BORN TO DIE | CLATO (THG)

ELEVEN

CLOVE KENTWELL

Dinner later that night is a quiet event. Cato and I find ourselves sitting at a rectangular dining table piled high with extravagant dishes as usual, surrounded by our mentors, stylists, prep teams, and escort.

Although the last meal I had eaten was at lunchtime, practically hours ago, and I was supposed to be ravenous by now, especially with all the food, I just wasn't. My appetite had long since vanished, along with my good spirits. And it was all thanks to that rotten pair of tributes from Twelve.

My fingers close around the butter knife in front of me. I close my eyes and take a deep breath through my nose, pretending that the knife's cool handle belongs to the handle of one of my throwing knives at home. I imagine the blade sinking into the flesh of that girl's chest, slicing across the boy's neck.

These thoughts will have to appease me for now. How dare they? All they were was a pair of scrawny little tributes from the worst part of the entire country, who had not even one ounce of competence in their bodies. And they had the nerve to defy us like that? I bite the inside of my cheek so hard it rips the flesh, and the copper taste of blood floods my mouth. They had some audacity to pull a stunt like that.

Enobaria tears a chunk of pork with her fangs and chews viciously. I don't think she's that hungry either. She probably just needs something to take her frustration out on. Alvaro, however, is looking the way he always does. His face is impassive, apathetic. Calm, even. He takes a sip of wine from his glass and studies Cato and I. He gestures towards the wide array of food set out in front of us.

"Eat."

Cato and I don't move.

He rolls his eyes at us. "Don't worry too much about whatever just happened."

Cato, who was already purple with rage to begin with, slams his hand against the table forcefully, rattling all the dishes and cutlery on top of it.

Monique shrieks in terror and so do some of our prep team. Cora, on the other hand, sits serenely at her seat, her purple eyes fixated hungrily on us, like she's starved of entertainment, and we are the entertainment. That woman was unnerving.

"Don't stress? Did you seriously just say that?" Cato's voice rises dangerously, sounding particularly loud in such an enclosed space.

"Hadley." I warn him.

Alvaro doesn't even blink. "Yes, I did. Those tributes weren't responsible for their costumes tonight. Their stylists were. Their costumes aren't a show of their abilities. And abilities are what truly matter in the Games. Instead of throwing a temper tantrum like a little child over a pair of costumes, how about you focus on something more substantial, like, training perhaps," He says coldly.

This doesn't pacify Cato at all. In fact, Alvaro's patronising words have probably only added fuel to the fire. "How could you let them upstage us like that? You had one job!" He yells, eyes bulging out of their sockets. I am all too familiar with this look. He's a ticking time bomb; any second now and he's going to explode, and that might be the end of it.

"Hadley!" I raise my voice louder so he can hear me this time.

He turns on me. "Are you seriously siding with them right now?" He demands, his eyes swimming with the familiar expression of fury and desperation.

I know that when I see it, I can't argue with him the way I would normally have. That look of anger and fear in his eyes...I know it comes from something deeper inside of him. It isn't just a petty, childish reaction from being upstaged by someone. It's something else, something worse, that I think I might understand.