The Princess of Panem | Finnick Odair x oc

XXXIX

The months flew by in a blur of practice and tension. Every spare moment I had was spent with my daggers, throwing them at targets, improving my aim, learning the subtle art of precision and power. Hand-to-hand combat came next—Aurelius didn't let me off easy, but under his relentless guidance, and with endless painful practice hours with Max and Cressida, I had grown sharper, faster. Stronger. The daggers, light and deadly, had become my constant companions. They gave me a sense of safety, so much so that I started bringing them everywhere—hidden in the folds of my clothes, strapped to my side, always within reach.

Now, as I move through the grand ballroom of the Capitol, they are concealed beneath my ballgown, tucked neatly into the secret pockets sewn into the silk. The party is extravagant, as they always are in the Capitol, but there's a deeper undercurrent tonight, a tension in the air that makes my skin prickle.

The rebellion has continued to surge over the past few months, fires of dissent spreading through the districts like wildfire, though none of it reaches the glimmering halls of the Capitol. Grandfather makes sure of that. His careful control over the narrative keeps the Capitol citizens blissfully ignorant of the uprisings, even as the districts grow more defiant. But Plutarch and I have a meeting with him soon, and we're planning to use the upcoming Hunger Games to fuel the rebellion from within. It's delicate work, threading rebellion through the very event that has kept the districts in fear for so long, but Plutarch is confident. I'm not so sure.

I walk with Cressida and Max, exchanging smiles and pleasantries with the guests, though my mind is elsewhere. The music is loud, but it feels distant. The lights are bright, but they feel dimmed against the weight of what we're planning. I pass Plutarch in the crowd, and we share a quick nod—just a brief acknowledgment. A reminder of what's to come.

Without realizing it, I bump into someone. Hard. My breath catches in my throat as I look up, and for a split second, the world freezes.

It's Finnick.

I flinch instinctively, the memory of our last encounter flooding back in vivid detail. The look on his face—a mix of pain and guilt—flashes across his features, but it's gone as quickly as it appears. His expression hardens, cold and distant, his eyes narrowing at me like I'm nothing but a stranger.

"Been a while, hasn't it?" His voice is flat, devoid of the charm he usually wears like a second skin.

I recover quickly, masking my emotions with sarcasm. "Oh yes, I'm sure you've been missing my company terribly," I say, my tone biting as I glance behind him. There's a girl—tall, elegant, already waving frantically through the crowd, calling his name.

He follows my gaze briefly before turning back to me with a smirk, though it doesn't reach his eyes. "I don't even know her name."

I raise an eyebrow, my voice softening with a hint of warning. "It's probably better for her that you don't know her. Because that means she can't really know you either." I pause, letting the words settle. "And that might save her from slipping poison in her glass."

A flicker of something dark crosses his face, and for a moment, the mask slips. "And yet, you're not dead," he says, his voice quiet, almost defeated. It's strange—there's no anger, no venom like I expected. Just resignation.

The bluntness of his response leaves me reeling. I thought I was ready for this conversation, but I wasn't prepared for the raw honesty in his eyes. I feel the air grow thick, suffocating around me.

"That's what you would've liked, right?" I say, my voice barely above a whisper. "Me, dead."

He doesn't hesitate. "Honestly? Yes."

His words hit me like a punch to the stomach, but it's his eyes that stop me cold. There's something utterly disturbing in them, something broken. It catches me off guard, a glimpse of a man who's drowning, not fighting.