Timber

Chapter Seventeen: Dance with the Devil

Hazel's feet slowed, then stopped altogether, right in the center of the ballroom. The dancers around them shifted course, their waltz disrupted by her sudden refusal to keep moving. Strings and piano blurred into noise as the music lost its grip on her attention.

A few of the Capitol guests turned toward them, curious. Not enough to intervene. Eyes, dozens of them were watching.

"And what could he possibly have to do with all of this?" Hazel asked. Defensiveness spiked within her. The idea that Heath Marlowe, who spent most days half-drunk and wrapped in self-pity, was secretly tangled in something beyond where his next drink would come from felt like the punchline to a bad joke.

"You really don't know?" His stare pinned her in place. "You need to wake up, Hazel."

Her reply was forming when a voice severed the air.

"Tributes. Is there a problem here?"

Hazel turned, pulse caught in her throat.

Senator Snow stood a few feet away, hands folded with theatrical patience.

Aaron went stiff. Not obviously. Just a twitch of the jaw, a shift in his posture. But Hazel saw it. Felt it.

"Everything's fine, Senator," she said, offering a superficial smile of her own.

"If that's the case," Snow said, turning toward Aaron with the same civility one might use to request a pepper shaker, "would you mind if I borrowed her?"

"Of course, sir," Aaron replied, stiff as cut wood.

Dancing with Snow was the last thing she wanted, but refusing wasn't really an option. Snow extended his hand, palm up, but not as an invitation but more like a summons.

Hazel placed her hand in Snow's. It felt like reaching into a snake pit and hoping not to get bitten.

The crowd noticed. Heads tilted, whispers sparked. Their eyes weren't merely curious but almost hungry, despite having full bellies.

Snow guided her forward with the kind of ease that only came from knowing no one would dare say no to him. His other hand settled at her waist. It was not bruising, not painful, but solid enough to remind her who was leading.

She followed. Not that she had a choice.

His voice slid between them, quiet and conversational, like this was just a dance and not an interrogation. "So. What did the mayor's son say that upset you?"

Hazel's breath caught for half a beat. His eyebrow arched like he'd already spotted the lie.

"You can tell me." He added, softly like night lock slipped into chamomile.

Hazel thought fast. She didn't trust him. Definitely didn't trust him with the truth. Offering something was safer than nothing. "He made some comments about my father." It wasn't inaccurate. It was just not the part that mattered.

Snow tilted his head. "Ah. And here I was under the impression that District Ten held Oren Starling in high regard."

That stopped her cold. Not because he said it, but because of how easily he said her stepfather's name. She recovered quickly, but the thought had already torn through her. Snow knew of Oren. Knew that Mayor Shepherd had spoken with him. That wasn't some idle fact. It was, by all means, treason. Communication between districts without Capitol sanction was punishable by death, and Snow had said it like a footnote.

Her eyes flicked up to his. "You know of him?"

Snow responded with a charming, almost disarming smile. "Miss Marlowe, I think you underestimate me."