd just have been surviving. There's a difference, you know."

She stares at me, her lips starting to quake slightly, and she nods very slowly, a strange serenity creeping into those beautiful eyes. "I know."

I kiss her again. "So let's go start our life together."

~Three Weeks Later~

~Katniss~

The other side of the bed is empty when I move to nestle against his warmth like I do each morning. I open my eyes, but the room is still bathed in darkness, thanks to the shades we draw each night before slipping under the sheets together. The fan hums quietly, ruffling the billowy curtains, and a glance at the clock tells me that dawn has yet to assert herself.

In the short time that we've been here, the one thing that I instantly acclimated to is sleeping wrapped safely in Peeta's arms. They're like my own personal talisman, warding off my nightmares, offering me comfort, reassuring me that he will be with me always.

And his arms are good for other things too. Like supporting his weight when he hovers over me, thrusting in and out of me, making my body sing every night and fall apart again every morning. It seems like we've been making love constantly since the first time, the night we arrived here.

Peeta had been gentle, and patient, and once the pain ebbed away and it was over, we had laid together, a jumble of limbs, and pledged our love to each other.

I'm sure the newness of everything contributes to our lust for each other, but I don't think I will ever get enough of Peeta.

And my body craves him now. I pout and sit up, the sheet falling away, and my nipples instantly stiffen in the room's air-conditioned chill. I stretch and comb the sleep-tangled tresses away from my face, grabbing my robe from the back of the door, and tiptoe through the silent bungalow. The tiles are cool on my bare feet, and a shiver runs through me.

As I open the sliding glass door and step onto the little patio, his back is to me. He's thrown on a t-shirt over his thin pajama bottoms, and I can see he has his eyes trained on the horizon, his hand moving feverishly over the sketchpad.

"You're up awfully early," I whisper, leaning around him to tug on his earlobe with my teeth.

"Hey," he murmurs, smiling as he sets down his paper and the orange pastel he was using. He motions towards the water. "I thought maybe I should try sunrise for a change."

I smile and straddle his waist, sinking down onto his lap, and I run my palm along the line of his jaw. "Your sunsets are beautiful, and I'm sure your sunrises will be just as wonderful."

"Ah, but I have yet to draw the most beautiful thing in this place," he replies, dropping his head to suckle on the column of my throat.

"Relax. You'll get me on paper sooner or later." My eyes flutter closed and a stirring swirls in my belly as his hand slips past the opening of my robe and cups my breast.

"Later sounds good, 'cause right now I want to get you naked," he growls, and I smile wickedly as I undo the sash of the robe and shrug it off my shoulders.

"Wasn't that easy?" I coo, reaching for the hem of his shirt, tugging it up and over his head. He chuckles softly and crushes his lips to mine, and I feel him rapidly swelling beneath me as he scoots me closer to him, my breasts colliding with his warm, bare chest.

His tongue traces the seam of my lips, and I suck on it eagerly when I grant him access to my mouth. Low rumbles of approval vibrate in his throat, and when I stop suckling, his tongue coils around mine, and we deepen the kiss for several minutes. Then his tongue retreats, his mouth leaving mine to dip to my neck.

I arch my back and stifle a cry as his lips descend further and capture one nipple, his teeth grazing the taut bud. One hand splays down my back to support me as I force my breast further into his mouth, and his other hand wanders around my rib cage, inching dangerously close to my neglected breast. His tongue laves back and forth across the aching bud, every pass of it shooting more sparks to my core. I grind down on his erection, knowing my arousal is soaking into his pajama bottoms, but it feels too fucking good to care.

"Come back to bed," I implore.

He grips my waist and coaxes me to climb off him. Then he stands, and he sheds his pajama pants, his cock springing free, the thick length protruding up, ready for me.

He aims a wolfish grin at me. "What's wrong with right where we are? I don't think we've made love watching the sunrise yet, have we?"

"No," I shake my head, wrapping my hand around his hard shaft. "We definitely have not."

"Another first to check off the list then," he murmurs, sitting on the edge of the lounge chair and drawing me towards him. He gazes up at me and plants his hands on my ass, angling me to his waiting mouth. My stomach clenches, and I feel myself getting even wetter when his tongue burrows its way between my folds and swirls over my clit.

"Oh, god…Peeta," I wail, clawing at his rumpled waves with my nails. I screw my eyes shut and try to keep my legs from trembling as he suckles the swollen bundle of nerves. He laps at me like I'm some kind of delicacy, and he can't get enough.

No sooner does my first orgasm rip through me than he shimmies back onto the chair fully, swinging his legs up, and he hauls me down onto him, my back pressed flush against his broad chest, my knees on either side of his thighs. My body is still convulsing with the aftershocks of pleasure, but when I open my eyes, I see we both have a perfect view of the glowing red disk just rising up out of the water.

Peeta's teeth graze my ear, and his tongue traces the curve of the inner shell as he whispers, "I love you," and he lifts me just enough to sheathe himself inside me, his hands cupping my breasts. I moan and let my head loll back on his shoulder, but he nuzzles my neck.

"Keep your eyes open. We're supposed to be watching the sun rise while I fuck you."

All that tumbles from my lips is a fevered moan, but obediently, I force my eyes open and as Peeta thrusts up and I push down, we steal the occasional kiss, gazing at each other in between glimpses of the sun casting an orange-gold spell on the rippling waves.

"It's beautiful," I gasp out, and Peeta grunts in response, one hand leaving my breast to land on my hip, trying to regulate the pace of his thrusts.

"It's incredible…this…this is fucking incredible…god, I'm going to come soon, Katniss," he murmurs.

I nod, and while I feel another orgasm coiling in my belly, I slide one of my hands down to rub myself where we are joined, and Peeta moans in my ear.

"Fuck, I love it when you touch yourself," he growls. "Keep doing that…"

My breaths start faltering, and the gyrations of my pelvis become erratic, and as Peeta cries my name and I feel his cock pulse inside me, flooding me with warmth, I succumb to my own release and collapse back against him, his arm crossing my belly to hold me tightly as our bodies tremble and quake together.

"I…love you…too," I pant.

When the lingering effects of our lovemaking have worn off and he's gone completely soft inside me, I reluctantly climb off him, grab a beach towel from the hook to use to clean us off, and hand him his sketchbook. I press a kiss to his sweaty temple and shrug on my robe, then I leave him to capture the tableau of sky spread before us, and I go inside to start some water for his tea.

"Prim needs to be up soon," I say, tucking my legs beneath me as I hand him his mug of tea a few minutes later. "She's got work at eight."

The orange pastel stick moves fluidly in his hand, and he smiles at me. "I'm glad she's enjoying it."

Prim volunteers at a small clinic not far from our little bungalow. She works with the children's ward, and Peeta has already begun looking into how he can get her accepted into some preliminary online classes to start pursuing a medical degree. It won't be easy with the lack of resources here, but Peeta swears there are plenty of countries with good schools and no extradition policies, and he'll make it happen. And I believe him.

Peeta has been working on his art, and he bought me a guitar, and I've been spending my days singing and plucking out notes. There's a school not far from here, and perhaps I can find something to do there. My high-school diploma qualifies me to do more here than I could have imagined. But for the first month or so, I just want to enjoy being with Peeta. It's almost like a vacation.

Oh. The money.

Beetee took care of that for us. Once we found a bank here on the island, we deposited every last cent of it, and Beetee worked his hacker magic to mess with the routing numbers and cut two cashier checks. One was delivered anonymously to the Panem Community Center, and it's more than enough to rebuild the local playground, clean up the park around it, and start some programs to keep the Seam kids off the street after school. We'll follow the progress online (which is also how we'll keep tabs on the trials of my former friends and accomplices).

The other check we hand-delivered. The small clinic where Prim found a job volunteering now has the funding for all kinds of medicines and equipment to provide for the residents of our new village.

It may be blood money, but it eases my conscience to know how much good is going to come from it.

Peeta turns his sketchbook and shows me the page where a lovely mingling of orange covers the paper. "That's it," he whispers. "The color I've been trying to get right for over twenty years. It just took the right inspiration."

I blush and lean across the two chairs, closing the distance between us. "Are you talking about the sunrise, or me?"

He laughs and tosses the pad to the patio. "You certainly know the effect you have on me, hmm?"

"I plan to keep inspiring you for the rest of our lives, if you'll allow it."

"Oh, I'll allow it," he laughs again, and he laces our fingers together as we take one last glance at the early morning sun and head into our home, hand in hand.

Happy Birthday again, Street. ILY!

Thanks for reading. ~C~