🔮Dreaming Out Loud🌙 (now Tom Blyth characters' Blog)

Back then, they were pretty well-fed as far as Seam folks went thanks to their pa’s.

Ma forbade Phoebe from coming down to the meadow, but was too busy working odd jobs to keep an eye on her. She was no fun, always so stuck up, and perhaps that was the town girl in her. Though she’d married Pa and moved to the Seam, becoming one with him, she held onto her old quirks—cleaning and decorating obsessively in an attempt to make their home appear more put-together. Everything had to be perfect and colorful, but there was only so much one could do when their homes resembled shacks. She hated their place, but it was government-issued and there was no arguing with the government. It was a far cry from her childhood home, which was spacious and built with solid cement.

Phoebe had been there once—just once—when she was gravely ill and Ma had tearfully pleaded with her estranged parents for them to help foot the medical bill. It was a matter of life or death, she’d stressed. There was a flicker of softness in her grandparents’ eyes for a moment before it faded into disgust, like Ma had dragged a sickly rodent onto their doorstep, instead of their own flesh and blood. During her stay there, all Phoebe sensed in them was contempt, and something else she hadn’t been able to comprehend then. There they all feasted on delicacies Seam people could ordinarily not afford: bread—real bread—and chicken. Stuff people fought over in the Hob, and she’d know because she used to tag along with her pa on his trips. Their standard fare, conversely, was gruel-like stews made from rabbits and squirrels that they forced down. Food meant for fuel, not pleasure. Indulgence was a foreign concept to them.

The food was heavenly, so heavenly that Phoebe had eaten like a slob, forgoing her utensils to the distaste of her grandparents. Afterwards, they feasted on cake. Real cake with the cream. The place was twice the size of theirs—still tiny, but a palace in comparison to her imaginative mind. She’d been too fatigued to explore it in full, but what little she was permitted to see was mind-blowing.

To think that was her ma’s childhood home.

She must’ve been filthy rich or something.

No wonder she was miserable in the Seam. The fact she was living there voluntarily—not in the heart of town—was nothing if not a testament to how much she must’ve loved Pa. To leave it all behind for him.

After Phoebe recovered, they went back to being strangers again.

“Why don’t they like us?” a young Phoebe had asked her pa, tugging at his sleeve. She’d been hurt that when she’d smiled at her grandparents from across the street, they’d merely turned their noses up and kept walking, as if she were as insignificant as a speck of dirt on their boots. Ma had to hold her back by the collar to keep her from chasing after them.

“It’s complicated, sugarplum.” Pa had offered a wistful smile before he ruffled her blonde hair the way he always did, affectionately. Those golden waves, like woven threads of sunlight, were inherited from her ma. She had her hazel eyes too, her spitting image in every way—right down to her dimples and how she crinkled her nose when confused. “You know, your ma used to be a town girl,” Pa had told her. “Her folks aren’t thrilled that she married a Seam boy.”

“Why?” Phoebe furrowed her brows. ‘Why’ was her favorite word and she loved to question everything, her mind a sponge eager to absorb what knowledge it could. She inherited that from her pa—the only one who had indulged her ever-curious mind. Their summers were filled with picnics and nonsensical games like ‘Would You Rather’ as he endeavored to match her energy.

She’d asked her ma what it was about Pa that she’d been drawn to. Was it his voice when he sang? Whenever he did, the birds stopped to listen. Was it his humor that she liked? He’d crack the most morbid jokes sometimes, and Ma would give them both a pointed look for daring to laugh. But laughter was a contagious thing. Sometimes, she couldn’t help but join along in their merriment. Ma had confessed that what she loved most about him was how freely he lived—marching to the beat of his own drum. All her life, she’d been raised to be that perfect daughter. To do whatever she was told, without question. But then he came along and taught her what it was like to live for yourself.

Oh, to go back to those days when they used to weave flower crowns and dig for Katniss down by the lake. When the only monsters were those under her bed, and her parents kept them away. Until she learned the real monsters were the ones in human skin.

Why didn’t her grandparents like Pa? He was a wonderful person, she’d thought. What was so bad about belonging to the Seam? He worked hard—harder than anyone—coming home so fatigued, he practically passed out at the end of each day. All to keep food on the table, but he took it, like all things, in stride.

The circumstances that sowed those bitter seeds of contempt, she’d discovered once she was older, were more nuanced than that.

Ma had her rather young—when she was just seventeen. A baby herself, and apparently she was to marry another. Mr. Lipp, the mayor, she’d confessed once in a drunken, half-conscious stupor, many years later. That had to have been a joke, but Phoebe’s pa had long since been food for the worms when she’d learned that, so she couldn’t ask him if that was true. She’d gone on about the skeletons in her closet, or rather, how her daughter was the product of a tryst. Her parents had eloped—as much as a couple could when there was no getting out of this district. In this case, they fled to the other side of town, where they wallowed in their shame.

They were in love, so it was fine. Love conquers all, she’d thought. However, that came with a heavy price: a great fortune and a future of prestige sacrificed. It was no wonder her grandparents were so upset with them. She wondered if whenever they looked at their daughter, all they saw was their failure to raise her ‘right’.

It was one thing to turn down a man as rich as Mr. Lipp, but another to elope with a Seam boy.

Town folks didn’t yolk with Seam dwellers that way. From a young age, she’d observed a hierarchy among her peers in the schoolhouse: they liked to divide into cliques and stick to ‘their kind’. She thought of those times she was side-eyed and gossiped about. People like her, caught between both sides, usually were.

Her grandparents hadn’t shown her any kindness since that one exception they made when she was at death’s door. That was a one-time favor—they made it clear when they refused to take her and June in after their ma had passed. She was, in their opinion, old enough to take care of herself and her sister. Little Junebug.

“We’re in luck.” Ezra tapped Phoebe’s shoulder, then guided her to a wild patch. “Look what I found.” Before them was a bounty of strawberries ripe for the picking. He waited, hands folded behind his back, seemingly pleased with himself for finding these.

“Oh, June’s gonna love these!” Phoebe brightened and knelt before the patch.

They were going all out today—hunting and foraging in preparation for June’s eighth birthday, which was days away. They weren’t eating all of their game. Some of it was for trading down at the Hob. Some of it would pay for June’s medicine—those useless tonics which weren’t helping much, but it was better than nothing.

It rubbed her the wrong way, Ezra’s insistence with providing for her and June—as if her efforts weren’t enough to suffice. As if he were implying she was failing to give her sister the care she needed. He was incorrigible as ever with his big heart, despite her insisting she had it covered. Guilt soured in her stomach each time he did something nice for her, as if she were taking advantage of his kindness. She was her ma’s girl through and through, relying on the mercy of others.

“I’ll bake her a strawberry cake,” Phoebe announced. The cake would be a sad excuse for one, but it was the thought that counted, with what she could afford. June had never tasted a good cake anyway, so she wouldn’t know what she was missing. So easy to please. But she deserved much more. Everything she couldn’t give her.

It had been a while since June came down here, she thought. Perhaps they could have a birthday picnic. When she was a babe, she used to tie her to her back so she could watch her while foraging, but that’d become less practical since she screamed like a banshee, demanding to be set free. It didn't get any better once the little rascal started walking. Her energetic footsteps scared off all their prey.

Once, she had a powerful set of lungs, and so loved to sing gibberish. She’d be a good singer someday, Ezra had jested. If not that, then a mighty good heckler.

They filled their bags to the brim.

Usually, they walked home together after their excursions into the woods.

But this time, she told him, “You don’t have to walk me home. I can make it back myself.”

Which was a rather odd thing to say when they lived on the same street and had to walk in the same direction anyway. How else was she to tell him not to follow her? Saying that outright would invite suspicion, and as is, she was in hot water with him lately.

This wasn’t their usual routine.

She’d been nothing but unusual lately—evading him at every turn, with every excuse under the sun not to see him. She never greeted him with open arms anymore, instead paling at his presence. How was she to tell him, her best friend, that she wanted nothing to do with him anymore? It was for his own good. For his safety.

She’d done a poor job pushing him away. Him standing here beside her was proof of that. No, she hadn’t invited him to go foraging with her, but they always went together, ever since that time she was attacked by a wild dog. She’d been terrified to set foot into such perilous territory without him, who would protect her should any harm fall. He was her eyes and ears. Always.

They liked to go on Saturdays—usually they’d rendezvous at her place before going together. Lately, she’d turned down the offer of going with him. So he was here because…? There were two plausible reasons. The more likely one being: it was a Saturday morning, after all. Two: if he hadn’t come here of his own volition, perhaps a little birdie had told him where she was. June. Her sister, bless her heart, who could never keep a secret.

He’d gotten straight to work, foraging with her, neither of them willing to address the palpable tension lingering in the air. Some things were easier left unsaid. His presence alone and that expression he wore told her he wouldn’t be easy to shake off her tail. Lately, worry was etched deep into his fatigued face, and he hesitated before speaking, as if words were caught on the tip of his tongue, but he was trying hard to obey her wishes and not pry.

But her business had always been his business.

She thought to the handful of times when he beat the living shit out of someone for her, and she had to rein him in like a dog on a leash. Only she could rein him in. Sometimes. Sometimes it didn't work.

This time it had to work. She couldn’t afford for him to go ballistic on her, or rather her ‘beau’, if he was compelled to assume he was hurting her. Which he wasn’t. But how would it look to him? A bruise wasn’t much, but he’d been thrown off seeing that little on her wrists. That was nothing compared to the rest of her body.

“I’m heading the same way. Won’t be no trouble,” Ezra insisted, to which she sighed. Of course, she anticipated that response.

“Just…” She gestured vaguely, fumbling for the words that wouldn’t come, “…don’t follow me home.” That didn’t sound concerning at all. Leave it to her to talk before thinking. “I don’t want people to get the wrong idea about us. That’s all.” Since when did she care what people thought? She attempted to rush off—

But he was quicker.

He intercepted her with ease, a tall wall in her path, a shield blocking out the harsh sunlight. “We need to talk.”

“Maybe later. I’m busy today.” She side-stepped him, but he copied her movements, to her chagrin. It was like a dance, and a rather ridiculous one at that. “Ezra,” she huffed.

“We have to talk now,” he stressed. “You’ve been acting strange, Phoebe. What’s going on with you?” His voice was as unwavering as stone, booming amid the quiet rustle of leaves surrounding them.

“Nothing,” she blurted out, never good with confrontation like that. There was a certain tell, he’d once explained, that helped him discern if she was lying. Whenever her voice went up a pitch (the way it did now), he knew. She silently cursed herself for letting that slip.

“Nothing, my foot,” he remarked, lowering his blood-tipped bow. “You’ve been avoiding me. I thought you were busy, but… do you know what June told me the last time I tried stopping by?” He looked off to the side and gave a mirthless laugh, the bitterness of it making her chest ache. She swallowed; she could never trust her sister to keep a secret. “She told me she wasn’t supposed to open the door if I came by. To pretend nobody was home.” He let that sink in for a moment. “What’s up with that?”

She hated it, having to push him away like this, but it was for his own good. A preemptive measure, in case her ‘beau’ happened to make good on his threat to harm her friend. In the quietude that followed, she’d never felt so scrutinized. Her throat constricted as if any word she’d say would somehow be heard by whatever was lurking beyond the brush. That feeling of being watched had never left her since he entered her life.

Coriolanus Snow.

The thought of him made her stomach churn as her breakfast threatened to make a reappearance while his words replayed in her head, when he was so close, his lips brushing her ear. A subtle touch, yet so disarming. It rattled her very bones.

I’d think twice about biting the hand that feeds.

He didn’t mean what he said. That was what she told herself, what she tried to convince herself, but Coriolanus had already proven he was capable of unspeakable things. The scars on her back were a permanent reminder of that. The ever-present ache in her body and the rawness festering in her was proof.

But he couldn’t know. Ezra.

“He doesn’t like us being so close,” she confessed, figuring there was no point beating around the bush anymore, now that she was cornered here.

“He,” Ezra remarked dryly. “That Peacekeeper who keeps coming around?”

He never said his name. ‘That Peacekeeper’ was a good enough name to him. They had a good chuckle though, when they heard June butcher his name trying to say it. Cornelius. What a ridiculous name, he’d mused out loud. Where’d that come from? What’s with his strange accent? The way he lilted his words at odd points and hissed like a snake trying to enunciate.

She told him he was from the Capitol. They were both left to theorize why on earth a Capitolite would be here willingly, in the shittiest district of all places. Cornelius here was a mystery.

She nodded, confirming his identity.

“Don’t you find anything wrong with that?” he pressed on, advancing forward, and she stepped back, putting some distance between them.

“I told you to stay out of it,” she murmured tersely, glancing at her feet. “We’re happy. Don’t mess things up for us. It’s best if we stop spending so much time together.” But what time they did spend was few and far between with his job in the mines. They were working him like a dog, just like they had his pa—and hers.

“You’re happy.” He tossed his bow right beside his bag on the ground, haphazardly. Before she knew it, he’d seized her wrist. She attempted to pull away, but it took little effort for him to roll back her long sleeve to reveal the finger-shaped bruises marring it. In her shock, she did nothing, while he rolled up her other sleeve, too. “Is that what you call happy?”

She blinked, her vision blurring, her ears ringing.

“I’m not mad at you, Phoebe,” he stressed delicately, sensing her emotion so well, the way he always did. “I just want to know that you’re okay. We’re family. We look after each other.”

“Me n’ June can take care of ourselves just fine, so you focus on your folks.” Her voice came out so hollow as she fixed a soft smile on her face, despite those words feeling like glass shoved down her throat.

I’m alright, her ma would always tell her. Such a convincing actress, always so patient despite her loved ones prying. It took years for Phoebe to connect the pieces that something was horribly awry with her ma, as it never quite sat right with her how she flinched at sudden movements. Shutting down when someone so much as raised their voice at her. Not to mention those bruises and cigarette burns she caught on her while she was changing, the bedroom door cracked ajar. That was just the surface of it.

It seemed the implication didn't go over his head, when his gaze darkened. “Is he… Are you giving him…”

She swallowed, ripping her hands away in that moment where Ezra’s grip eased. “He helps us. He brings June medicine.”

It was everything her friend did for her, except he required something in return. With him, everything had a price. It was a small price to pay, she decided, if it meant taking care of her sister. If she truly cared for her, she ought to swallow her pride. Better off humiliated than risk losing her.

“It’s worse than I thought,” Ezra uttered under his breath, fingers combing through his raven hair as he looked off to the side to gather his bearings. Then his attention returned in full force, along with his voice. “You don't have to live like this, Phoebe. You don’t have to be like your ma—”

“It’s not that simple,” she bristled. Her ma could’ve let her starve if she wanted to. Could’ve let her wither away while she used her depression over losing Pa as an excuse. She gave herself some time to grieve in her catatonic state, not eating, not sleeping or drinking, not bathing, while the neighbors cared for her daughter. Until she picked herself up and decided that was enough. This was her life. Her burden to bear, not anyone else’s.

She did what she had to do to survive. It wasn’t enough, whatever she scraped together from her odd jobs. Not when they had a scare—Phoebe’s health declining again, almost like it had when she had to lug her to her grandparents’ doorstep to beg for help. The second time around, they were not so gracious. They slammed the door in their faces.

By some miracle and a dozen vials downed, they pulled through, and when she grew older, Phoebe tried not to dwell on what her ma had to do to afford the exorbitant price of those tonics. After that victory, the universe had not been as forgiving to them anymore. Sometimes it felt like some unseen force was keeping score. For one blessing it gave, another it took away.

That realization came with the arrival of that Peacekeeper—that man who took everything from them. Who took her ma away, somewhere she couldn’t reach. All she had left to remember her by was that baby. June. Little Junebug, who’d never asked to be brought into a world like this, but while she was still young and innocent, Phoebe thought she could cloak her eyes and ears. Let her live like a child should—with a full belly, in a safe and loving place to stay, with whatever her heart desired, if it was in her power to obtain it.

“Why won’t you let me help you?” he pleaded, half frustrated, half perplexed. “It’s one thing not to have a choice, but you have one. You have me.”

“You already work yourself half to death as is.” She swallowed the lump in her throat. “I don’t wanna add to that. Everyone has to do their part in a family, don’t they? Let me pull my weight.” Her voice faltered. “It’s my choice to make.”

She was hurting for business now more than ever after she was outed as a thief. Thievery was in poor taste—a surefire way to have your community look down on you. Sure, you could say you were doing it out of desperation for a loved one, but you don’t steal from one another. Not when you’re all in the same shoes. No one wanted to buy her trinkets or sweets—no one wanted her to do their laundry. Getting hired at any establishment was out of the question with her sticky fingers, and menial jobs at the Peacekeeper’s base were already taken.

What else did she have to offer that anyone would want?

Why, of course, herself.

It was a bitter pill to swallow.

“Fuck that,” he fumed, so stubborn about it. “I’m not lettin’ you do that to yourself. Next time you see that bastard, you tell him to fuck right off, you hear me?” he pointed at her.

“Ezra—” She held her hand up in an attempt to placate him—

“If you won’t tell him, I will.”

“Don’t.” It was sweltering outside, the humid air all but suffocating her. “Don’t start anything. Just drop it, please.” There was no smooth way to go about this, was there? Her dear friend was incorrigible, always the protector, even at his own expense. But she couldn’t have him caught in the crossfire of the mess she created.

“This conversation ain’t over,” he reminded her, as if she didn’t full well know how persistent he could be. At least he left her alone after having the last word. At least he walked off without her, leaving her by herself to ruminate in peace.

How on earth was she going to smooth this over?

Coriolanus’ POV

He came by whenever he wanted to, really.

Passing by to grab a drink when he knew his little mouse would be home, as he’d memorized her schedule. It annoyed her to no end because surely he had some water in his flask. Surely he could mooch it off of someone else. The barely drinkable water she offered was subpar compared to the ice-cold water he enjoyed in the barracks.

To his surprise, when he showed up after breakfast, she wasn’t home. As usual, her ratty-looking cat greeted him with a hiss, then jumped off the mat when he approached, left with no choice but to make way. The door cracked open and a familiar pair of blue-gray eyes peeked at him through the gap.

June.

“Good morning,” he greeted, making sure to smile to avoid intimidating her, as vermin tended to be skittish. “I come bearing gifts.”

At the mention of gifts, the door swung wide open. “What did you bring?” a rather eager June asked, bouncing on her feet. His presence—his gifts—brought such joy to her life where there was little elsewise. In her fatigued state, she somehow managed to appear so bright. It had taken some time for her to make it to the door and she was out of breath as they spoke. He could hear her struggling to breathe, which was pitiful. It reminded him of how many took breathing, an ability so intrinsic, for granted.

“You know how it works,” he reminded her. A question for a gumdrop, or something like that. He liked to toss them to her one by one, and she caught them in her mouth like a pet eager for treats. The system they had going had worked wonders for him.

June sighed, stepping aside for him to enter. If she had it her way, she’d snatch the pouch from him and take off. Eat it all at once, like a greedy little rat. He knew she wasn’t genuinely interested in talking to him, but she put up with him for the gifts. The marshmallows and gumdrops, the chalk to color with—it went on.

“Is your sister home?” he inquired, settling down on the couch. It was a rickety thing that was Panem knew how old, covered with colorful sun-bleached throws.

“No,” she informed him, and for that, he tossed her a gumdrop from the pouch in his pocket. She caught it in the air and chewed it gratefully. Such gratitude was refreshing to see. June was certainly more grateful to him than her sister, who’d been testing him relentlessly. Her temper was a flame and though he despised the unpredictability of a flame, he relished it, somehow, in her. Took pleasure in kindling her spirit, only to snuff it out.

“Where is she?” he asked, and to his surprise, she wasn’t so eager to respond this time. She remained by the door, glancing out of it, then back, as if keeping guard. No response came, but surely she’d heard him.

He narrowed his eyes at that. “Go on, you can tell me.”

“I… can’t.” She pressed the door shut with her back, then looked off to the side, so guilty, as if she’d committed a crime.

“Why not?” he pressed on, toying with the ribbon of the pouch in his pocket.

“Because… I’m not supposed to.”

“Do you want more gumdrops, June?” She looked so conflicted now, staring at both him and the gumdrop, and the promise of a treat which was so close, if only she complied. “All you have to do is tell me where your sister is,” he enticed.

A moment of silence…

“…Somewhere you aren’t supposed to go.”

Look at her, betraying her sister over a mere gumdrop.

The embodiment of greed.

He’d been unsuccessful with getting June to tell him exactly where her sister was, but a few places came to mind. Of course, there was the Hob: the black market that shouldn’t have existed in the first place, though such disorder was rampant in this district. There was also all that uncharted territory beyond the outskirts of Twelve: the woods and the meadow. There was no fence to keep people out, so a handful liked to come and go as they pleased.

The meadow was beautiful, Sejanus had whispered to him. A breath of fresh air compared to how stifling it was within the district’s perimeters, where the air was thick with coal dust. Coriolanus had walked through it once, into the woods to capture those Jabberjays. It was beautiful indeed, but that was besides the point. The point being, Sejanus went back there, of his own accord. He’d made many friends here and had invited him along to a picnic—an invitation he’d of course turned down, as he was not as eager as him to go breaking all the rules.

How typical of Sejanus Plinth, he’d thought. Sedition, after all, was in his blood. That was exactly what had landed him here. He could’ve chosen any other district to serve his time as a Peacekeeper, but he’d chosen to follow his good friend. He’d never once told him they were friends, but the impression Coriolanus strived to maintain was genteel. As such, there were many, he supposed, who considered themselves his friends.

Sejanus had accepted his punishment for his stunt in the arena with such grace. Such grace that it seemed it wasn’t a punishment at all to him, but a fresh start. He wanted to put it all behind him and do some good for this world—become a medic. A waste of his skills when he was such a crackshot. So much so that he deliberately missed his targets during practice, lest he caught the attention of the Commander, who would no doubt put a wrench in those plans. He’d said his ‘pa’ had taught him how to shoot.

Sejanus was ecstatic to be among his kind again. While that was all fine and dandy—none of his business, he’d thought initially—he was reminded of the disturbing reality of what it meant to be perceived as his friend. Should his ‘good friend’ get into any trouble, it wasn’t a stretch to assume he could also take the fall for his messes, by pure association.

How troublesome.

Sneaking off to the meadow wasn’t an earth-shattering offense in and of itself, but he was building a track record here. Always whispering with strange people when he thought he wasn’t watching. What he’d later revealed to him about his plan to help smuggle those rebels out of Twelve was truly his last straw.

That’d been dealt with, he’d thought. Gaul would be pleased with his message from the Jabberjay, and perhaps would reward him for it. Give him a leg up, a way out of this district. Sejanus, as always, would get a slap on the wrist. They’d delegate some other punishment to him. Whatever it was, if it meant getting him out of his hair, he’d be relieved.

His morning patrol led him in proximity of the Hob, shortly after his conversation with June. Why not take a look? he thought. See what was going on in there. Maybe grab a snack. His eyes just so happened to be peeled more than usual. It was wise to be vigilant in these shady parts.

He just so happened to stumble upon a most compelling sight.

That man. His little mouse’s friend, carrying a heavy sack of something. He made his rounds, stopping by to trade some fruit, and all hell broke loose once he tried to discreetly slip an elderly woman selling stew a whole turkey. To his left and right, there were people bidding over it. If not the whole thing, then parts of it.

It was unprecedented chaos.

More chaos than the drunken brawls he’d observed.

It was useful to get to know the people around him. You never know what might come in handy. A habit for observance had been hardwired in Coriolanus, for only his entire life, that was how he survived. Back in the Capitol, where there was order, survival looked a bit different than this. Back there, he used his skill to mold himself to those around him. For each of his peers, he sported a different cadence and persona. A bit of flattery went a long way when he brought up things he remembered about them. That was precisely how he’d ended up in good graces with almost everyone. Almost everyone except Highbottom, who was immune to his charm and had a vendetta against him for whatever reason. He worked tirelessly to exude an impression fitting of a Snow heir, who wanted for nothing.

Here, it was different. There was little benefit in making friends and he was already in an advantageous position as a Peacekeeper, so there was nothing to claw towards. Nothing to strive for, besides perhaps the prospect of working his way up to a better district. Still, he could not help but observe every little thing, as though in that way, he was in control of the world around him. Observance was a useful skill, anyway, for reprimanding those who broke the rules.

If it were up to him, he thought, he’d burn this whole place down. But he rested assured that it’d take care of itself. One spark and this whole place would light up like a tinderbox, if it didn’t cave in from how decrepit it appeared.

Coriolanus, not wanting to be caught up in all this ruckus, made his swift exit.

Still, the thought scratched at his mind, to bring it up to Hoff. Surely he was aware that the Hob existed. Surely he was aware that the illegal goods sold there didn’t spawn out of thin air. Was he alright with people running off into the woods like that?

No wonder this district was such a mess.

He pictured himself, for a moment, as Commander instead. Thought of all the ways he might shape this place up, so it was less like a zoo. At least a zoo kept its animals caged. Perhaps he would surround the outskirts with a fence. Preferably an electrical one, so they couldn’t gnaw through it. That would keep them from getting out. There would be no whores running around in the barracks, soliciting his men for coin, either.

Anyway. That man made it out of the Hob in one piece and in bright spirits, having earned himself a pretty penny. Certainly much more than he’d have earned working in the mines.

Observance, Coriolanus thought, as they crossed paths, could be a weapon. Lethal, just as a blade was. His filthy bag brushed him as they bumped shoulders, and they both gave pause.

The man’s coal gray eyes hardened the moment they locked on him, in recognition. The warmth bled from them as he clenched his jaw—a stark contrast to how he’d been moments ago, making his rounds, greeting people and bartering with them. An apology was in order, yet not a word left his lips. He just stood there, gripping his bag so tight, as if frozen in a murderous rage. A look he’d never given him before, which, frankly, came out of nowhere when he was in such a seemingly good mood. Had he ruined his day?

“Can I help you?” Coriolanus inquired, since it appeared there was something he had to say.

Silence. Nothing. He simply sized him up as if contemplating something for a moment. Then he rolled his boot, shaking off the errant pebble stuck in it with the same carelessness that he’d demonstrated in his demeanor. Shake it off. Shake him off.

And then he was on his way.

How curious.

His strange behavior sat with him for a while. Truly confounded him. What did it mean? His little mouse’s friend had never given him any pleasant looks before—that much was certain. Whenever Coriolanus showed up, he was met with the same critical stare of someone trying to dissect something. Who are you and what do you want? was the general sense he got. Only this time, he was met with a stare so charged and brimming with ire, as if he’d personally done something to offend him. They’d never exchanged more than a brief greeting here and there, whenever in the presence of her.

It led him to wonder if, perhaps, the two of them had met up again. If not once, then twice, or several times for all he knew; he didn’t have the time nor care to keep a close eye on her. That was what a little birdie was for. She’d informed him that her friend hadn’t stopped by this week.

On a Sunday afternoon, Coriolanus came knocking on their door.

One knock, and—

It swung open with such haste that he initially assumed it was June, all bright-eyed and eager to see her favorite Peacekeeper who’d come by with another delivery of gumdrops. But no—it was his little mouse, all dolled up and ready for him. So pretty in pink, and was that the ribbon he gave her?

She’d finally worn it.

The satiny glint of it in the sunlight was something no cheap cloth ribbon could produce. It was the cherry on top of this new dress she was sporting: one a town girl would wear, with all its frills and fuss. Something she could never afford. Was it an heirloom or a gift from another? She’d gone all out. What was this? An attempt to butter him up? Distract him from what she’d been up to when he wasn’t keeping a watchful eye on her? She never wore any of his gifts unless he reminded her to, and had never thanked him for them, either. So, her wearing that ribbon out of the blue was certainly something.

“You’re here early,” she greeted him so sweetly—it was almost cloying. “Would you like a drink?” He took his time drinking her in, while she fixed him with the kindest smile.

“Some water would be nice,” he replied, humoring her anyway, pretending not to notice how chipper she was. She took off in her flowy pink dress, into the kitchen.

He didn’t like it—her regarding him the same way she did those Peacekeepers she swindled at the Hob. Batting her lashes and lilting her voice just so, all while waiting for them to get drunk enough so she could get away with fleecing their wallets. Normally, he would take a seat on the sofa and wait for her, but today he made himself comfortable, stepping past the fluffy orange obstacle by the door who was currently glaring daggers at him—probably plotting his demise. He made his way into the kitchen, hot on her tail, and she froze.

“Why don’t you take a seat? I’ll bring it to you.” She attempted to block his path, but he swiftly side-stepped her.

“I can help myself,” he insisted, then paused, waiting for that crack in her demeanor, that hint of irritation that he’d come to associate with her, to show. What’s yours is mine. She didn’t cave, merely retreating towards the kitchen counter. Just behind her, he spotted a large mixing bowl with a cloth covering it.

“What have we here?” he inquired in passing, grabbing himself a cup from the cabinet.

“Just some dough,” she gestured, her smile tensing. “I’m letting it sit.”

Well, he could’ve left it at that, but he wanted to pry—to get to the bottom of her unusual behavior. So, after pouring himself a glass of water and taking a sip, he made his way over to her side. It was like whiplash, how quickly his hand flew to the cloth behind her, pulling it off the bowl before she could attempt to hinder him. Her smile dropped so fast, the color bleeding from her face at having been caught red-handed with… what’s this?

“I’ve never seen bread like this before,” he remarked dryly, glancing at the bowl teeming with wild berries. Something you normally wouldn’t find within town, unless procured from the Hob, or perhaps… the woods. “Where’d you get these from?”

She swallowed. “The… Hob. June’s birthday’s coming up, so I wanted to make her something special.”

He didn’t pull away, instead letting his presence linger in proximity. He plucked a ripe berry from the top of the pile and examined it with precision. “How old is she turning, again?”

“Eight,” came her clipped response. He already knew that, but rather enjoyed watching her squirm. And squirm she did, picking her nails the way she did whenever she was nervous or lacking enrichment.

“How will you celebrate? Will you throw a party?”

Parties in the Capitol were once extravagant affairs. He’d witnessed that much through his hazy memories as a toddler, back before the war had done its damage. His mother used to parade him around in his little velvet suits, and all the poshly dressed mothers in her circle gushed about how handsome he looked. Just like Crassus, they unanimously agreed. It was all torturous; he instead directed his focus towards the intricate marbled fixtures and Avoxes strolling by with endless trays of fancy appetizers and drinks—drinks he’d not been allowed to touch, for he had to grow up first. Oh, how he could not wait to grow up so he could understand and perhaps enjoy all of that.

Then the war happened, and there came a time when such indulgence was a thing of the past. There came a time when no calorie was unwanted and every bit of scrap was utilized in some manner, whether fed to the fire or boiled into some insipid broth. Old outfits were repurposed for important occasions, when before, one would not be caught dead wearing the same ensemble twice.

But things were finally changing after ten hard years, just when he had to leave it all behind. Hedonism was creeping back into fashion, and so the parties came, along with the reconstruction efforts as Capitolite families endeavored to give their places a much-needed facelift. He was left to imagine what sort of parties his friends were throwing over their summer break. Were they all talking about him back home? Were they lauding him for ‘following in his late father’s footsteps’?

“That’s the plan,” she replied stiffly, still on edge about the berries, he assumed. Which was odd, given it was no secret she was a little rule breaker. Was something else troubling her?

“Who will be in attendance?” he pressed on, dragging his hand up her slight and bony frame. She stiffened under his touch, under his fingertips playing with the satin ribbon in her ponytail.

“Just me n’ June,” she managed, breath hitching.

“Only the two of you? Surely there are more people you could invite,” he mused. “Like your friend, perhaps? The two of you are seemingly inseparable.” He tried to picture what a party in Twelve looked like. Something sad, he imagined, without an endless buffet of refreshments and hors d’oeuvres. No orchestra playing in the background, nor any affluent guests. Just people crammed into a hot room with plenty of cheap booze. No class whatsoever.

She appeared perplexed, gingerly wetting her lips. “You… told me not to talk to him anymore.”

“Didn’t I?” He hummed, bringing a lock of her blonde hair up to his nose and inhaling its sweet scent. She’d showered recently; her signature strawberry scent wafted over him like an intoxicating cloud. “I saw him yesterday at the Hob, trading. He brought in quite a haul. A wild turkey. Those are hard to come by, aren’t they?” She was so quiet, so frightfully quiet, gripping the countertop so tightly her knuckles whitened. “I’ve heard, if you’re lucky, you can stumble across one out there, in the woods…”

“What about it?” she finally managed, straightening up.

“I stopped by your place yesterday to grab a drink beforehand. A little birdie told me the strangest thing. Do you want to know what?” He wasn’t asking, of course. “She said you went… somewhere you aren’t supposed to go.” He had her trapped like a mouse, and her gaze darted to her left and right as she searched for a way out. Poor little mouse, about to be devoured like prey. “Only two places came to mind, and I didn’t see you at the Hob. Where were you, pray tell?”

“In town—” she fired back, though her tone lacked conviction, “—looking for work.”

“Who were you with?” he inquired, plainly.

“I was alone,” she murmured.

“I thought we agreed not to lie to each other.” He tutted, pulling back. Nothing peeved him more than a liar. Especially a terrible liar.

“I’m not—”

He pressed his finger to her soft pink lips, shushing her. “I already know you saw your friend. I only want you to admit it. If you do, I’ll consider being more…” he paused, looking her up and down, trembling as she was, “…lenient with you.” Of course, it was mere speculation whether she’d met with her friend. He wouldn’t put it past someone like her who never learned how to follow rules. But he could be gracious… to those who were grateful.

“Why don’t we go out today?” He pulled away, permitting her enough room to breathe. “Some fresh air would do us some good. It’s quite stuffy in here.” As if fresh air were a possibility in this district. Usually, they stayed home. After they enjoyed a drink, she usually led him to her room, where the real fun began. To think indulging in such baser, animalistic urges was… fun. It wasn’t necessarily fun what they did. It was just… something to do. Something, where there was otherwise nothing. Was this how it felt to live like someone in the districts? There was little in the way of indulgence in a place like this. At least he wasn’t indulging at the expense of his liver. White liquor was what his fellow Peacekeepers preferred, but back home, they called that nasty drink Moonshine. Something hard and unrefined to the palate of the average Capitolite.

“Where are we going?” she asked as he steered her out of the kitchen, his hand on the small of her back.

“Outside. Didn’t you hear?” was all he said.

He had her walk a few feet ahead of him while he trailed her from behind, far enough so it seemed they weren’t walking together. That way, they wouldn’t draw suspicion. There was a certain decorum he strived to maintain, wherein he didn’t indulge in the company of her sort.

She kept glancing back at him like a skittish mouse being followed, and he simply told her to keep walking straight. For all she knew, they were meandering toward some unknown destination. It all clicked in her head once they crossed the edge of the seam, into the entrance of the lush field ahead.

“We aren’t supposed to be here.” She halted in her tracks, breath shaking.

“We’re almost there,” he replied smoothly, ignoring her words, her pretty words, such meaningless embellishments to his ears. “Keep going.”

They continued moving through the tall ferns, deeper into the heart of the meadow.

Now, they were out of sight and far from prying eyes.

That was when he reached into his holster, procuring his pistol, all while she kept walking, deeper and deeper into the field, none the wiser. Until finally, she flinched at the cool steel barrel pressing against her narrow back. Her hazel eyes widened in alarm once she found the source of it.

“Cor—Coriolanus…”

How strange it was to hear his name coming from her lips. Her loose lips.

“Did I tell you to stop walking?” came his callous response. “Keep going.”

It was a long, long stretch of a walk, but he’d gotten used to being on his feet all day, so this was nothing to him. Nothing but a brisk afternoon stroll. He took a moment to appreciate how sweet the air smelled, and the sight before him was truly stunning, purple and yellow wildflowers decorating the earth. The beauty of it was all but disarming to him—disarming for what he imagined when he pictured Twelve. Here, he found no trace of anything gray and decrepit. Nothing covered in a film of coal dust. Just the earth itself, thriving wildly, as nature did.

He led her down, down to the willow tree.

“It’s beautiful,” he said, giving the place a wide sweep with his cold blue eyes. “How often do you come down here?”

“I haven’t been here in ages,” she lied. Again. She rubbed her arm in an attempt to soothe herself, the leaves of the willow tree tickling her tanned neck.

“My apologies, I meant—how often do you come here with your friend? What was his name again?” He waved the pistol around, his memory failing him, or so it seemed through her widened gaze.

“We should head back—”

“Ezra, was it?” In the meantime, she was eyeing his pistol warily, as if it were a loose cannon. “The two of you truly are inseparable.” She backed up against the trunk of the willow tree and he followed her, matching her hastened strides with his longer ones. “Did the two of you come here yesterday?”

She shook her head.

“I’ve learned that whenever you say no, you actually mean yes,” he remarked. “Such a backwards way to speak, in my opinion. It would save us both the trouble if you would simply be honest with me. Honesty is so important.”

Her kind would know nothing about that.

He was reminded of that when he looked up at the source of the rustling above them in the tree. Sure enough, he found a few of those birds flitting about on its branches. Those Mockingjays—unnatural beasts they were. He’d pitched the idea to Commander Hoff to use them as target practice. It would be like killing two birds with one stone, he’d said, proud of himself for coming up with that. They’d fix the issue of those things multiplying rampantly and hone their skills in turn.

“He followed me—it was just once—”

“I don’t care to know,” he confessed, caging her against the rough trunk of the tree. What had happened had happened. The mention of that district boy irked him, however, and not for the reason one would suspect. It wasn’t jealousy he felt, but rather irritation at something of his falling into the coal-blackened hands of another. She belonged to him, as he saw it, and it was not the sort of possessiveness one would have for a lover, but rather a favorite toy. Toys were easily discardable once they served their purpose. And she was not serving hers well, he thought. He drank her in, trembling as she was, the cool barrel of his pistol trailing up her arm, then down her chest, pressing down with such force as if he were trying to feel her heartbeat. How fast it must’ve thrummed when it seemed she was struggling to breathe.

“Why did you bring me here?” she murmured, her hand finding the barrel and pushing at it. His aim, however, was steady, locked on its target.

“To enjoy the weather. Did you not listen?” he taunted, tapping the pistol against her temple, against her thick skull, making her flinch. “You have a free spirit. A mind of your own… and that is precisely why your actions have consequences. Do they not?” He clicked the safety off the pistol, truly driving his point home. The horrified look she gave him was priceless, like she was truly convinced she was at death’s door. “There is a way you can make it up to me. If you manage to convince me that you’re sincere, I might let this slide…”

His hand, which held the pistol, as if possessed, moved along her silhouette, down her tightened throat and humble breasts, her slender middle, further down, finding its home between her quivering thighs.

“Are you gonna kill me if I don’t?” she managed, appearing as if she might soil herself.

“Of course not, little mouse. I am many things but not wasteful—if you can prove that you are of use to me.” What was it, this high in his head? All he knew was that her fear looked delicious. It made him want to devour her whole, like a wolf having drawn its first taste of blood. He traced the cool barrel of the pistol along her inner thighs, sending a shiver up her spine. A familiar heat pooled in his loins.

“What do you want me to do?” she asked, and though her reaction pleased him, he didn’t show it. He rather liked having her dwell in this perpetual state of uncertainty. Fear was respect. Breath hitching, she tried to ignore the pistol tracing up to her core, teasing it through the flimsy barrier of fabric beneath her dress.

“Get down on your knees,” he ordered.

“This is my ma’s dress. I don’t want to ruin it.” She gave him a pleading look.

“Then take it off.”

It was a simple solution, yet she hesitated with the hem of her dress. Though they were out in the middle of nowhere, there was still that shame, that indecency about being exposed to the elements. Inevitably, she caved, lifting her skirt and dropping to her knees on the lush grass.

“Good girl,” he praised, one hand finding her golden crown of hair and stroking it, as if he were addressing a pet. “Now, I want you to please me.”

And so she moved through the motions mechanically, her trembling hand reaching for his belt—

But he gripped her hand tight, halting her. Her brows furrowed in confusion because, after all, this was how it usually began, with her pulling down his pants and briefs, then taking him with her skilled hands and mouth. “Close your eyes for me, little mouse.”

A direct order, which she obeyed, despite her perplexity.

Where her lips had expected to meet warmth, there was instead the kiss of something cold and metallic. Her eyes snapped open at once, and she gasped at the pistol prodding at her lips. His hand caged her in place, pulling her forward when she tried to retreat. “I’m truly astounded that you thought I’d let you lay a finger on me after what you pulled. Who knows what these lips of yours have touched?”

An incredulous whimper was all she offered in response. His fingers carded through her silky waves. “Open your mouth.” She did—barely—and so he yanked her hair, eliciting a hiss from her. That allowed him to slide the barrel in, with a bit of necessary force. The metallic taste of the metal made her gag, but he didn’t ease up. After all, wasn’t she meant to please him? Was that not her purpose?

Her hazel eyes prickled with tears—tears of humiliation—because she had never looked so dumb. “You know what to do,” he said, a chill in his tone. “Work that pretty little mouth for me like you always do.” It was what she did best. Her lips wrapped around the barrel and her cheeks hollowed, then she began to suck it gingerly like it was his cock. What a sinful sight. He grazed his finger over the trigger, just to see her tense up in fright. “There we go. Just like that,” he crooned, watching her bob her head up and down so carefully, like it was the first time she’d ever sucked a cock. But they both knew this was far from the first time she’d debased herself.

She squeezed her eyes shut, as if looking at him would unravel her composure, which she was barely holding together. Her hands were balled into fists over her lap, unnaturally stiff as she went through the motions, just waiting for it to be over. He wondered what she was thinking of now. Was she praying that his finger wouldn’t slip on that trigger?

Coriolanus pushed the gun further down, as deep as it could go, feeling a familiar stiffness in his trousers. A natural reaction he chose to ignore. It wasn’t about the gratification—it never truly was. “Why are you so tense, little mouse?” he taunted. “Are you afraid I’ll let my finger slip? One pull and it would be all over for you, wouldn’t it?”

Her frantic eyes snapped open at that, and she watched him play with the trigger, with such carelessness as if it were a toy. The sinful sound of her struggling to take the gun was all he could hear then—no birds, no leaves rustling. All of nature had dissolved into a quiet hum, where at the center of it all, there was just her. She tried to pull back for air once it had gotten too difficult for her to breathe, but he was relentless, seeing just how far he could push her. Her thighs squeezed together as she shifted restlessly.

“Is it too much for you? Do you want to take a break?” his voice softened as if in consideration—before he let the other shoe drop. “You can go a little while longer.” Until he was satisfied, if not bored with this. She looked like a right mess, drool dripping down her chin as she whimpered, clearly begging for something, but her mouth was too preoccupied for her to tell him just what she needed.

Out of nowhere, her hand slipped between her thighs, beneath the thin fabric covering her modesty—what little remained of it. The satisfied look on his face faded, just like that, when he saw her hand move in teasing circles as she… as she… pleasured herself.

What a sick, depraved individual, getting off to something like this.

He was, by all means, disgusted, and a bit miffed because this wasn’t supposed to be enjoyable for her. This was meant to be a lesson for her, but some people, it seemed, were beyond rehabilitation. His jaw clenched and he could’ve sworn for a second that he caught a triumphant glint in her eyes, somewhere beneath the haziness. Even now, she was testing him, as if to say—you can do whatever you want to me, but you’ll never break me.

“Look at you,” he crooned, returning her energy with narrowed eyes. “All worked up from sucking my pistol. A proper whore, if I’ve ever seen one.” She offered a hum, rocking her hips against her hand, and well, he heard the evidence of her excitement loud and clear. That sticky, shameless sound, that almost made his face heat up. “Shall I replace your fingers with something better?” She didn’t offer him any response. Just a glazed-over look, which he’d interpreted as a challenge.

Well, it was about time he put her in her place. In a proper sense. No more second and third chances. With that conviction, he withdrew the pistol and pulled her up by her arm. She gave a surprised squeak, and the next thing she knew, she was pressed up against the trunk of the willow tree. He ripped her panties clean off her body and she gasped, but he gave her no time to recover from that, pressing the cool weapon between her legs.

“You’re not actually gonna…” Her voice cracked when he traced it along her folds, teasingly, all while she stared at it in horror.

“Not going to what?” He feigned innocence, prodding the weapon between her folds and coating it thoroughly in her arousal. “You were so eager, playing with yourself while you sucked my gun like it was my cock,” he pointed out, dryly. Such vulgar words, but he’d gotten used to hearing all sorts of vulgarities during his stay here. Such words that he hardly heard back in the Capitol were so normal now. “It wouldn’t be a stretch to assume you’d like being fucked by it too, hmm? It takes a special sort of whore to get wet like that.”

“You’re insane,” she faltered, the rawness in her voice breaking through the facade she put up. A moment of silence stretched on as they tried to read each other, tried to calculate their next moves. It seemed she decided hers once she straightened up, steeling herself. “I see you’re getting off to this too…” So boldly, her hand found its way to the stiffness in his trousers, pressing down. “Do you need a little help there?” A teasing rub, and then a twitch, which she certainly felt. A wry, forced smile formed on her face, mingling with the fear already there, making her look almost manic in her attempt to keep it together.

She had to have the upper hand. Had to remain in control, no matter what, even when he had a gun pointed at her. Reckless as can be. There was only one winner in this game they were playing, and well, as the saying goes… Snow lands on top. Perhaps he hadn’t spelled that out for her clearly enough. He slapped her hand away. “Hands to yourself, unless you want me to tie you up, little mouse.” She’d like that, wouldn’t she? Of course she would. Was there anything he could do to her that she wouldn’t like?

He thought of one thing.

Without ceremony, he eased the pistol inside her tight walls, and she inhaled sharply at how cold the metal was, and how unnatural it was to be filled with something like this. She bit down hard on her lip, desperately trying to stifle the whimper building in her throat. But he heard it. He assumed a languid rhythm, as if all of this were a mere inconvenience to him, while her blunt nails dug into the rough bark, seeking purchase.

“Not so talkative anymore, are you?” he taunted, each thrust, each subtle movement calculated, disarming her little by little. Her walls fluttered, struggling to accommodate the pistol and all its rough ridges. “It would be so easy to pull this trigger…” he murmured, his voice low and velvety smooth as he carefully tapped it, watching her flinch. “One twitch and… this little game of ours ends for good.”

“If you’re gonna do it, just do it.” Her face burned with humiliation, and yet, she managed to bite back. “Stop playing with your toy.”

“Eager, aren’t we?” he purred, a gleam of amusement in his expression. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves here.”

He continued toying with her until he grew bored. Or was it that the tightness in his trousers had become too distracting to ignore? He pulled the pistol out of her and she exhaled in relief.

“What now?” she asked him when he slid it back into its holster.

What indeed? He looked her up and down, considering how to go about solving this problem he had. “You see…” he began, “I don’t think you’ve learned to respect me yet. I think I ought to fuck that attitude out of you.”

She swallowed. “I thought you didn’t want to touch me.”

“Touch you, no. But mold you—” he grabbed her wrist, then turned her around to face the tree in one swift motion, “—perhaps.” He shoved her dress up over her hips, exposing her to the elements completely. Then he freed his cock from its tight confines and pressed it flush against her ass, letting her feel it, that pulsing warmth. “When I am done with you, you won’t be the same anymore.” It wasn’t a warning, but a promise. Eventually, there would come a time when he tired of her, or they naturally drifted apart. By then, would she recognize herself?

His knee wedged her legs apart. In one swift thrust, he entered her, filling her completely—bottoming out without any regard for easing her into it like he often did. A sharp cry tore itself from her throat, echoing in the meadow around them. The birds above responded, mimicking that sound, that broken moan she gave. She gasped in mortification, and he couldn’t help but chuckle. She covered her mouth, trying to stifle her sounds, but he gathered both of her hands and pinned them behind her back, not allowing her that privilege.

“Don’t. Let them hear exactly what you are,” he hissed, constricting her with his very presence, as if he were a snake, and she, the little mouse, his prey. He fucked her hard against the willow tree as she struggled, thrashing beneath him, entirely helpless. She hated being tied up—hated that loss of control. The last time he’d tied her up, she’d struggled just the same, demanding to be untied. Those words on her lips were just that. Pretty little words. They meant nothing.

And so the birds echoed her song in refrain while she cried out pathetically, the rough bark of the tree scraping her skin. What more was a little cut and bruise? He’d already left so many on her. Most of those hadn’t been done by his hand, but he’d delivered her to her judgment, and so, was responsible. His gaze traced along her back, over where all those scars were, concealed by her dress. She’d worn long sleeves despite the sweltering heat, determined to cover the evidence, as if that would erase what had been done.

“Can you hear it? How pathetic you sound?” he hummed, listening to her cry out as he hit her sweet spot. The one place he noticed she was trying to hide from him, but he sought it relentlessly, making her knees tremble. “Ah, ah,” he mocked her, and she gritted her teeth.

“Shut. Up—”

“Is that any way to speak to the one who helps feed and clothe you? Hmm?” His grip eased, and in that moment she managed to break free and throw him off. He landed on his ass in the dirt. It was moments like these, when she behaved like a wild animal, that he was again reminded of what she was. He wiped the dirt from his chin, smiling coldly at her from her spot by the tree. Fists clenched and everything, knees shaking. Where was she going with this?

Coriolanus rose to his feet, moving towards her, and she backed away.

“You’ve always liked it rough,” he thought out loud. She liked to scratch him and bite him, liked to make him draw blood, as if a taste for it were innate in her. It very well might’ve been. “We can play rough, if that’s what you want.” He seized her by her arm and shoved her to the earth, onto her face. How familiar it was to have her pinned to the ground like this. It reminded him of how they met, and how she squirmed just the same, struggling to break free. He yanked her head back, hissing hotly against her ear—“If you want to act like an animal, I’ll treat you like one.”

Coriolanus mounted her from behind and thought of how elemental this was. Them in the dirt, her clawing at it while she gasped, trying to adjust to the sheer size of him and the suddenness of it all. Her pathetic cries resumed as he fucked her at a relentless pace, working out all of that pent-up energy. No, there was nothing animalistic about this. Nothing uncouth about what they were doing. It was mere strategy.

His large hands, once so smooth, were now calloused from his new lifestyle, and they gripped her small waist, squeezing it tightly. He grunted as he used her for all she was worth, as the birds echoed—ah, ah. It was all too much for her; she’d tried to cover her ears just so she couldn’t hear it, and him laughing at how worked up she was getting.

Soon, he felt that familiar tightness in his loins, and she sensed it too, in the way his rhythm stuttered, and how he grunted. “Pull out.” She tried to turn her head to him, but his strong hand had her pinned in place. He wasn’t stopping, and at that, she gave a panicked look. “Coriolanus—”

“Did I give you permission to say my name?” he hissed.

“Sir. Please!”

Oh. All of a sudden, she was so sweet with him, as if seeing the error in her ways, but he knew better. “What would happen anyway?” he thought out loud. “It won’t take. Even if it did, it wouldn’t be the end of the world. It might settle you.” His hand moved down to her hollow stomach, pressing down on it, right where her womb was. “Think of it, you swollen with my seed. My bastard child.”

That would never happen, of course; she was so visibly malnourished. Did she even have her regular cycles? She tried with all her might to get away, as if that would truly mean the end of the world to her. “You’re squeezing me so tightly, little mouse. It’ll be impossible for me to pull out now,” he taunted, pulling her back onto his cock, making her cry out.

“No!” She sobbed. “I can’t risk it…” She’d tired herself out, from all that trashing around, the ground around her riddled with claw marks—the evidence of her struggle. “I can’t end up like…” End up like what? Like every other district whore, inevitably?

She went rigid, shuddering when she felt that warmth flooding inside her.

“No…” She shook, lying still there, even after he pulled out. He watched her from above, taking in what a mess she was, his seed trickling down her thighs and onto the dirt. The same place she liked to come to with her friend, and do heaven knows what. It might’ve been their little secret before, but not anymore. A part of him thought, if his seed did take, she’d forever associate this place with where she’d gotten knocked up by some man who wasn’t even her husband. A common occurrence in the districts.

Conceiving out of wedlock in the Capitol was a surefire way to cause scandal, because there, in that beautiful land, there was order.

Come to think of it, his theory might not be sound. How were they all getting pregnant here, if they were so malnourished? Nature was a tenacious thing. He knelt over her trembling form after he tucked himself away, brushing her messy waves back to see her face. What a mess it was, dirt on it and everything. “Why… did you do that?” she asked him, her hazel eyes filled with such shock, and a hint of hatred, spreading like wildfire, sure enough.

“Because, little mouse, I wanted to remind you that your actions indeed have consequences.” He played with her hair almost tenderly, a mockery of a lover’s touch, and then pulled her to sit up straight. She flinched when he touched her, but made no move to smack his hand away, and so he continued, brushing her tears away. Fixing her hair and making her presentable. “Let this be a lesson to you, not to test me further. I would hate for you to force my hand again.”

“Now,” he said, pulling away, “pull yourself together. We have a hike to do.”

“Where… are we going?” She struggled to her feet, cringing at that sticky feeling between her thighs. Upon further examination, her panties were torn to shreds. As good as useless, but she still pocketed them, as if to hide the evidence.

“Into the woods,” he answered. “I want you to show me where you and your friend like to go.”

Option 1: Come get your Dee content! => focus on salt&sugar as the main "Coryo" fic and only then continue BTK/vamp saga

more time for Dee (he doesn't need to get in line with the vamp fics)

vamp!Coriolanus will wait until salt&sugar is done (he will be in horny jail for some time after also bc "come nightfall" will be its 'prequel' in a sense -- but the cameo will still be worth it, pinky promise...)

Option 2: Get vamp!Coriolanus spin off faster

puts Dee in jail for now (until salt&sugar finishes)

but "come nightfall" gets out faster => "blood & sugar" STARTS faster

After that was dealt with, she could save for a rainy day. It was inevitable that she would be replaced. Once Mr. Snow married, he would have no time for such rakish joys when he had a family to raise. A wife to cater to.

She’d become an afterthought.

A liability.

Then what?

Phoebe imagined she’d spend the rest of her days working as a maid under a new employer. Cleaning was the best sort of job she could have, as it required few qualifications. Her one year at the University was not enough to earn her a degree and a high school diploma wasn’t exactly laudable. It was the bare minimum in society.

This wasn’t how she pictured living out her youth, but she ought to get used to it.

It was just so monotonous, this routine of hers. All work and no play.

Coriolanus worked her to the bone, eager to squeeze every bit of worth from her that he could. During the day, she tended to his penthouse. Come nightfall, she warmed his bed. Even that required preparation beforehand, as he expected nothing less than perfection of her.

He curated every little thing, she found. As he went about his penthouse, he straightened things up, even if they were slightly off-place. His schedule was rigid and he prided himself on his punctuality. Once, she’d heard him tear apart his assistant Lydia for being a few minutes late. So what if there was traffic? She ought to plan for that.

It also peeved him when people showed up too early.

On the dot was his expectation.

Sundays were Phoebe’s only day off, and she often found herself so drained by her schedule that the idea of going out had lost its appeal. She was a bit of a homebody anyway, even before, preferring to spend her time reading and baking. But now Coriolanus had taken those joys from her, too.

He didn’t want her reading filth, so he curated her library. A small one had been set up in her bedroom, which he added titles to upon her request (and his subsequent review). Sometimes he snuck in his own recommendations for her enrichment. History and science books to be exact. A few philosophy titles, too, for her sponge of a mind to absorb. Baking was no longer a pleasure of hers, but an expectation to fulfill. The recipes were all tailored to his preference: not too sweet.

Sunday, to her dismay, was also his day off.

She was never truly alone in this gilded cage. It was unnatural, being caged for so long. Part of her yearned to spread her wings and fly.

She brought it up to him, her concern.

“I was wondering if I could go book shopping myself,” Phoebe had requested gingerly while he was enjoying his afternoon tea in his study. “I don’t want to trouble your assistant—she works so hard.” Usually, she jotted down the names of some titles on a note card, which he handed to his assistant. Lydia was a meticulous woman at his beck and call, too. Though she didn’t live here, she frequently delivered things and also brought him groceries.

They’d seldom exchanged more than a clipped greeting whenever she stopped by to hand her bags. Anything confidential was delivered to Mr. Snow personally while he was in his study. She wasn’t trusted to handle those sealed envelopes, which had her wondering what on earth those entailed.

“There’s no need for that,” Coriolanus had replied crisply. “Let her do her job.”

“But…” Speaking of doing one’s job—he handed her his empty teacup.

“Fetch me a refill, please.”

Attempt unsuccessful.

Phoebe didn’t let that deter her, though. She came back again another day and said, “There’s a recipe I want to try, but it’s only as good as the fruits are. I’d like to pick them myself. I was wondering if maybe this Sunday, I could go to the store.”

She sort of required his permission since she didn’t have a dime in her pocket.

“I can see you’re feeling a bit cooped up,” he observed, his sharp gaze boring through her with an intensity to it, as if sifting through her mind. Did he see through her ruse? A hint of amusement bled into his expression as if he were thinking, that won't work with me. “If some fresh air is what you desire, why don’t you head up to the rooftop?” he suggested in turn. His final judgment.

So that was a resounding no.

“I just want to get out. It’s not the same,” she couldn’t help but complain. She seldom complained but surely he would cut her some slack since it had been so long. “I’m off on Sundays, aren’t I? It should be no trouble to you if I leave for a little.”

He instead handed her his empty teacup. Again.

Phoebe set it back down, her eye twitching. He wasn’t listening, not really. In fact, the longer she stood there trying to string together the words to say, the more bored he grew. “Is there anything else you have to say?” he asked languidly. “I have things to do, if you don’t mind.”

“This Sunday, I’m going for an outing,” she blurted out before she was able to stop herself. Are you now? His raised brow implied. She straightened up, mustering all the courage she could to tell him: “I won’t be home in the morning.”

“You can’t go shopping without any money,” he retorted. And he was right. “What will you do? Browse around?”

“Maybe.” She folded her hands behind her back, attempting nonchalance. “Or I could go for a stroll in the park. Take in some sights.”

“Not a good time for that. The leaves are falling.”

“I do need to exercise more, too,” she countered. “I’ve put on some weight.”

That she has. She looked better—more alive now thanks to the strict regimen he had her on, which included plenty of vitamin supplements. That was beside the point.

“My cup is still empty, Phoebe.” In translation, shut up and be a good girl for me, won’t you? He glanced down at it pointedly.

Frowning, she grabbed the teacup, then set off, her heels clicking with haste.

But then he called for her.

She fought that impulse to look over her shoulder and snap—what else? Surely if she snapped like that, some punishments would be in order. He punished her before for snapping at him. Beckoned her over, so deceptively smooth before he seized her by the waist and bent her over his lap. She’d barely recovered from that when he pulled her dress up over her hips and ripped her panties down her legs, exposing her to the elements. “That is no way to speak to me,” he’d chided, so displeased with her. “It appears you’ve forgotten your place.”

She truly did, when the lines were so blurred. Who punished their maid like this? Who had them warm their bed at night? He was merciful enough to use his bare hand to strike her ass and not the metal ruler on his desk. She’d squirmed so much that he had to rip off his silk tie and use it to bind her wrists behind her back. Thighs clenching, she endured that awful stinging ache whenever his heavy hand came down. He had her count each strike until she was left in tears, her skin burning like it was set ablaze. Not in a good way. Not like that pit of fire in her loins whenever he touched her, gently, that coursed throughout her body in ripples. Though she hadn’t bled, it hurt to sit down for a while.

“This pains me as much as it does you,” he’d admitted when he saw the ugly red splotches marring her ass. “But it had to be done. I can’t have you acting like a brat.”

He could be so cruel sometimes, confusing her like this. So soft in the aftermath, his knuckles wrapped in velvet, while he rubbed cream over her wounds. He’d asked, “Have you learned your lesson, now?”

Phoebe nodded in a heartbeat, fearing if she waited too long to respond, he’d start over.

“Use your words, doll,” came his cool response.

“Y-Yes,” she’d managed, gripping the armrest of his seat. “Yes, sir.”

He ran his fingers through her silky tresses, stroking her as if she were a pet, and like one, she leaned into his forgiving touch. Instinctively. Against better judgment. Because that was the reaction he sought from her. Not because she liked being comforted. She didn’t like how whenever he was upset with her, he never appeared upset. Just disappointed. It brought her back to when she was a child, trying not to cry when she let her father down again.

Whenever she talked back or said a bad word, her father made her wash her mouth with soap. 

“What have you learned? Tell me,” Coriolanus pressed on.

“Never… to talk back to you,” she’d replied shakily, telling him what he wanted to hear.

“Good girl.” He’d wiped the tears from her face, so sweet about it. So pleased to see that she’d learned.

This time, she didn’t make the mistake of snapping at him. She had instead, in her sweetest voice, replied, “Yes?”

“Fetch me another scone too,” he ordered.

“Right away, sir.”

Sir. Mr. Snow. That was what she called him.

He, on the other hand, had a plethora of names for her.

The one he was most fond of was doll.

In the presence of others, however, she was only ever Phoebe or Miss Blackwood.

◆ ◆ ◆

It was a Saturday when she worked up the courage to go out.

Not a Sunday.

Coriolanus wasn’t home and she thought, what would be the harm in going for a short stroll? Her tasks for the day were complete. The lists he gave her were suspiciously longer lately, but she took things in stride, pooling her efforts into rushing it, though not obviously so. Like a hawk, he could spot anything. Any imperfection, any shortcut she took, like that. If he deemed she did a sloppy job, he’d make her start over.

After checking once, twice—thrice—for anything she forgot to clean, she threw on her coat and snuck out.

Without a dime in her pocket.

It was strange, walking these streets after being kept off them for so long. Come autumn, the leaves were starting to change color and fall. An array of warm colors caught her eye—dazzling shades of reds, yellows, and oranges. She watched as the cars rolled down the Corso: what was possibly the busiest street in all of the Capitol, where all the expensive townhouses and apartments were located.

Look at all these people, she thought. Driving their fancy cars. Living their fancy lives. Most drivers in the Capitol were lower class if not Avoxes, but there was no need to be pedantic. Case in point—there were many living better lives than her.

A bit of envy flared in her when she saw a Capitolite woman strolling out of a boutique with an Avox on her tail, struggling to carry the loads of shopping bags on his arms. In her purse was a shivering puppy donning what was probably a cashmere sweater, if its diamond collar was any indicator of its owner’s wealth. No one would dare to buy fake diamonds here. She was laughing alongside another woman who donned the same outfit as hers, only in a different shade. A matching pooch stuck its head out of her purse.

Another Avox popped out of the door, rushing to keep up with the other lady. Also struggling to carry her bags.

She used to go shopping like that with her friend, Priscilla. They ran all along The Promenade with one mission alone: to drain their father’s wallets. A seemingly impossible challenge.

Phoebe had not planned this outing, in truth. The idea was to get out for the sake of it. She pulled the hood of her coat up over her head and adjusted her sunglasses, hoping that no one would recognize her in this disguise. It was a possibility, especially on a Saturday when people tended to visit The Promenade—the shopping complex located near the Corso.

She walked and walked until her legs felt numb.

Before she knew it, she’d ended up in the park. Nothing pretty to see here—just leaves falling, this time of year. Though come spring, it was absolutely beautiful, sprawling with lush blossoms, the air so sweet. Spring was her favorite season because of how beautiful it was, and how the Capitol seemed to come alive with color after months of everything appearing so barren.

There were small joys she found this time of year, too. She liked to step on the colorful leaves to hear that satisfying crunch sound. While she walked, she made sure not to step on the lines in the pavement. A game she liked to play to keep things interesting.

She’d been so enveloped in her game, unaware of how time had passed, until she clipped the shoulder of someone strolling by. When she turned to apologize…

He appeared familiar.

She tilted her shades down to get a closer look at this tall raven-haired man.

“Phoebe?” His smooth voice startled her into slipping her shades back on. It was Marcellus Whimsiwick. “Long time no see,” he greeted her, not letting her frigid response deter him.

“It’s been a while,” she replied stiffly, before looking around for the nearest exit. She hadn’t intended to run into anyone. Hadn’t mentally prepared for it, either.

“Going for a walk?” he inquired.

Some silence, and then, “Yes. I thought I’d stretch my legs for a bit.”

The last time they’d seen each other was before summer break. After he left for the districts, Julia and her peers had thought it humorous to cook up some rumor about them eloping. Because they had history. Not much history, really. Partnering up for assignments together a few times was hardly a declaration of romance, but bored people tend to gossip. They probably all knew about him asking her to be his date to the Yule Ball, but never mind her rejecting him.

“I see. Me too.” Little rays of sunlight brought out the specks of blue in his startling green eyes. “If you have no company, will you allow me to join you?”

What harm could that do? It had been some time since she talked to anyone other than Coriolanus and his guests. With that in mind, she nodded.

Then they walked together along the winding paths surrounding the perfectly manicured lawns.

“What have you been up to lately?” inquired Marcellus. “We’ve all been wondering where you’ve disappeared to.” We as in her nosy former classmates, she assumed. “You weren’t at Priscilla’s birthday party.” Unusual, considering the two of them were like peas in a pod ever since they could walk. She dreaded parties, truly dreaded them, but made an exception for any events hosted by the Darlings. “I haven’t seen you at the University either…”

Priscilla had been worried sick for her after she seemingly disappeared off the face of the earth. The calls and messages were endless.

Please talk to me, Phoebe. I’m worried about you.

Your father asked if I was hiding you. What is this about? Did you two get into a fight again?

Talk to me, please.

If you ever need a place to stay, I’m always here for you. Stay safe out there. Wherever you are.

The guilt ate away at her. Each call she let ring, each message she silently read. Both from her, Father, and Mr. Grant. It wouldn’t take much effort to pick up the phone and respond. To give them some sign that she was alive and well. But what good would that do when that life was behind her now?

Priscilla wouldn’t understand. All she’d do was try to talk her into ‘seeing sense’ and marrying Mr. Grant to preserve the peace. All her life, she’d been raised to be an obedient daughter. To do whatever she was told without question. A perfect Capitol darling.

If only she could’ve been that way, too. Life would’ve been simpler had she listened to her father. Simpler, yes, though arguably depressing, to be in a loveless marriage with a man twice her age. It rubbed her wrong, the haste with which Father had insisted she marry that man. All to clean up his mess.

Did he even love her? Was a word he said to her ever true? He might’ve brought her into this world, but that was as far as their familial bond went. She was under no obligation to do him such a favor when it concerned the rest of her future.

On Priscilla’s birthday, she messaged her to wish her a happy birthday. And of course she never attended her party. It would’ve been an extravagant affair if Mrs. Darling was in charge of coordinating things, which meant everyone they knew would be in attendance.

She used to help Priscilla plan her parties. Had been so excited to sample endless flavors of cakes with her, to settle upon the best one. They made a day out of shopping for decorations together while their Avoxes struggled to carry their things.

Those days were behind her now.

“Nothing, really. A bit of this. A bit of that.” Phoebe played it cool, trying to ignore that lump forming in her throat. “I thought I’d take a break from school. My grades haven’t exactly been stellar. Father will have my head if I get another D.”

Mathematics was never her strong suit.

“I see,” Marcellus replied, looking off to the side in contemplation. He hesitated over his next words. “Julia told me that you’ve been… going through it. If you’d like to talk about it—”

“I do not,” she snapped defensively, before mentally scolding herself. Decorum, Phoebe. “Sorry. I mean, I’d rather not talk about it.”

His brow arched at her unusual outburst.

He didn’t mention it, fortunately. Phoebe asked if he would be so kind as to give her the scoop about what’s been going on with their peers and he told her all about the new courtships in their circle—including the ones that fell through. There was even an announcement of an engagement! For a moment, she forgot about her blunder, instead enveloped in the developments of her peers and their (mostly) successful lives.

A sharp, distressed meow halted their conversation.

It came from… the sky?

Phoebe glanced up and of course there was nothing in the sky. But there was a rather tall tree and an orange ball of fluff dangling precariously from one of its slender branches. The branch was bending, on the brink of snapping under the weight of the squirming critter attached to it. Paling, she rushed forward to get a closer look, which might’ve been a mistake since it started to squirm even more.

The ball of fluff perked up to reveal a pair of pointy ears, a flicking tail and a set of beady green eyes. It was a kitten who, by the looks of it, was barely past weaning age. Their adventure had somehow landed them all the way up there.

“The branch—it’s going to break!” Phoebe frantically gestured towards it, glancing back at Marcellus, who was wide-eyed. A small thing like that wouldn’t survive such a drop. If it did, it’d be gravely injured.

“Leave it there.” He fumbled for the phone in his pocket. “I’ll call the Peacekeepers.”

“What if it falls? We can’t wait!” she insisted, calculating how long it would take for her to make it to the top. She wasn’t equipped for this, in her heeled shoes and dress. The last time she’d climbed a tree was when she was seven, and her father had chided her for falling off of it and getting mud on her dress. It was safe to say that her tree climbing skills were rusty, and time was of the essence.

Marcellus was tall and limber. He could do the job.

He hesitated, looking down at his immaculate suit.

Never mind. Phoebe made a beeline for the tree, struggling to make it up there. In the process, her shoe slipped off, which was when he saw fit to jump in and help. Finally.

“No—let me do it.” Sighing, he helped her back down. She hopped to grab her shoe and slid it back on. In the interim, he climbed his way up there with impressive speed, albeit awkwardly, fighting with the rigid fabric of his suit.

He was precariously perched up there, now. If he were to slip and fall, surely he would break a bone or two. Or several.

“Here kitty, kitty,” Marcellus called out to the feline, who wasn’t a fan of him by the looks of it, given her pinned-back ears. He scooted closer, gripping the branch for dear life—probably praying to himself that it wouldn’t snap. After all that effort, the kitten leapt down onto the branch beneath him.

Phoebe held out her arms to catch the kitten just in case it fell. It seemed all too enticed with her now, ducking its head, hesitating whether to jump for it. “Don’t worry,” she gasped, “We’re going to get you down!”

A soft, sad meow was the kitten’s only response.

“Put your hands down,” a rather flustered Marcellus snapped. Where was all that decorum now? Thrown out the window in a moment of undue stress. “It’s going to jump.”

She elected to ignore his unpleasant tone and lowered her hands.

Eventually, he leaned over and snatched the muddy kitten up in his arms. It squirmed with all its tiny might as he, all frazzled (and slightly disgusted), held onto it to the best of his ability. She waited with bated breath until he climbed down the tree and finally planted his feet on the ground.

“You poor thing,” Phoebe cooed, taking the kitten from Marcellus and cradling it to her chest. He seemed almost wounded that her concern wasn’t directed towards him, as he’d been scratched up. But he would live. The poor thing, however, was in such pitiful shape in comparison. “You must be so cold.” And so hungry, surely; she could see its ribs. It was in dire need of a bath, its fur all greasy and muddy. “I wonder where your mother is…”

“What now?” queried Marcellus as he brushed the dirt off his wool coat. “Are you going to let it go? It doesn’t have a collar.” He mumbled something under his breath about his coat being brand-new.

The kitten sniffed her for a good minute until it decided it wanted to be let go. So she let it go. “Maybe it’ll go back to its mother. Wherever she is.”

But it didn’t move. It just sat there at her feet, sniffing her curiously.

Go away, she thought. I can’t take you with me.

It was out of the question, her bringing this kitten home. What if it had fleas? What if Coriolanus was allergic to cats? She more than anyone knew how much he valued cleanliness and order, which kittens had no concern for. It would be unprofessional of her to return home with some animal she plucked off the street.

“Let’s keep walking,” she suggested, and Marcellus followed suit.

A moment later, she was made aware of how painfully awkward the silence between them was. So she said, “It got you good… I’m sorry for making you go up there.”

“I couldn’t have you getting hurt,” he replied in good fun, though he was in fact not having fun. Grimacing, at that. More silence. Should she offer to foot his medical bill and hope he declined? She didn’t bother bringing her wallet. Not that she had any need for it, so flat-out broke.

A raspy cry caught her attention, and she looked back to find the kitten limping towards her, trying to follow her. She exchanged a look with Marcellus as they both thought, what now? They couldn’t ignore it anymore.

“Seems like it’s hurt,” he observed. She nodded, swallowing.

The kitten stopped at her feet, its beady eyes blinking at her. Almost as if imploring her for help. Her heart broke.

“We could take it to a vet,” she proposed.

“My afternoon schedule is tight,” came his curt response. “I’m afraid I’ll be too busy to accompany you there.”

There wasn’t a dime in her pocket, so footing the vet bill on her own was impossible. It’d be worth, what, a week of her salary, if not more? Regardless, she couldn’t leave the poor thing here to fend for itself. At the very least, she could feed it. But all the food was at home.

Sighing, Phoebe knelt and scooped the kitten into her arms. “What am I going to do with you, little one?” Take it home, she thought. She could sneak it in for a moment to feed it, then release it. With that in mind, she unzipped her coat and the feline squirmed as she slipped it inside. A moment later, however, once it decided that the warmth radiating from her was preferable to the chilly wind, it relaxed. Curled up against her chest, trying to make itself comfortable.

“I’ll look after it for a bit,” she decided, “until it’s in better shape.”

Strays were a rarity once. During the Dark Days, animals vanished mysteriously, she’d heard. It was a mystery whether they’d perished from starvation or heaven knows what. Thankfully, those days were in the past. Now, it was more economically feasible to keep pets. In fact, it was a trend. Shops catering specifically to pets had opened.

“I’m going to walk home now,” she told Marcellus.

“May I accompany you?” He held his scratched-up hand behind his back. “You live nearby, don’t you?”

“It’s fine, I can walk alone since you’re busy. It’s no trouble at all.” She didn’t want him knowing where she lived. Of course he insisted, ever the gentleman, saying he still had time to kill.

Marcellus walked her down the Corso, up to the entrance of what was possibly the fanciest apartment complex in the Capitol. “Thank you for walking me home,” she said, “and helping me.” She stroked the kitten’s soft orange fur. If the penthouse was hers, she would’ve asked if he’d like to come in for some tea and biscuits, but Coriolanus wouldn’t take kindly to surprise guests.

“Of course. You take care, Phoebe. It was nice catching up with you,” said Marcellus. Before she entered the complex, he added, “Actually—I’d like to stay in touch with you, if that’s alright. I hope it’s not too bold of me to ask for your number.”

He sure knew how to lay it on thick. His bravado must’ve been credited to his looks. A handsome face could let you get away with a lot in a society so fixated on vanity. My father doesn’t want me talking to men would’ve been a feasible excuse to give, because her father was in fact insufferable about who he allowed near her before. Most men are no better than dogs, he’d warned her. “How about you give me your number instead?” she proposed.

He came prepared with a napkin and a pen in his pocket.

◆ ◆ ◆

The doorman gave her a funny look when he greeted her, only to find a tiny orange head sticking out the top of her coat. “What’s this?” he asked.

“A new friend,” she answered, in brighter spirits than she was when she left earlier. “You have a good day, sir!”

After riding the elevator up to the top floor, she slipped inside the penthouse.

There were a few hours to go until Coriolanus returned.

Then she could ask him, if he would be so kind as to hand her her paycheck… If he could find it in himself, just this once, not to put it all towards her debt…

That wouldn’t go down well.

He wouldn’t want this thing in his house, even temporarily, she was sure. But she had to keep it alive and well so she could ask him. Calling him during work was out of the question. The only option, as she saw it, was to keep the kitten safe here, temporarily. In the meantime, she would feed and bathe it. Keep it warm.

After turning on the portable heater in her bedroom, she sat beside it. For now (until it was bathed), the kitten was confined to the jail cell that was her coat. Something it wasn’t thrilled about, as it squirmed, wanting to explore already. She didn’t want to think about the mess those muddy paws would leave on the tiles. Though she feared it was already too late for her coat and dress.

“Do you want out? We’ll have to get you cleaned up first.” Phoebe booped its nose with her finger.

That led them to the bathroom, soon enough.

After closing the door behind her, Phoebe unzipped her coat. The kitten sprang before she’d even blinked, eager to be set free. It took one step before letting out a sharp cry when it stepped on its back paw.

Carefully, she cradled the kitten, and it squirmed, not liking that it was on its back. Upon further examination, the source of its pain was a thorn in its paw. It was nearly impossible to extract with her bare hands, so deeply embedded. She cleaned a pair of tweezers, then brought out a handful of cubed cheese. Hopefully that’ll distract it, she thought, giving it a cube as a treat before she began. Though it broke her heart to hear it cry, the thorn had to be removed.

After a while of effort, she removed it, then handed the kitten another cube to nibble on, which it gratefully scarfed down.

She’d never bathed a cat before. They didn’t have cat shampoo, let alone a single thing made for a cat here. In the meantime, a warm washcloth and some water would do.

Bathing it was nothing short of a fight. The kitten didn’t like the water touching her, period. Not even with a cloth. It bit her hand politely at first, then with insistence. She apologized profusely whilst it hissed, its tail flicking in agitation as if to say, unhand me this instant.

After that was over, she had a few scratches on her arms. Nothing major, though they were noticeable. If Father were here, he’d insist she rush to the hospital at once, in case she caught something.

Whilst drying the kitten, she noticed that it was a girl.

“Are you hungry, kitty? Shall I fix you something to eat?” A soft meow in response. She was all fluffed up, wobbling in front of the heater by her bedside, now. “First we have to bandage you,” she told her. Naming her was out of the question; she couldn’t get attached to a cat she couldn’t keep. So she called her kitty, because cat seemed too impersonal a nickname.

Phoebe made her foray to the medicine cabinet in the upstairs loft and swiped a random assortment of things. A pair of medical scissors, gauze, bandages, and ointment gel. Was that safe for a cat? It was better than nothing, she supposed.

Putting the ointment on kitty was no easy task; she squirmed the entire time. Phoebe fumbled with the gauze, trying to wrap it right, but it looked like a wad attached to her paw. It stayed on for all of three minutes, until kitty started gnawing at her feet, not having it. The bandage came off.

“What am I to do with you?” She sighed.

◆ ◆ ◆

The cook had given her a funny look when she requested a bit of unseasoned boiled chicken and a tiny dish of warm milk. Not her usual fare. Still she gave it to her anyway, then got straight to work, cooking up an elaborate dinner in preparation for Mr. Snow’s return.

She made a cozy setup in her bedroom. A heap of blankets was a makeshift cat bed. In the bathroom, there was a station for milk, water, plenty of chicken, and a space for a litter box (the sand stolen from the rooftop garden). Phoebe busied herself with making cat toys whilst kitty, curious as can be, sniffed and explored every inch of the space she was given free rein to.

Kitty loved her toys. She played with them, her belly round as can be after all that food. It was a challenge getting her to stop messing with her paw, which she’d rebandaged.

Their peaceful moment was soon disrupted by the telltale beep of the security system, alerting her to the front door opening. He was home early today. Unusually early. There could only be one explanation for that. He knew.

Either that or it was a coincidence. How funny would that be?

Her stomach twisted in knots as she rushed to make herself presentable, pulling on her uniform with haste. In the process, she ripped her stockings and cursed herself for that. The man of the hour liked to be greeted properly when he arrived, so she had to hurry.

She made it downstairs, her uniform disheveled and twisted, but at least it was on.

“Good evening, Mr. Snow.” She bowed, trying not to wince at how breathless she sounded after running across the penthouse. He took one good look at her, mild amusement in his expression as he noted her disarray.

The silence lingered as if on purpose, as if he were sniffing out her stress. As if by design. Until he relented, offering a curt nod in acknowledgement of her presence. She took off his coat and hung it on the rack for him.

Now he’d head upstairs to his study to stow away his briefcase. He never liked her being in his study unattended; he guarded it under lock and key. She only cleaned it when he was in his office watching her every move. Men could get so territorial over that one room in the house. Father was the same way with his study, which she referred to as the mancave.

She followed him to the foot of the stairs, head lowered demurely. “Would you… would you like anything to drink, sir?”

He narrowed his eyes for a second, adjusting his cufflinks.

Perhaps she was a bit more hover-y than usual. Typically she just took his coat before disappearing. She never catered to him at hand and foot unless he requested it.

“A glass of water would be fine,” he replied. “I’ll have it in my study.”

Ice cold as always.

She delivered it to him while he was setting his briefcase down on the desk in his study.

“You seem chipper. Did you have a nice day?” he inquired, opening it to review his documents. It wasn’t unusual for him to inquire about her day, though it typically happened during dinner.

She nodded. “It feels like any other day.”

“What did you do today?” he thumbed through the dividers in his briefcase, seemingly bored. But at least not suspicious. Though his early appearance in the penthouse was quite suspicious.

“Clean,” she replied in a heartbeat.

“Of course, I know that. What else did you do?” he clarified. “I’ve known you long enough to know that cleaning doesn’t bring you joy.”

“I tidied my bookshelf.” That wasn’t a lie. But that wasn’t all she did.

“Is that how you got all scratched up?” His perceptive gaze flicked to the scratches on her wrists, which she’d forgotten about.

“No…” She folded her hands behind her back and lowered her head like a child caught with their hand in the cookie jar.

He ignored her for a good long moment, sitting down, sipping his water, leafing through his papers. So much so that she stole the opportunity to try and slip out, but was halted by his clear voice:

“Did I dismiss you?”

She inhaled sharply before turning around, her lips stretching into the fakest smile. “No, sir.”

“You aren’t permitted to leave until I dismiss you,” he sternly reminded her. “You should know this already.”

“Sorry, sir.” He sounded nothing short of terrifying like this, like he was onto her. She rushed over to his side at once. There were cameras everywhere, but how often did he check them?

◆ ◆ ◆

Coriolanus’ POV

“Sit,” he ordered.

Like the good girl she was, she sank to her knees onto the velvet cushion at his feet. She looked so tempting like this, shaking like a leaf for good reason after that stunt she pulled. It was one thing for her to leave without informing him to gallivant with some man, but another to sneak that filthy creature into his house. Like he wouldn’t know. Surely that was an act of defiance; she knew he had cameras everywhere.

He kept a close eye on her, his little maid. When he was bored at work, he liked to check the security feed. It was nothing he hadn’t done with his previous staff, to ensure they weren’t slacking off or pocketing anything. His observations over time had proven her diligence. Yet he kept watching her during his lunch breaks, with the same appreciation one would reserve for a colorful bird in a cage. He liked knowing that no matter where he was, she was always in his line of sight if he felt compelled to check.

Until she wasn’t.

Today, she went out. After that conversation they had, it was inevitable she would. She’d gotten all worked up over his constant dismissal of her feelings, and part of him wondered, how obedient would she be if this went on?

He’d never explicitly told her she wasn’t permitted to leave. After all the work he had her do, she was more interested in resting her feet instead of going out for a walk. There wasn’t much in the way of recreation for her outside, anyway, when she didn’t have a dime in her pocket. Or any friends for the matter.

The door of her cage was wide open. It had always been. She’d never tried flying away.

Until she had enough of it and those shiny gifts he offered as a distraction. Those weren’t a supplement for the freedom she evidently craved. This afternoon, he was compelled to check the cameras when he received an alert for the front door opening.

There she was, on that screen, putting on her coat to leave.

The camera feed later revealed that she’d gone on quite the excursion. She’d even brought back a tiny souvenir that was waiting for him down the hall.

“I saw you went out today,” he revealed, setting his papers down. She tensed up—guilty as charged. “How was it, your little outing? Did you do anything fun today?”

She inhaled softly, albeit shakily, wiping her palms on her uniform skirt. “I went for a walk, if that’s your idea of fun.” Her uniform reflected her sorry state, disheveled like her. Short orange hairs festooned it.

“The park down the street?” he queried, and she flinched at his fingers finding her face. He played with the tresses framing it.

She nodded. “It’s still beautiful this time of year. Not as beautiful as it is during spring.”

“You love flowers.” She loved them, but didn’t know a thing about cultivating them the way he did. Perhaps he could delegate a section of his garden for her to tend to, to preoccupy her. Her handling his precious roses was completely out of the question. “Would you like to get into gardening?”

“No. Not really.”

Not that it mattered. She’d have no choice but to give it a try if he added it to her task list as a chore. He liked to keep her busy.

She regarded him expectantly, with bated breath, as if waiting for some ball to drop. That moment never came. He kept quiet as she squirmed on that velvet cushion without purpose, watching him leaf through his paperwork.

He preferred to let the fear linger.

◆ ◆ ◆

Dinner came and went without much of a fuss.

He’d hardly uttered a word to her in the interim. Instead, he ate quietly at the other side of the dining table while she pushed her food around on her plate, trying to whet her appetite.

“I’m full,” she announced, her plate still half-full.

“Finish your food. That’s an order.”

Once Phoebe begrudgingly finished her plate, they both heard a soft meow coming from upstairs.

“What’s that sound?” he asked, playing dumb as he quirked his brow.

“What sound?” Phoebe stood, plate in her hands.

Another meow. A more insistent one, followed by the sound of scratching. Her bedroom door being shredded to pieces.

“That sound. It sounds like a meow,” he stated plainly. She froze, the cogs in her mind working overtime to figure out how to break this secret to him. Or was it a secret at all? Was she waiting for him to break the ice? She was terrible with confrontation like that. Her gaze flitted between him and the staircase, over and over, which gave him his answer. “I want to see it,” he said finally. “That thing you brought home.”

Her eyes went wide as if she were thinking, he knows.

◆ ◆ ◆

She brought it downstairs without a word and carefully set it down on the carpet in front of him, as if presenting a gift.

What a hideous thing, he thought immediately, watching the orange kitten limp over to him. It was no pedigree, that was for sure; its stripy fur was an amalgamation of patterns and splotches. Typical of a cat plucked off the street. Not like those well-kept kittens on shop displays, their fur sleek and shiny. Ragdolls were all the rage lately. Not whatever this was—more the type of pet a commoner would keep.

It froze at his feet, its beady green eyes wide as can be. So full of rambunctious curiosity. He allowed it to sniff him just once before scooting his chair away, causing it to spring back at the sudden movement.

“So,” he crossed his arms, “this is what you’ve snuck into my house. Without my permission.”

“I can explain.” She gingerly wet her lips.

“I understand that you’ve been living under my roof for a while, so you’ve gotten comfortable. Perhaps too comfortable. Past a certain point, you’re overstepping boundaries,” he explained, slowly and with plenty of patience, as if breaking this down for a child to understand. “Has it occurred to you to ask first if you could bring home a new pet? What if I was allergic to cats?” She tried to speak, but he wasn’t done yet. “Sit down,” he ordered, and she did in a heartbeat. “What if it had rabies or it tore up my furniture? Need I remind you of your debt?”

Roughly how much would it cost to replace her bedroom door, with all its intricate carvings?

“I wanted to call you during work, but you told me not to call unless it was an emergency.” That he had. “You’re misunderstanding—I don’t intend to keep her. I just wanted to take her to the vet, but I had to wait for you to come home to ask. Since you’re in charge of how my paycheck’s spent.”

That last part sounded a bit backhanded to him.

The kitten, meanwhile, was limping laps around the dining area, sniffing everything. He kept a close eye on it to ensure it wasn’t gnawing on anything.

“Why do you want to take it to the vet?” he inquired.

“She’s hurt,” she told him. “She’s limping and I thought maybe she broke her leg.”

“Vet bills aren’t cheap,” he pointed out. “Are you willing to shell out a few weeks’ worth of your salary for some stray who’ll probably get hurt again? Anything can happen out in the wild.”

“I’m fine with that,” she insisted, straightening up. “I can work extra hours too. I can do whatever you want. You can pay me less—”

He shook his head, cutting her off mid-tangent. “What if another stray comes along? You can’t possibly save them all.”

That threw her for a loop. She glanced down at her lap, rather crestfallen, like he’d shattered her hopes and dreams. That big heart of hers was a rarity. A big heart could also cause someone to make irrational decisions, and in this case, she was willing to drag herself deeper into debt. All for something that could never repay her for her kindness. She wouldn’t think twice about giving someone the clothes off her back if she felt so compelled to believe they needed it.

“I could try to make a difference,” Phoebe murmured, just as the kitten stopped at her feet. Leaning, she scooped it into her arms. For a moment it squirmed, trying to break free, until it decided her lap was a comfy spot to curl up. It was so tiny, and tiny things could be cute to some people, he supposed. People were so easily manipulated by cute things.

“What’s the point in doing that?” It was a genuine question. He considered her.

“There is no point. It’s more for myself,” she confessed, scratching behind the kitten’s ears. It purred like an engine, trilling and butting her hand with its head when she stopped. “I guess it would make me happy.”

It would make her happy. She wasn’t happy.

“Being in debt makes you happy?” he questioned her, brows furrowing as he tried to make sense of this.

“When was the last time you helped someone? Or something?” she challenged him. “When was the last time you did anything for anyone other than yourself?”

That was also a bit backhanded.

“I did a great service to this country not long ago, as you know,” he explained. “With the Games. Every year, I help plan them.”

“The Games help people.” Those words came out like a statement, not a question, yet she seemed so unsure.

“It helps maintain the order. The peace. It’s a delicate balance.” Orchestrating the Games every year was a thankless job, but someone had to do it. There was no one more fit for it than him—someone who had seen all sides of Panem in the flesh. The good, the bad, the ugly. And oh, this world could be ugly.

Her lips pressed into a thin line the way they did when there was something she wanted to say, but was refraining. He encouraged her with a nod and she said, “I… I wish there was a way to go about it without hurting anyone.”

Such a naïve perspective. One that could only come from someone who’d never known what the war was like and what it had cost their people. It was moments like these when he was reminded of how young she truly was, and how she didn’t have to endure what he and his friends had growing up. People her age only had history lessons and stories passed down by word of mouth.

“Violence is a natural part of life,” he said, thinking back on it all. Everything it had taken to get him to this point. “It’s innate in us all.”

“I think everyone’s capable of goodness.” Her gaze softened as she glanced at the cat on her lap who was lazing away. “People aren’t so bad. It’s what the world does to them.”

And where was she finding this wisdom? Surely it wasn’t from anything she’d lived or seen.

“What are the Hunger Games for?” he asked her plainly, and she was taken aback by this shift in their conversation.

“They’re to punish the districts,” she replied, not thinking twice about it.

“That’s what I thought it was for, at first,” he confessed, thinking back to his sessions with the late Dr. Gaul. “It’s much more than that. It’s a reminder of what we did to each other. What we have the potential to do again because of who we are.”

She was shifting in her seat, uncomfortable with where this conversation was heading. “And who are we?”

“Creatures who need the Capitol to survive.”

Her fingers stilled against the kitten’s matted fur. The thing purred away, so blissfully unaware that this moment of peace was only a temporary reprieve. For now its belly was round as can be, and it was warm. Safe. Soon it would be kicked out onto the street where it belonged.

“You could still govern with kindness. Find a way to break that cycle,” she thought out loud.

Such an idyllic way of viewing things, when the reality was, this was a selfish world where the selfish succeeded. During the war, he had been bombed and starved and abused in multiple ways, and not just by the rebels. A cabbage ripped from his hands. A Peacekeeper bruising his jaw when he mistakenly wandered too close to the president’s mansion. He thought of the time he had collapsed and lain in the street with the swan flu and no one, no one would stop to help. Racked with chills, burning with fever, limbs spiked with pain.

“And what happens if kindness is not enough?” He humored her anyway.

She glanced to the side, truly giving it some thought. “I don’t know, but it’s better than perpetuating things.” It all came full circle as she looked down at the kitten who had begun to knead at her with its tiny paws. “I want to help this little one, however I can.”

There was such conviction in her now as she cradled the kitten close, with such love towards this thing she barely knew. Perhaps this was what she needed to settle her. A companion who would stay beside her, and keep her from feeling lonely when he wasn’t around.

“I’ll give you your pay in advance,” he decided. “Lydia will accompany you to see the vet tomorrow.”

“Thank you, sir.” She brightened up at that. “I am grateful for your consideration.”

“Keep it in your room. If it damages anything, the cost for repairs will be added to your debt. As will any medical bills. That is all.”

He dismissed her with a wave.

◆ ◆ ◆

On a late Sunday afternoon, Phoebe returned with Lydia in tow and an unhappy, drowsy kitten in a carrier. From a distance, it appeared to be wearing a cone.

“Well,” he said, “what’s wrong with it?” Not that he cared to know, but since he was temporarily footing the bill, it was his concern.

“The doctor did an X-ray. She had a minor fracture in her hind leg and a paw injury. She’s been given her shot and dewormer, and she’s temporarily wearing a splint,” Lydia, his assistant, informed him in Phoebe’s stead, handing him a set of papers. “She was prescribed some pain medication and flea treatment as well.” Phoebe was far too busy peeking into the carrier, checking on the kitten, to pay him any heed.

He noticed something funny on the first document. A name for a pet. Penny.

She named it.

His lips pressed into a thin line as he watched her coo at the kitten.

“You named it,” is all he said to Phoebe once Lydia left.

“They told me I had to provide a name,” she insisted, so innocently, though he wasn’t buying it. Was this some ruse to guilt him into letting her keep the cat?

“Don’t get too comfortable with keeping it here. Once it heals, it has to go,” he reminded her, and her shoulders dropped at that.

“I know.”

◆ ◆ ◆

He joined her upstairs in her bedroom later that day to check on her, since she’d been holed up in there for quite some time.

The kitten was out of its carrier now, sprawled out on the covers, lazily batting at the string Phoebe was dangling over it. All shiny and clean, because he’d also booked it an appointment at the groomers. It looked ridiculous in its cone and that splint on its leg.

He saw numerous makeshift cat toys sprawled out beside it. A ball of yarn, a stick with feathers attached to it, and even a ratty-looking plush toy. “What’s all this?” he gestured at them, then cleared off a spot beside her on the bed. He settled down, watching the kitten retreat to the headboard at his arrival.

“Just toys I made for Penny—I mean, the kitten.”

“Don’t get too attached,” he cautioned her again, then picked up the stick, twirling it in his hand. She could be so resourceful. A moment later, “I see you’ve come home with a hefty bill. You still haven’t bought it any supplies.”

“Can Lydia bring some later?” she requested.

He nodded. “Write a list and I’ll deduct the cost from your pay.”

◆ ◆ ◆

On Monday, he checked the camera feed.

Lo and behold, Phoebe broke another rule.

It was rather difficult focusing on her work when just upstairs, her kitten was crying and clawing at her bedroom door, demanding to be set free.

So she let it out.

It happily followed her around the penthouse as she cleaned, wanting to be involved in all her menial tasks. The kitten pounced on her broom, chewing it, and he was amused to see that at some point she’d given up trying to shoo it away. She elected to keep cleaning with a four-pound weight glued to her broom.

The kitten trilled, following Phoebe into the kitchen for her lunch break. After scarfing down its bowl of kitten food, it still wanted scraps. Its round eyes blinked pleadingly at the fish on Phoebe’s plate. So she snuck it a bite. One bite and no more.

Afterwards, with more time to kill, she played with it. Disappeared behind her bedroom door and sprang out the side once it padded in, scaring the daylights out of it. She giggled when it arched its back, and then she was in a world of trouble because it retaliated, chasing her. Well, it tried to; it was slow with that splint on its leg.

It was endearing, this side of Phoebe, so animated and almost childlike. After brushing its fur, she curled up on the bed beside it, then read it a chapter of some book, as if it understood a word she was saying. A rather long break if you’d ask him, but he had been overworking her lately. She deserved a break before he put her through the wringer again.

Her lunch breaks before were less eventful. Just her pushing food around on her plate as she stared out the window, seemingly lost in her head about something. Clearly lacking enrichment.

He considered the possibility of her slipping out again for another outing, or perhaps a rendezvous with that man he saw on the camera, who’d dropped her off after their walk. Marcellus Whimsiwick, his resources had later informed him. The younger brother of Domitia Whimsiwick, the heiress of the largest dairy business in Panem.

He knew nothing of the man—just bits and pieces from what he’d heard from that ever so loquacious Cardew sister. Julia loved to talk about her peers, to make small talk to distract from how utterly bland she was as a person. That was the impression he’d gotten, at least.

What was it that he wrote down for her on that napkin? His number? That left a bitter taste in his mouth. Surely that man had no good intentions with her. He knew all about the rakish joys young men were up to, especially in their teens. At the tender age of nineteen, most of those born with silver spoons in their mouths were yet to be burdened by responsibility. They had plenty of time to fool around, but the fun ended once their University days were over.

The thought of anyone touching—coveting—what belonged to Coriolanus was nearly enough to boil his blood.

But what did she think of him, Phoebe? If he’d inquire, would she swear up and down that the two were just friends? That Marcellus didn’t like her like that anymore? She was a terrible liar, which came in handy. It was so easy to read her. Which made her that much easier to control.

The only question was, how should he proceed?

Phoebe had been on her best behavior for a week since, so grateful was she to have her little pet. Even if it was temporarily.

One evening, after dinner, he allowed her to bring the kitten out into the living room to play. The first thing it did (after sniffing the entire place) was hobble over to him. He tensed up.

“What is that reaction? Are you scared of cats?” She laughed.

“I’m not scared of cats,” he replied calmly in his defense. “I’m just not fond of their parasitical nature.”

“Parasitical.” She blinked incredulously. “How so…?”

“You feed them, take care of them, and what do they give you in return? Nothing.” In fact, her kitten was now nibbling on his expensive leather shoe. He shooed it away before it could destroy it any further.

“That’s not true,” she insisted, her brows furrowing as if he’d offended her directly. Why is that? He tilted his head, and for a moment, compared her usefulness to that of a pet. It was somewhere in the zone. The only difference was, she was better behaved than her pet. “Pets provide you with companionship. Loyalty.”

“They’re also a commitment,” he pressed on, watching her call her kitten back to her side.

“It can be therapeutic, having a pet,” she argued. “People come and go, but your pets never leave.” She brought out a toy from behind her back—a proper cat toy that Lydia had bought. Something infused with catnip apparently, because the thing had been addicted to it at the first sniff. Now it was rolling over the toy she gave it.

Therapeutic. Coriolanus thought of how having Phoebe by his side made his sleepless nights a bit better. He liked to hear her read; he found it relaxing and it muffled the chaotic backdrop of his thoughts.

Until he made her leave.

He always did. Had never once let himself fall asleep beside her, since he talked in his sleep. Who knew what she’d hear if he gave her the opportunity? He also didn’t like the idea of being unconscious beside her. If she felt compelled to, it would be so easy for her to slit his throat, or wrap her hands around it and choke him. Not that she had a reason to, but for years now, he had this looming fear of his inevitable death. Often he dreamed of paying his weight in blood.

That was also why before he ate or drank anything she gave him lately, he made her try it first. It confused her to no end, but she never protested.

“Would it make you happy? Having a pet?” he asked her.

She nodded in a heartbeat. “I’ve always wanted to have a cat. My father never allowed it.”

“Is that so?” he hummed, truly considering her. “Maybe if you’re on your best behavior, your wish may come true someday.”

She’d never looked so excited before.

◆ ◆ ◆

“I bought you a little something,” Coriolanus announced one night when she was sitting by his feet on the velvet cushion in his study.

She perked up at the mention of a gift, so pretty, barefoot in her pink sundress.

He plucked the pink gift bag, which had been resting in his study for a few days, off his desk. “What is it?” she inquired, brightening. She’d been nosy, eyeing it every time she came by to deliver him his tea. Leaning over, trying to take a peek at it. Probably to see which lucky lady’s name was on the gift tag.

“Open it and find out.”

She sighed, almost as if in relief. He didn’t have to tell her twice—she plucked out the colorful tissue hiding her gift, then eagerly reached in to pull out her surprise.

“What’s this?” She blinked slowly, trying to process what the leather thing was in her hand.

“It’s a collar,” he told her patiently, a gleam of satisfaction in his eyes.

“You’re going to let me keep Penny?” Her expression was full of hope, then confusion because… the collar was far too big for a kitten. Far too big and encrusted in pink jewels. “It’s a bit big for her, don’t you think?”

“I didn’t say I was going to let you keep her.”

Her shoulders dropped. “Then… what is this for?”

Phoebe was many things, but not particularly bright. Luckily, he didn’t need her to be bright. Just loyal. And what better symbolization was there for her loyalty than this? “Read the tag,” he instructed her. “Tell me what it says.”

Phoebe flipped over the gold heart tag and read it, her eyes widening in disbelief. “Property of… Coriolanus Snow.” She dropped it back into the bag, looking sick to her stomach. “Is this a joke?” Her vision blurred as she blinked back the emotions threatening to burst out.

“What’s wrong?” he asked, tipping her chin up to command her attention. “I thought pink was your favorite color.”

She shook her head, her fingers gripping the sides of her cushion so tight.

“You might change your mind once you try it on. Shall we find a mirror?”

She shook her head again, so red. And disappointed, too. It was a thoughtful gift worth weeks of her paycheck. Were the jewels over the top? Would she have preferred something simpler?

Women were such mysterious creatures.

He stood, yet she remained glued to her pillow, shaking as she stared at the gift bag on her lap. “Follow me,” he ordered, and surely she’d heard. Yet she did nothing. So he sighed, and with plenty of patience mustered, dragged her to her feet.

He guided her to the mirror of his bedroom dresser down the hall.

She refused to look at the mirror as he pushed her hair over her shoulder, then flinched at the cool leather sliding around her neck. After sliding the strap through the buckle and tightening the notch, he tipped her chin up, commanding her to look. “Look at how pretty it is,” he crooned, and her teary gaze locked with his. There was so much there. So much hatred towards him in this moment. Hatred and sheer humiliation. “Pink suits you well,” he thought aloud, but she didn’t agree.

Instead, in a voice so low he barely caught it, she murmured, “Why did you buy me this? What am I to you?”

What indeed? “You are mine,” he told her. “You belong to me and this is proof of that.” He messed with her hair, fixing it just right, the way he did those quiet nights before he indulged in her company. She stiffened at the unspoken expectation of what was to occur next. “Clearly, it seems you’ve forgotten.” He leaned down close enough for his lips to barely graze her ear, and she shivered. “Do you think I didn’t know what you were up to that day? With that boy?”

A tear of humiliation rolled down her flushed cheek. “We went for a walk,” she insisted, throat tightening. “That’s all. He’s an old school friend.” Fussing with the strap of her collar, she attempted to remove it, but he wouldn’t have that. He grabbed both of her hands and pinned them behind her back.

“A walk,” he repeated, then looked off to the side, chuckling. There was no humor in his tone, no amusement there. “Tell me, if there were no cameras in my house, would you have invited him in for a drink or two?” When she didn’t say anything, he gave her a shake, forcing the words out of her throat:

“Maybe—” she broke, perhaps figuring if she lied, he’d see right through her. “Just to thank him for helping me save Penny.”

“You naïve little girl,” he taunted, none of his usual politeness in his tone. “Do you know what it means when you invite a boy who likes you home?” She blinked, incredulous, not used to this side of him that was so blunt. Try as she might, the words wouldn’t come. “You’re inviting him home to fuck you.”

She tried to wiggle free from his grip, but that was a near-impossible challenge when the weight of his body pinned her against the dresser, trapping her right where he wanted her. He was not a tall man, not by any reasonable measure, yet he always felt so imposing near her.

“Since you’re so confused, allow me to make one thing clear for you.” It took a moment for her struggling to seize as she huffed, seemingly distressed. “You belong to me. You are not to speak with any man unless I am present. And you certainly won’t take his number.”

She was breathing fast, the pulse in her wrists nothing short of frantic.

“Why does it matter to you?” she hissed out, tears falling, her eyes imploring him to make it make sense. “Do I not get to have a life? How is it fair that I can’t talk to anyone, but you can—” she struggled with the words there, “—fuck whoever you want?”

Again with Julia Cardew. They had been on a few dates, but in all honesty, he was bored with the girl and how vapid she was, and how childish she behaved, unlike her elder sister. Perhaps in a few years, she’d shape up well. But he was still deciding whether he wanted to put the effort into shaping her himself.

“Who keeps a roof over your head, Phoebe?” he challenged, releasing her hands to grab a fistful of her damp waves. “Who makes sure you’re taken care of? I would think twice about biting the hand that feeds. Do not take my lenience for granted.” He gave her hair a yank and she hissed at the ache in her tender scalp. The sweetness of her strawberry-scented shampoo was near intoxicating, but he had to remain focused. She’d spent a whole hour showering, shaving and moisturizing every inch of herself before coming to see him.

She looked so pretty like this, even in tears—even more so when it looked like she wanted to tear him apart. He sensed the unpredictability of a flame in her and despite how much he despised unpredictability, he relished that. Took pleasure in snuffing out that flame, over and over, until there was nothing but an ember. But those had a way of catching.

“Do you want to keep that cat?” he asked her. Despite how livid she was, she nodded. “Good. It is a reward, not a right. So if you want to keep it, be good for me. Can you be a good girl for me? Can you do that much?”

She was thinking hard about it now. Should she swallow her pride? It was like pulling teeth for her to nod, but she managed that much.

“Good.” He relinquished his grip on her hair, but kept her pinned against the dresser despite her trying to break free again. His fingers found her neck and she tensed as they danced along her smooth skin, along the edge of her pink collar, then down to that heart-shaped tag.

Property of Coriolanus Snow.

“Who do you belong to, doll?” his lips brushed the shell of her ear as he held her gaze through the mirror. “Say it.”

When she hesitated, he waited patiently for her to manage to say those words that must’ve felt like shards of glass shoved down her throat. “You,” she whispered, her voice cracking. “I belong to you, Mr. Snow.”

He rewarded her with a chaste kiss to her throat, right above where the collar wrapped snug around her was. Unmistakable proof of his claim. “See? That wasn’t so hard, was it? Good girl.” His hands slid down her sides as he appreciated the vision before him in the mirror, in the warm glow of the candlelight. She’d filled out nicely over these past few months; he enjoyed tracing the newfound curve of her body.

“Now,” he said, gathering the hem of her pink sundress, “I want you to take this off for me.” He released her and once she turned to remove her dress, he halted her. “No. Look into the mirror while you do it.”

Phoebe shakily turned, watching herself die a little inside as she lifted her dress over her head, probably thinking what a fool she looked, standing there naked with a fucking collar on. She wasn’t wearing a bra beneath her dress, nor any panties, because it was another thing in the way. Unless he had her wear a special set, she wore nothing underneath her dresses upon his request.

“You’re angry with me,” he observed gently, watching her tense up at his hands finding her slim waist. “That is alright. You can be angry. But you will still give me what is mine.” He guided her backward, letting her knees touch the edge of the mattress, on which the sheets were covered with a velvety red duvet. “Lie back for me.”

She obeyed, albeit reluctantly, crossing her legs and wrapping her arms around her chest as if that would make her more decent, although he’d already memorized every inch of her body. Every detail. Every mole. She had one on her chest and one between her legs.

Meanwhile, he was fully clothed.

He slid over her on the mattress and she crawled back, touching the headboard, glaring at him as if he couldn’t see her face in the dark. To that, he reacted by wrapping his hand around her ankle, dragging her back under him. A startled squeak escaped her.

Coriolanus settled between her silky thighs and inhaled the sweet scent emanating from her. He didn’t kiss her; it was far too intimate, he found, though he enjoyed sitting her in front of the mirror at the edge of his bed so she could watch him play with her. A different kind of intimacy.

She watched through the mirror as he slid his finger inside the warmth of her mouth—one then another, her brows furrowing as she tried not to gag. She’d come far from before, when she’d gagged at anything being in her mouth. He had her spit on his hand, then he guided it down between her legs.

Coriolanus was normally not a generous lover, caring only for his own pleasure, but with her it was different. Pleasure was a weapon, he discovered. It was control, which he wielded against her. Part of him derived some twisted satisfaction from working her up to that edge until she was begging for release, only for him to leave her high and dry. Sometimes, he rewarded her. Sometimes he left her like that, when she’d either displeased him or he felt she hadn’t earned a reward.

She clamped her thighs shut, so worried about what he’d do to her tonight after that attitude she gave him. He would be anything but merciful. “Open up,” he ordered, giving her a stern look, which had her folding because he always got his way. Even if it meant prying her legs apart.

She whimpered at his fingers brushing between her legs, teasing languidly. Despite everything, she was still wet; he couldn’t help the satisfied smirk on his face. “Even when you’re angry with me, your body knows who it belongs to,” he murmured, his breath hot against her shivering skin. He expected nothing less of her; he’d trained her well. Some nights, she was as dry as a bone whenever he touched her, too wound up to relax, and so he had her eat those special chocolates that always made her so willing and pliant. So wet.

Now, she didn’t need them, already eating out of the palm of his hand; little did she know. Still, whenever she requested those chocolates, he provided them.

His fingers glided through her silken folds, working her open as she tensed, lying there, yes, but looking away, as if not wanting to give him the satisfaction of her pleasure. Each time she looked away, he forced her to look back at the mirror, to confront her pathetic reflection. Look at what you’ve become.

“Why do you shy away?” he teased, his fingers pressing inside her. She bit her lip, stifling a gasp as her fingers gripped the sheets. “Do you not like what you see?”

“I don’t like this thing.” Phoebe grasped at her collar, trying to rip it off again. “I’m not a fucking dog.”

“What would you have preferred? A diamond necklace?” He slapped her hand away, watching her grind her teeth. “Do not be greedy. I had this custom made just for you.” He chose to ignore her ungrateful comment, instead enjoying the moment. “Look how prettily you open up for me,” he crooned, spreading her open, relishing the mortified sound she gave. The gold heart tag swayed with her shallow breaths, so rapid, she could’ve been panicking.

You’re mine, he thought. If you find that hard to swallow, I can loosen up your collar.

He curled his fingers, stroking that special spot inside her that never failed to make her weak in her knees. “Oh!” She gripped his hand tight, so tight he could’ve sworn she was trying to crush it.

“That’s it,” he crooned, “be a good girl for me and take what I give you.”

The tears started again, and he couldn’t tell whether it was from whatever was running around in her head or the pleasure he was making her feel. This time she wasn’t babbling and begging him to let her cum like she usually did, instead bucking her hips to chase his touch.

“If you want to cum, you’re going to have to ask for it, doll,” he reminded her, relishing the whine she gave when his hand pulled away. Always, she had to work for it.

But she didn’t ask. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath, pulling herself together. Out of all the things she could’ve blurted out, it was—“Are you going to fuck me already?”

Such bold words.

“Not with that attitude,” he replied in a clipped tone, his eyes darkening.

◆ ◆ ◆

How long had it been now?

Long enough for his hand to be cramped. It had been an hour of him teasing her, only to pull back before she could cum. She’d sobbed, yet never told him those few words, so stubborn about it, as if trying to prove some point.

All that squirming had gotten her tied to the headboard.

“No more,” she pleaded, half-breathless and hardly aware of herself. A sweaty mess on his sheets, her energy depleted from tugging futilely at her restraints. This time, he used rough ropes on her wrists. She didn’t deserve the softness of silk with that attitude.

“If you want it to end, all you have to do is ask me to let you cum,” he explained. “It’s that simple, doll.” In the dark, he made out the fiery glare on her face, then the conflict within her dampening it ever so slightly.

“Please,” she murmured so quietly, he’d hardly heard it.

“What’s that?” he taunted her, pulling his hand away again. “I didn’t quite catch it.”

“Please…” Again, those words were like glass shoved down her throat. “Please let me cum, sir.” Did she want to cum or did she just want it to end? For a moment, he thought it would be nice to hear his name on her lips, to hear her singing it sweetly in pleasure, but a girl as lowly as her was beneath that privilege.

To that, he offered a satisfied smile, rewarding her immediately. She’d fought hard but inevitably it wasn’t enough. He lowered his head between her legs, licking slow, torturous stripes along her cunt, his fingers curling against her sweet spot until finally she came.

But it was different this time.

A surge of release, one that could only come from being pent up and teased for so long.

So she could squirt.

She arched her back off the sheets, crying out, half mortified, half confused at what her body was doing. “It’s alright,” he soothed her, rubbing her clit as he worked her through it, “just let it happen. Let yourself feel it.”

He licked every last drop, his tongue unrelenting, overstimulating her until it hurt. “I came!” She cried out, bucking her hips in protest, getting nowhere with that. “I came—”

“I know. I felt it.” He came up for air, half-lidded, his cock heavy and hard with desire, and the urge to take what was his. Meanwhile, she was wide-eyed and mortified at what she’d just done. “Have you ever squirted before, doll?” he asked, and she offered a lethargic shake of her head. “How did it feel?”

“Overwhelming,” she confessed.

Coriolanus gave her a moment to recover before moving on, shedding the layers of fabric off his body until he was undressed just the same.

“I want to be untied,” she demanded, tugging at her restraints again. He could already see the red rings forming around her wrists from all that resistance.

“After we’re done, I’ll untie you,” he told her, and he decided then that it would be another one of those long, long nights.

◆ ◆ ◆

“I’m tired,” she sobbed, “Please, let me take a break.”

He had her pressed against the dresser now as he fucked into her at an unforgiving pace. It banged against the wall as she gripped it for dear life, her face lowered against its cool surface. What a mess she was, drooling on it, hardly capable of speech. Rightfully so. It had been two hours now with some breaks in between, but he had more stamina than her.

“Keep your head up for me, doll,” he commanded, grabbing the band of her collar and pulling at it, forcing her to ease up just to breathe once it constricted her throat. He liked that—being in charge of everything down to the air she breathed.

Phoebe clawed at her neck, coughing until he relinquished her, and she was left to stare at what a pitiful mess she’d become.

Coriolanus came in her twice already, her thighs sticky with his seed. He liked that—liked seeing her get all dolled up for him just so he could ruin her like this. He’d took her on his bed, of course, folding her over and pressing her into the mattress while she squirmed against her restraints. So ticklish, so sensitive to every slight touch; being unable to move was torturous for her.

Be gentler, she’d pleaded with him, but it was never about her when her job, as far as he was concerned, was to please him. So far she’d fallen short of his expectations and had rejected his gift. Surely if he weren’t forcing her to wear that collar, it’d be tossed to some far corner of the room in spite. She didn’t even know that collar was worth as much as her debt. It was, in every way, a symbolization of his ownership.

He took her from behind too, face down, ass up.

And now against his dresser.

She came twice so far, which was more than fair. It was more than she deserved. “It’s too much,” she managed between gasps as he grabbed a fistful of her hair, tilting her head back to expose the column of her neck. He sank his teeth into her shoulder, biting down hard, leaving another mark of his claim. Hissing, she bore with the pain.

“One more round,” he told her, “one more round and it’ll be over.”

He used her for all she was worth.

◆ ◆ ◆

Normally they didn’t bathe together.

Normally he left her on his bed, cold and shaking, to clean up after herself.

But today, he’d pushed her hard. Some harshness ought to be balanced with softness. He had to handle her with care. After it was all said and done, he undid her restraints. Removed her collar. Swept her into his arms and carried her off to his bathroom.

Phoebe stood there in all her nakedness, absolutely drained as he messed with the faucets of the bathtub until the temperature was just right and the tub was filled. After mixing the oils and soaps in, he lowered her into the warm water with him.

She hissed when it stung her open wounds—the rings around her wrists and that bite mark on her shoulder. Coriolanus noticed how she hugged the other side of the tub and drew her knees to her chest like she wanted to be anywhere but with him, but he forgave her for that. Although he wouldn’t allow her any space. He pulled her back against his chest, and she stiffened.

“I was hard on you tonight,” he began, cradling her head against his chest, “but it won’t happen again since you’ve learned your lesson.”

“What lesson?” she replied, her voice hollow as her fingers tapped the bathtub sill. When she looked up at him, it was as if she were thinking, I don’t believe you. I don’t understand.

“You’re a smart girl,” he said for her sake, petting her wet waves. “Do not play dumb with me. You know what it is. You know what pleases me and what doesn’t.” She scooped a handful of bubbles off the surface of the water and played with them, ignoring him, but he knew she’d heard.

Usually when he took her, the room was dark, which meant he couldn’t see quite well the extent of the bruises and scratches he left on her. Now, under the fluorescent light, he saw it all, like colorful paint across the canvas of her skin. All that she’d endured, working hard to please him. He ran his fingers along each and every one of them, admiring his handiwork. Blues, purples, and reds.

“I want you to tell me what you’ve learned today.”

“You are a jealous man,” she decided, so tired that she’d perhaps forgotten to slip back on her mask. “You want to have your cake and eat it.”

“It seems you’ve misunderstood my intent. I’m not jealous.” He took her hand in his and traced over the red ring on her wrist. She flinched at that, at the rawness of anything touching her fresh wound. “I’m merely following the contract you signed. Have you read it at all?”

Of course she didn’t. He was there, watching her skim over the pages of microscopic text for all of one minute before jumping to the dotted line to sign. To hell with those clauses—all she needed was a job. He gave her just that and saved her from a life that was destitute.

“I highly suggest you look it over again. It might clarify your confusion,” he added. “You’ll find that what I ask of you is perfectly reasonable. It is what you agreed to, after all.”

A loud, raspy meow broke through the silence. It came from Phoebe’s bedroom down the hall. She perked up like a concerned mother.

“Penny,” she stirred in the water, trying to leave already.

“Stay.” His arm tightened around her, anchoring her in place. “She’ll survive a few minutes without you.”

“It’s been hours,” she stressed. “She’ll tear up the place.”

Was her bedroom already in shambles? He’d witnessed firsthand how destructive her little pet could be when it tore its chew toy’s limbs off one by one. In the span of a day, at that.

There was a sort of intimacy to how they scrubbed each other’s backs. Not that she’d scrubbed his of her own accord—he had to ask. Afterwards, after they dried off, he took his sweet time rubbing lotion all over her, and blow-drying her hair so she didn’t catch her death. It was more than he’d normally do for her, but some gentleness was necessary to smooth things over. He even carried her to her room down the hall and set her down on her bed. Then he picked out a nightdress for her to wear and helped her put it on.

The cat, in the meantime, was hiding under the bed, too terrified to come out after it had heard the blow dryer. He braided Phoebe’s hair in a simple pattern he’d picked up from doing Tigris’ braids growing up. She couldn’t help but wonder drowsily, as he tucked her into bed, “Why are you doing all of this?”

“I take care of what is mine,” he answered, brushing her hair back.

He spoiled her too much for her own good, truly. The nightlight on her nightstand doubled as a projector of some sort, and so when she looked up at the ceiling, she was staring at the night sky.

“Do you know what I do when I have trouble falling asleep?” she said, blinking rapidly to fight the heaviness in her eyelids. “I count the stars. I always fall asleep before I can count them all.”

“Shall I count them with you?” He humored her. What a waste of his time, counting stars. It was so hard to see the stars outside with all that smog, so this projector was the closest thing he could get to stargazing in the Capitol.

Despite her insistence that he go to bed (in translation, leave her be), he’d ended up beside her under the covers.

One. Two. Three…

She wedged the biggest plushie on her bed between them.

Ten. Eleven. Twelve…

Penny crept up onto the bed and curled up at the edge of it.

Thirty-four. Thirty-five. Thirty-six…

He counted the stars until sleep took him too, before he knew it.

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The next day, it was not a gift she found in her locker, but a clipped note from her ‘secret admirer’, scrawled in red ink this time:

Do not share them. They were meant for you.

It seemed she needed a more direct hint. Coriolanus took matters into his own hands and started snacking on those same chocolates during class. Artisanal, heart-shaped with drizzles of pink on them.

“Do you want some?” He’d asked when he caught her staring at them with narrowed eyes. “They’re milk chocolate. Your favorite.”

That was the first thing he said to her in days.

He knew all of her favorite things. It wasn’t his intention to; she had a tendency to ask him stupid questions, sometimes about his favorite things, which was how he learned about her favorite things, in turn. Her favorite fruit? Strawberries. Favorite color? Pink. Favorite animal? Cat. Favorite vegetable? Well, she hardly ate those and preferred sweets.

Finally—finally—it clicked in her pretty little head as she blanched, and he couldn’t help but smile at that. It was so easy to ruffle her feathers. There was something suggestive about the way he licked the pink drizzle off his fingers that transformed her shock into disgust. His gaze dragged over her, greedily, like that sweet treat wasn’t enough to satiate him and there was something far sweeter before him, tempting him to take a bite.

The next round of gifts he left in her locker went straight into the trash in retaliation.

To which he responded with another note. Only this one ended up on top of her pillow with a large stuffed rabbit, and of course, a rose. Of a different color: not pure white, but red, the color of desire. Proof that some part of him burned for her. In her eyes, he imagined it would’ve been a random flower, and that was by design. She didn’t need to know the extent of his feelings—just that she was in his thoughts. Those white roses he gave her before symbolized new beginnings. A point of no return.

The gift was delivered directly to Prunella herself, with specific instructions on where to place it: right on her bed. She’d been so giddy to receive the gift, as if it were meant for her and not her stepdaughter. He winked and told her to keep it a secret. The note read:

That wasn’t very nice of you. But you’re lucky I’ll forgive you for that.

I bought this the other day. It reminded me of you.

It wasn’t very nice of her to toss out his gifts. Still, he would forgive her for that, because he was gracious.

The stuffed rabbits’ beady hazel eyes were the same shade as Phoebe’s, and he thought she might’ve appreciated one as a gift, since her shelf was overrun with stuffed animals. More stuffed animals than a grown woman could possibly need, but she could pass them on to her children someday. Their children, he’d mused against better judgment, playing with the pink bow tied around the rabbit’s neck when he’d plucked it off the store shelf.

He was briefly bombarded with the image of her with a ring on her finger. A little one in her belly. Another one on her lap, playing with the stuffed rabbit. Penny, her cat, basking in the window of his penthouse, soaking in the rays of sunlight. A warm, idyllic picture of a sort of life he’d never experienced with his family. Not when his father was so removed from his life and the war had taken away many whom they held dear. The Snow penthouse was cold and devoid of joy.

Especially since Tigris moved out, and with her went all those colorful touches she made to the place. Now she was so enveloped in her endeavor to become a designer; they hardly talked. And when they did, it was usually about her witch of an employer, Fabricia Whatnot. A woman as ridiculous as her name was, who used her more as a slave than an apprentice, having her clean clumps of her magenta hair out of the shower drain and massage her feet. Tigris never complained, so grateful was she to have a position in fashion. It had taken lots of coaxing for her to open up about her struggles, as she wasn’t the type of person to speak about them.

Coriolanus didn’t have a warm family, though he relished the idea of creating his own someday, and making it the one he longed for growing up. He was an only child, but his heir wouldn’t be. Perhaps he would give him a sister. Two children seemed like a sensible number. Three was fine, too. Four was an absurd number of children for any elite family to have. Not long ago, it was a luxury to have that many children, because it meant another mouth to feed in these trying times after the war. But times were changing, and Father had said that once he became president, he would put an end to the problems plaguing the Capitol.

Coriolanus pictured Phoebe’s future, and well, it was a no-brainer, what sort of life she’d go on to live. Someday, her father would marry her off to a rich man, and she would become a devoted wife and mother. With her maternal nature, she would serve her purpose well. He’d seen her before, treating her kitten like a baby, feeding her human food and dressing her up. Cooing and coddling her.

How ridiculous, he’d thought, when he first saw Penny running around her townhouse with a collar resembling a diamond choker rather than anything meant for a pet. And a matching pink dress to boot. When Phoebe was downstairs fetching them snacks, he briefly glanced at her wardrobe and discovered a large section of it dedicated not to her, but her pet. Why on earth did an animal need an entire wardrobe? Would she be the same way with her children, spoiling them rotten and dressing them up?

He’d wanted a cat, growing up, although his father was allergic to them and disliked animals anyway. Did not care much for their filth, either. Coriolanus made do with petting Boa Bell whenever they stopped by to see Pluribus Bell to trade.

Prunella, ever an eager hostess, invited him inside the townhouse for some refreshments when he dropped off Phoebe’s gift. Though he wasn’t interested in chatting with the woman, he found that a bit of flattery went a long way in unearthing secrets (particularly about a certain someone he had his eye on). After a round of pleasantries, their discussion veered towards the upcoming Yule Ball, and of course, the topic of suitors. Who Phoebe was to attend the Ball with.

“There is one gentleman coming over this week,” Prunella confessed.

Oh? That was news. Phoebe had never mentioned a gentleman caller. Granted she had not spoken to him in days, still nursing that frosty demeanor towards him. Not only that, she appeared almost… frightened of him. Had he scared her then, in her room? But she had invited him there. Did he intimidate her with all that talk about the future and how he wanted her to be his? Well, wasn’t that what she longed for? A sign of devotion? He’d given her just that.

Women were such mysterious creatures.

“Who, might I ask?” Coriolanus inquired. “I do not mean to be nosy. I’m merely looking out for Phoebe. I make it my duty to get to know my peers.”

Prunella spat out the name of some nobody—someone who could hardly afford their tuition for the Academy, he later discovered through his resources—from another one of those families that lived well beyond their means. A recipe for disaster that he deemed was no good for the girl. She’d been horrified to hear of that and had subsequently thanked him for letting her know. Then, over the phone, she went on about how time was ticking, and she still had to find a match for her daughter.

What about a certain Plinth? He hinted. That was when he discovered that the Plinth boy had never approached the Blackwoods to ask for permission to attend the Ball with their daughter. Phoebe had apparently not spoken of the boy once.

So it appeared that after all, she’d lied to make him jealous.

What a petty schoolyard trick.

Coriolanus shook his head. “I can do something about your situation,” he then offered—an opportunity out of the goodness of his heart. He imagined how sad it would’ve been for Phoebe to have no date for the Ball. People would talk, now that they were aware of her existence. Even if she lucked out and found someone in time, her going with anyone but him was not an option. Not when there were rumors that she was his girl.

All that was left was to make it official.

And what would be more official than him showing up to such a prestigious event with her on his shoulder?

Nevertheless, he freed his schedule for a Saturday night, to have dinner with the Blackwoods.

She could forget all about that other boy.

✦ ✦ ✦

When Phoebe descended the spiraling staircase, the whole room stopped to stare.

Her father, Silas Blackwood, wore a look of sheer pride on his face, and it was no wonder. Whatever she’d done, she’d done it well and had managed to capture the interest of a Snow. If there were any achievement she made in her life, it would’ve been dwarfed by this one alone. Everything had come together to make this evening possible.

She looked so different outside of her academy rouge—all dolled up in a purple dress, with her hair done up and her makeup perfect. Absolutely ravishing. Coriolanus imagined she would look even more so in a gown made of a sumptuous red silk.

Dinner had gone as expected.

Of course, Silas Blackwood had approved of him courting his daughter. A union between their families would be advantageous for him; it’d be just what he needed to bolster his reputation and claw his way up in society. Before coming over, Coriolanus had rehearsed before the mirror what to say to the man and how to react to any curveball thrown his way.

Inevitably, he passed his test with flying colors.

Snow lands on top.

The only issue was, how would Father react? What would he think of the girl and the Blackwoods?

His father, Crassus Xanthos Snow, was a different beast entirely. A man adamant on tradition. This Yule Ball was not any Ball; it would be improper for Coriolanus to show up with some random girl on his shoulder. Whomever he chose would share the limelight with him and be toted around for all to see. It was customary for the couples to take pictures together, and those were plastered in yearbooks—immortalized for all to remember. The Yule Ball was also a way for couples to establish courtships.

An exciting time for everyone.

He could picture it—his name plastered on the front page of The Capitol Gazette, along with the lucky lady he chose. It had happened to Father when he attended the Yule Ball with the woman he later married.

The old newspaper was buried somewhere in his father’s study, collecting dust, along with the pictures he kept of her. Most everything of hers had been given away, save for those pictures. There were only a few things of hers that Father permitted him to keep: her powder compact and her orange scarf, which still smelled like roses. Like her.

Coriolanus remembered how his father’s eyes, as cold and hard as ice, would thaw under the warmth of Mother’s gaze. She was so warm with everyone and it was hard not to fall in love with her, he’d heard, from those who knew her back then. And he remembered how she had the sweetest voice when she sang him to sleep. Roses are red, love; violets are blue. Birds in the heavens know I love you. In difficult times, when he had trouble falling asleep, he would click open his mother’s compact and inhale the rose scent of the silken cake of powder within. It never failed to calm him with the memory of how it had felt to be loved like that.

He’d asked his father once, what was it about her that he’d been drawn to?

Her voice, he’d answered. How sweetly she sang in the choir. She was a choir girl, always singing in the front at every performance.

Lucilla Snow was, without a doubt, the only soft part of his father. When they lowered her into the ground, it was like a part of him had been buried with her. He’d always been focused on his work, but after she passed, he threw himself into it. Less of a father working to provide for his family, but the head of a Dynasty—someone who reigned at the top but was untouchable.

The piano in their living room had been among the first of Mother’s belongings to go because it took up so much space, he’d said, but Coriolanus wondered if sometimes when he saw it, he pictured her sitting there, running her fingers along the keys.

She used to teach Tigris how to play the piano. But Coriolanus was never allowed to play. From a young age, his father had told him it was best he spent his time learning practical skills. He buried him in books so that his sponge of a mind could absorb whatever knowledge it was capable of.

Coriolanus had asked his father if he had married for love. It was a practical match, he’d said, but he was no fool. Lucilla was not among the cream of the crop. A well-bred elite, yes, but not of old money. Back then, wealth was in tiers; even the upper class was divided. Even more so than it was now.

So, he thought, it would be rather hypocritical of him to turn his nose up at him courting a girl of the same tier his mother once belonged in. If he could marry a bit beneath his status, why couldn’t he, too? Didn’t he want him to follow in his footsteps? Times were changing, too. The Capitol was a small place, especially after the war. There were only so many elites in existence. Especially those of old money.

Coriolanus approached his father about Phoebe, and how he wanted him to meet her and her family.

“What’s gotten into you, boy?” Father looked him up and down, suspiciously, because he’d never brought home a girl to meet him before. He was, however, used to him sneaking girls upstairs for a romp in the sheets. They never spoke of his rakish habits; this was a phase many youths had. Perhaps someday he’d outgrow it.

It was never Coriolanus’s intention to indulge. His studies were his focus (because Father expected nothing less than perfection from his heir). It was just that—exceptional people like him attracted attention. Girls were on him like bees to honey, showering him with affection, perhaps hoping to become his lucky missus someday. They were inevitably left jaded because, after he had his fun with the girl, he dropped her and never looked back. It was never his intention to break her heart; he couldn’t help that he felt nothing for her. For any girl.

And then she came along.

Phoebe Blackwood.

That unassuming girl who had somehow weaseled her way into his life without meaning to.

His male friends were no better than pigs, eyeing the women around them like they were tasty morsels. Placing bets to see whom they could seduce. It was like a sport to them, adding more notches to their belts, since elite women were notoriously harder to seduce than ‘loose common girls’. Those girls were taught from a young age that their ‘virtue’ was their worth.

The Academy hosted only a fraction of the students in the Capitol—a prestigious and private institution that only the elite could afford to attend. Those poorer made do with public schools. Seldom did the Academy accept new students, but it did occasionally happen, with new families allotting wealth. Which meant, whenever there was a new face, people noticed. Especially a pretty face.

That new girl, they noticed, was a bit odd. So quiet and poor with conversation. Nowhere to be seen during lunch, and she had no friends. A few of the boys had tried flirting with her and she brushed them off, not the least bit swayed. Even Urban Canville had been unsuccessful in working his charms. Her one true love, it seemed, were her books.

Clearly she was that type of girl, the boys had thought—the stuck-up and prudish type who believed she was better than everyone. Someone ought to knock her down a peg, was the idea that they had. The bet came to him one evening, when they were all gathered at Festus’s place, drinking and playing cards. How hard would it be to seduce that girl? he’d thought. It would be an interesting change to seek someone out for once.

And now he’d ended up here, all these months later. Still seeing that same girl. He could say it was all for the sake of the bet, but that wouldn’t explain him approaching his father like this, to ask for his permission to court her. It was dedication at an unprecedented level.

After a few months, he’d expected to grow bored with her, yet he hadn’t. This anticipation he felt, knowing he had this girl all to himself, was so new to him. It was a pleasure to mold her. This freedom was something he never had with those other girls who were already shaped, having been raised their entire lives to be bona fide Capitol darlings. But Phoebe—she was unchiseled. Something raw waiting to be shaped.

Father agreed to meet with the Blackwoods.

Phoebe, the poor thing, had been terrified of his father, whose piercing gaze picked her apart, assessing her worth. His military stint had that effect on people; he was a man both feared and revered.

He’d already decided before inviting them over (and digging up whatever he could on their family) that the girl was good enough for his son to court. Perhaps someday he’d grow bored with her and they’d call it off. That was clearly his assumption, since beforehand, he’d brought up the names of other girls to him. Daughters of his closest friends. What of the Cardew girl? he’d suggested. Or Arachne Crane?

Livia Cardew was as mean-spirited as a Capitolite could be and Arachne Crane was simply so… Loudmouthed. Some evenings, he could hear her bellowing across the street from her apartment. Whenever she found something funny, she socked his arm so hard she left a bruise. Father threw around a few more names, as if he hadn’t already considered those girls.

None of them were of any interest to him.

✦ ✦ ✦

She was so scared of him, his girl.

Ignoring his calls, pretending she couldn’t see him in school after his father had approved of them attending the Ball together. He let her get away with that behavior for an entire day. Almost.

Until the last period of class, when he snatched the books from her arms before she could flee from her locker.

“Thought you could run away from me?” he teased.

Phoebe blinked a few times, all caught off guard.

“I can carry my own books,” she retorted once she recovered from her shock. And then jumped, attempting to retrieve them from him, but he held them above her head, letting her get all worked up. “This is ridiculous!” She huffed, as red as a tomato. “Give me my books back.”

“What sort of man would I be if I let my girl carry her things?” He ruffled her hair and she scowled. Today, a red ribbon adorned her honey blonde ponytail—the same one he’d gifted her before. It was a small token to him, but she wore it proudly, every day.

“Why don’t you help Clemensia carry her books instead?” she muttered under her breath, flipping her ponytail over her shoulder. Again with Clemmie. He shook his head. You’d think she was obsessed with that girl, with how often she looked at her and brought her up.

After the last bell of the day rang, he guided her out onto the front steps of the Academy entrance and then captured her lips in a daring kiss for all to see. A few of his friends, who’d been watching, whistled. It was adorable the way she hid on his shoulder, so embarrassed for them to be seen like this. But she’d get used to it.

His closest friends knew she belonged to him.

He told the boys all about Phoebe Blackwood long ago, ever since that evening when he first tasted her. They knew all about how tight her cunt was and how eager she was for it. But he didn’t lie; she was saving herself for her husband. How typical, they all agreed. So what, then? Of course, he could always trick her into falling for him and have her think that he loved her, too. Courting her was one way to secure the affections of a girl who longed for dramatic displays of devotion. It was only natural she was hesitant to give it all up, when there was no promise she wouldn’t be left in the dirt afterwards. Breaking a girl like her called for a delicate method.

Coriolanus relished the idea of conquering her completely, both body and mind. Perhaps there would come a day when they called things off, and she’d be so distraught, so broken-hearted thinking, if only she’d gotten away while she had the chance. If only she'd hadn’t given herself to him, only to be thrown away like a broken toy.

What if he didn’t break her heart? What if they never called it off?

She was falling for him; he could see it. Whenever he was around, a dazed look filled her eyes, and she was so eager to be in his presence. So eager to be near him, despite her caution. After they indulged, whenever he tried to get up and leave, she would sometimes make an excuse to have him stay a while longer. To ‘talk’.

They rarely talked much (about anything meaningful, that is). He liked her better when she was quiet, with her lips wrapped around his cock.

It wasn’t like he didn’t enjoy speaking with her; he just didn’t enjoy the vulnerability he felt, getting close to her. But he had to give her something if she was to fall for him. So sometimes he allowed her to curl up against his chest and prattle on.

And then he had to leave, unless he wanted to be caught tangled in the sheets with Mr. Blackwood’s daughter. Then he would surely pressure him to marry her, to save her from ruin.

He didn’t like being rushed.

✦ ✦ ✦

They went on their first date together.

Well, he’d not framed it as one when he dragged her to his car after school. Just a chore they had to get out of the way: picking their outfits for the Yule Ball. She wasn’t thrilled to be there, trying on dresses she didn’t like, but it wasn’t about her. It was about them.

Phoebe gravitated towards soft colors and designs replete with ruffles and frills, he noticed. Fabricia Whatnot’s specialty. Like a child in a candy store, she touched everything, running her fingers along the sumptuous silks and chiffons until he told her to leave them be. For each dress she reached for, he offered his two cents. Not that dress—it was too bright and childish. Not that one either—it’d drown her silhouette. That dress was a fine choice—if she wanted to look like a pastry.

She piped down so quickly at that, crossing her arms over her chest. He could’ve sworn for a moment that she was sulking, but he paid her no heed, instead gathering whatever caught his eye as their assistant, Violetta, paraded them around the shop.

Coriolanus sat before the mirror as Phoebe modeled one dress after the other.

What a strenuous effort for her. Just beyond the sitting room, he could hear her wrestling with the zipper of her dress, muttering something under her breath. Do you need any help? he’d offered, although she never liked to ask for help. So she was left to struggle by herself.

After her hiccup in the dressing room with the purple dress that didn’t fit, they settled upon another. It was perfect, really. A beautiful red number, the bodice clinging to her like the stem of a rose, then flaring out into petal-like drapes. A lovely gown fit for a lady as lovely as a rose. They found a suit and some accessories to match.

It hadn’t become a date until they stopped at the ice cream parlor along The Promenade.

To reward her for being on her best behavior, he treated her to whatever she wanted. He allowed her that much for putting up with him, even though he knew she wanted to give him a piece of her mind in that fitting room earlier. In a way, it was a reward for him to see her happy now, enjoying her ice cream. Her favorite thing in the world to eat.

The sugar gave her a bounce in her step. She struggled to keep up with him as they walked, so he slowed his strides to match hers. They stopped before the fountain in the heart of the square, to enjoy the view.

Though while she was looking at it, he was looking at her.

More specifically how when she licked her spoon, a bit of marshmallow sauce dripped down it, onto the corner of her mouth.

It took a good deal of self-control for him to rein in his thoughts. To keep them grounded in the present, and not how much he wanted to have her back then in the fitting room, pressed against the glass. Oh, she would’ve been mortified, and he would’ve pocketed her panties just so he could watch her squirm in her uniform, holding the hem of her skirt down to not flash anyone.

But he was not an animal.

He couldn’t give in to every impulsive thought on his mind, however tempting.

Where would he take her next? he instead thought.

The ice cream had certainly cheered her up, and also made her teeth chatter because it was freezing outside. A flurry of snow floated down on them and she sneezed. As they walked, she shivered, rubbing her hands around herself to try and keep warm. It had not been his initial idea to take her to eat ice cream in this weather, but he knew how much she loved ice cream, and she said she ate it even in cold weather. Even if it made her sick.

He sighed, unbuttoning his coat and shrugging it off his shoulders. “Here,” he said, draping it around her. “This’ll warm you up.”

“But what about you? Won’t you get cold?” She blinked a few times.

“I’m a Snow, darling. We never get cold.”

“Don’t call me that.” She wrinkled her nose at the pet name.

“You don’t like it? What else would you prefer?” He caught a snowflake on his glove and watched it melt.

“My name,” she answered, her oversized sleeves flopping as she gestured. She looked utterly adorable, drowning in his coat. It was like a dress on her.

He allowed her to take the lead and guide him wherever she wanted.

Which was how they ended up in a boring bookshop. A compromise, since she’d not wanted to go to Fabricia’s. It was, coincidentally, the same store he went to when he bought that stuffed rabbit for her.

“Oh, it’s that ugly thing,” Phoebe mused, picking it up off the shelf and playing with its soft ears.

“Really? Because I thought it looked like you,” he quipped in turn. “I thought you’d like it. What’s wrong with it?”

“Penny liked it more so I gave it to her instead.” She shoved the rabbit against his chest and took off, leaving him all alone in the aisle, feeling a bit wounded. Did she think his gift was better fit to be a chew toy for her cat?

Women were so hard to please.

He placed the bunny back on the shelf and followed her as she perused the shelves of books and knick-knacks.

“Oh, I’ve been looking for the third volume of this series!” She plucked the book off the shelf and thumbed through it. And then, folded it against her chest and rocked on her heels. Looked off to the side, and then back at him, as if expecting something. “I really wanted this one… It’s a shame I forgot my wallet at home. If I’d known we’d go shopping together—”

Coriolanus rolled his eyes and snatched the book from her. “Just say you want me to buy it for you.”

“I’ll pay you back tomorrow! I promise.” And now she was holding her hands behind her back, trying to be cute about it.

“Darling, when you’re with me, you won’t be paying a dime.”

Darling. It had a ring to it.

✦ ✦ ✦

“You’ve never been to a party before?”

Clemmie gasped at Phoebe from across the lunch table, as if she’d committed a crime. For elites like them, parties were commonplace. People threw parties for no reason—just because they could, for the hell of it, lately. A sign that times were indeed prosperous this long after the war.

Partying. Indulgence. It was creeping back into fashion.

“Not even once?” Didi covered her mouth in shock, adding to Clemensia’s dramatics.

“Do they throw parties out in the districts?” Her twin brother, Pollo, questioned.

“Sort of. But I was never allowed to go.” Phoebe frowned.

“Your father didn’t want you exposed to the likes of those people,” Coriolanus corrected her blunder, squeezing her thigh under the table. She swallowed, and as his friends blabbed on, her attention drifted across the cafeteria towards the pairs of eyes watching her. Sejanus, Lyssie, and Io.

They weren’t any good for her, he decided. It was best that she stuck with him and stayed far away from the likes of that Plinth boy who would corrupt her with his sentimentality and ideologies.

Their conversation drifted towards the upcoming party Clemmie was to host in her townhouse. Of course, they asked his girl to attend. Anyone and everyone relevant in their school would be invited, and her being his girl landed her a spot on the exclusive guest list. “I don’t know. I don’t want her exposed to that sort of stuff,” said Coriolanus, and Phoebe’s anticipation for this party deflated so quickly.

He didn’t want her exposed to their games, nor the drinking and other paraphernalia involved. All sorts of wild things happened at parties like these; he would know because he was one of those partygoers. Though he didn’t care much for parties, he made an effort to attend to fulfill social obligations.

He pictured Phoebe for a moment, drunk off her mind, or high as a kite. Of course, a dumb girl like her would think nothing of someone with shady intentions handing her something to drink or eat. She would take it to be polite, and then what? Let them carry her off to some far corner to do whatever?

Absolutely not.

His blood boiled just imagining one of his friends laying a finger on her.

No doubt they’d be curious to have a taste of what was his.

“Relax, Coryo.” Didi patted Phoebe’s shoulder reassuringly. “She’ll be in safe hands with us. You’ll be there too, will you not?”

“Don’t worry,” Festus teased. “We’ll make sure she’s not corrupted.”

He didn’t want to hear that coming from Festus Creed of all people, the one who gave out those pills. There was something particularly greasy about his smile and the way he sometimes ogled what wasn’t his. That boy could not be trusted around his girl.

Coriolanus pulled Phoebe closer and tucked her hair behind her ear. “…I’d like to experience this, just once,” she murmured, as quiet as a mouse. “I’ve never been to a party like this before.”

After a while of going back and forth about it with his friends, he allowed her to go. So long as she was with him the entire time so he could keep her safe.

✦ ✦ ✦

Thus the night of the party came.

An exciting time for his girl. Phoebe descended the spiraling stairs of her townhouse with such haste that she tripped on her heels, crashing right into him. How fortunate that he was there to catch her. She squeaked, flailing her arms, and he effortlessly scooped her up by the waist, setting her down on her feet.

“Oops.” An awkward smile formed on her lips. “I’ve got two left feet. These heels are taller than what I usually wear.”

“But you look stunning in them,” Prunella agreed, from her spot at the top of the stairs. When Coriolanus spotted her, she offered him a wink. She was still holding a brush in her hand. He supposed she’d probably helped preen her for the evening. And indeed she had done a wonderful job.

Phoebe’s honey blonde hair was styled into loose curls cascading down her back, and they bounced as she moved. Her pink dress and heels were picked out by him. This time he made sure to pick out something she liked, as she wasn’t thrilled about not having a say in the dress he chose for her to wear to the Ball. The flowy pink dress was a perfect choice for the evening—not too flashy and not too casual. To complete the look, she had a fluffy white shawl draped around her shoulders.

Silas Blackwood soon joined them in the foyer, grunting in acknowledgement of his presence. “I trust you remember what we’ve discussed before, Mr. Snow?” His piercing gray stare fixed him, and there was something imposing about the fact that he was taller than him. Even at his imposing height of six feet, with broad shoulders to boot.

Coriolanus straightened up, taking things in stride. “Of course. I’ll remain by her side, and I’ll make sure to bring her back by ten.”

“Good.” He grunted, and his piercing stare softened once it settled upon his daughter, who was raring to go.

“We should go now! We’re running a bit late.” Phoebe nudged Coriolanus.

“And whose fault is that?” he retorted on their way out of the townhouse. “How long did you spend getting ready, pray tell?”

“Only two hours.”

What could’ve taken that long? She must have given herself a full-body scrub and shaved every inch of herself before getting dressed. He ran his hand along her arm and, as expected, it was silky smooth.

To think she’d gotten all dolled up just for him.

Seeing her like this was enjoyable. Maybe he’d buy her more dresses—give her more reasons to get dolled up. For now, they’d take their time. Ease into this new dynamic of theirs.

Before they entered the Dovecote townhouse, Coriolanus pulled Phoebe aside and rested his hands on her shoulders. “Do you remember what we discussed?” he inquired, arranging her neat curls over her shoulders.

During the car ride over, he’d instructed her on what to do and say, to be polite: Chin up. Shoulders straight—do not slouch. Remember to speak clearly. And most importantly, remember that you represent not only yourself but me as well now, as my girl. Also, it was important that she looked people in the eye when speaking.

In case she forgot, he reminded her again, and then he captured her lips in a chaste kiss, savoring the sweetness of strawberry on his tongue. Her flavored lip gloss. So delicious, he could eat her up. Maybe later, he would.

They stepped into Clemensia’s townhouse.

It hadn’t been his intention to leave her side, because, he’d promised Mr. Blackwood that he’d keep an eye on her. But he trusted Clemensia to keep her safe, and Phoebe needed to practice socializing. She could not rely on him forever to be her anchor in conversations.

Besides, most of his concerns—Festus and his equally dubious friends—would be in his company. The party was set up so that the girls and boys could separate, then reconvene later.

The greenhouse was devoid of any feminine touch for a while. There he was surrounded by men—men who were loud and sweaty after having had too much to drink. Festus roped him into an evening of drinking games, and was subsequently annoyed at how good he was at them. Both him and Urban Canville were beasts at party games.

While the rest of the boys were in various states of tipsy to drunk, he was bored and still quite dry.

Soon, the boys had started to become restless, being cooped up in the backyard, so they made their foray back inside, to check with the girls.

Coriolanus was among the last of them to step inside.

Only to see the most peculiar thing.

Urban Canville kissing his girl.

✦ ✦ ✦

His blood boiled.

He couldn’t even say it was a drunken mistake the boy made, because he had fucking been there, watching him this entire time. This bravado was nothing unusual for him. A smug expression formed on Urban’s face when Phoebe froze beneath him, her fists balling at her sides. His mouth muffled her surprised squeak.

When he pulled away, she turned to find Coriolanus standing in the threshold. She was so flushed and dazed. Certainly not from that kiss. He spotted the cup of punch in front of her and briefly wondered—was that her third glass? Her fourth? She hiccupped.

Coriolanus sauntered over, ignoring all the eyes plastered on him. All the hushed whispers and the tension teeming in the room. “Am I interrupting something?” he began, placing a hand on Phoebe’s shoulder. She flinched.

“Snow. Nice of you to show up,” Urban began, as if he had not just kissed his girl in front of everyone. “We’re playing truth or dare. Care to join us?”

Phoebe slumped back in her seat, so floaty, like she was not aware of her existence. It led him to wonder if Clemensia had fed her anything that was not of the alcohol variety. He’d explicitly told her not to. “You are aware that is my girlfriend you just kissed,” Coriolanus said, so calmly despite the itching urge he had to deck Urban Canville’s face.

Phoebe gave him a stupid smile, and that was his last straw. He unceremoniously pulled her out of her seat and she stumbled forward, bracing against his shoulder to balance herself.

“Look at you. So smitten with this girl. I have never seen you like this before,” Urban taunted, coolly. “So whipt. What did you do to him?” He looked down at Phoebe, expecting some sort of explanation, though she wasn’t all there. She blinked, readjusting her focus.

Leave it to Urban Canville to stir up shit; it was what he did best, and that tendency had landed him in a few tousles throughout the years. Of course, he’d always gotten off scot-free. That tended to happen when your daddy was rich and influential enough to bail you out of trouble. He had a thing for his girl, too—always lingering around Phoebe, trying to partner up with her for class assignments. Always inquiring about what he was up to with her, to make small talk. Was he, in truth, imagining being in his shoes?

Gaius Breen and Felix Ravinstill popped into the room and froze for a moment, so awkward about it, as if they’d intervened in what appeared to be a private matter.

“Do not be so sour,” Urban continued. “It was a dare. You know what that’s like, don’t you? We’re not the type to back down from those.”

“Sit down, won’t you?” Felix gritted out to his friend.

“I’m quite comfortable here,” he replied, stuffing his hands into the pockets of his slacks. “What I don’t understand is why you’re still keeping her to yourself.” He gave it some thought. “It’s been months already. Just accept that you’ve lost and let us carry on with the game. There's no need to cause a scene.”

“What are you talking about?” Phoebe murmured. “What has he lost?”

It was getting so stuffy in here. So hard to breathe—but that could’ve been the stench of cigars wafting in through the screen door. Coriolanus loosened the collar of his shirt, trying not to look at her, his girl. Still he caught a glimpse of her hazy gaze sharpening as she tried to make sense of it all. He couldn’t let her know.

But it was inevitable that he broke her heart. If not this way, then another. He’d never imagined, however, that it would be at the expense of his image. To hell with hers, he’d thought then. Until she’d become so entangled with him. If one of them went down for this, they’d go down together. Fuck.

“For fucks sake,” Festus muttered under his breath before rushing over to Urban’s side and pulling him back by the collar. “How much have you had to drink? We’re cutting you off here.”

“I’m feeling quite sober.” He shrugged, breaking free without much effort on his part. “I was just curious. Haven’t you had enough, stringing the poor thing along?”

“Coriolanus. What is he talking about?” She tugged at his sleeve, demanding an explanation.

What a spectacle this was. His gaze swept over the room and sure enough, some of the girls here were having a field day watching this. Livia Cardew and Arachne Crane had never looked so entertained. Few had the decency to appear uncomfortable with the conflict unfolding here.

“Nothing,” Coriolanus retorted. “He’s just bitter you didn’t choose him to be your date to the Ball.”

Urban sighed. “Perhaps we should leave it at that for her sake.”

“For my sake?” Phoebe faltered, her fingers tightening around Coriolanus’s sleeve. “I deserve an explanation.”

The solution was simple. They needed to remove themselves from the situation. Now, before things got worse. Before she knew too much.

“Enough.” Coriolanus moved his hand to the small of her back, gently steering her in the direction of the exit. “We’re taking our leave now.”

Before they could make it out of the living room, Urban Canville had said, “If you won’t tell her, I will.”

“Phoebe,” Coriolanus gritted out into her ear and then tugged her arm, but she was a stubborn weed rooted in place.

She gave Urban an imploring look, which was all the permission he needed to elaborate. “There was a bet among him and a few of his friends. To see how soon it would take him to deflower the most prudish girl in our year.”

“Is that so?” She swallowed. For a moment, she just stood there, confused, letting those cruel words sink in. Then she pulled away from Coriolanus. Steeling her expression into a cool indifference, she crossed her arms. “Well, then. How does it feel to know you’ve lost?”

How does it feel, Coriolanus?

He’d never lost. Not once in his life.

He parted his lips to speak, but no words came. Just a soft exhale. His tongue refused to yield.

You are dead to me. Though she was silent, the cold look in her eyes told him that much.

“At least we assumed you were a prude at first,” Urban Canville clarified, as an afterthought. “None of us had expected you would be such—”

Such a slut? So eager to spread her legs for a good grade? Although she didn’t spend nearly as much time studying as she did sucking his cock, they’d heard. It was an inside joke she could never understand—the boys grinning whenever they asked what grade she got on her assignment, and she proudly showed off her paper. The bright red A on it. What’s so funny? she’d ask, and they’d poke fun at her, saying things like, Coryo taught you well, didn’t he? Or—It seems those tutoring sessions are paying off.

Coriolanus fixed him with a cold look and rolled his shoulders, fully prepared to pummel him (if need be). “Respectfully, Urban, you’d do well to keep my girl’s name out of your mouth, if you know what’s best for you.”

Phoebe swiped up her cup of punch and stared at Coriolanus’s perfectly white shirt for a moment longer than was appropriate. She squeezed the cup so hard, almost threatening to shatter it. The look in her eyes said, Shall I throw it at you? See if you’d like that. He took a step back just in case, but to his relief, she gulped the punch instead. Like a tall glass of water, before slamming it down on the table with such force that the girl beside her flinched.

Then she took off, her heels clicking on the marbled tile as she did.

Her gait was a bit wobbly and pathetic—how much did she have to drink, again? Phoebe nearly broke her ankle on the way out, her heel slipping as she bumped into Festus, but she simply ignored him (and his attempt to catch her). She fumbled with the doorknob and made her way outside, slamming it shut.

“Good luck, man.” Festus fixed Coriolanus with a terse smile and patted his shoulder.

He paid his friend (and his lousy attempt at defusing the situation) no heed, instead following his girl out onto the front steps of the townhouse. Thanks to his long strides, he caught up to her in no time.

“Don’t, don’t follow me,” she scowled, not having it.

“I can explain,” Coriolanus reasoned calmly, though he was anything but calm. Often, before going out, he rehearsed before the mirror, what to do and say in conversations. That way he was never caught off guard, and, for his eighteen years of life, that practice had served him well.

Until now, when he was wholly unprepared for a situation he hadn’t anticipated.

“Save your breath. I don’t want to hear it.” Phoebe rushed down the front steps in her haste to put some distance between them.

“Where are you going?” He jogged, matching her stride. Though the snow had been plowed off the sidewalk, it was still slippery in light of the recent snowfall.

“Away from you,” she huffed. Bits of ice covered the ground and she slipped in her haste to get away.

Luckily, he’d made it there just in time to catch her. “Wait—I’ll call my chauffeur to pick us up.” He seized her by the arm.

She shot him a nasty look. “I’m perfectly capable of walking home.”

“Dressed like that?” He gestured at her, as if she’d gone mad. “In the freezing cold?” It was, what, fifteen degrees outside? Her teeth chattered as she glared at him, and it was rather hard for him to take her seriously when she looked like a shivering puppy. Of the vicious type—whatever they were called. The tiny ones rich women were starting to carry in their purses, who were particularly ill-mannered.

She ground her teeth. “Yes. Now let go of me, or I will scream.”

“Oh, be my guest. That will only make you look more mad,” he spat. There was no way in hell she’d be walking home alone. Even a place like the Capitol, with all its order, had its share of shady figures lurking in the dark, with no good intentions towards young women like her. Besides, he’d promised to keep her safe.

She opened her mouth to scream and he panicked, clamping his hand over her mouth to stop her. “How much have you had to drink?” He inquired, although he knew she was drunk. The question was, how drunk? She attempted to speak through the hand clamped over her mouth, but something muffled came out instead. “Enough.” His lips pressed into a thin line as he considered her. “If I uncover your mouth, will you scream?”

She shook her head and he gingerly relinquished her.

“You are the scum of this earth,” she spat out, unceremoniously shoving him back.

He grunted, falling back onto his bottom in the snow. “You haven’t given me the chance to speak!” he said, for crying out loud.

“Why? So you can lie to my face?”

It was then that he noticed her cheeks were wet. She was crying because of him. And trying so hard to handle this situation with grace.

He’d never lied to her. Ever. He’d been duplicitous, yes, phrasing his words in a way that left her confused, always wondering what he truly felt—but he’d never outright lied to her.

He faltered for a moment too long, and she shook her head.

Then she stormed off, her heels precariously slipping with each step made. She was seconds away from breaking her ankle or worse—falling onto the street. What if she got hit by something? That crazy woman. He rushed onto his feet, just as she rounded the corner of the street.

“Yes, there was some sort of bet,” he admitted in exasperation, and then took a moment to catch his breath. “It was a game to me, at first. But I didn’t think—” he tugged her back by the bow of her dress and she flailed, falling back against his chest. “I didn’t think I’d grow… fond of you.”

The words sounded foreign coming from his mouth. So foreign and… wrong. Yet they weren’t a lie. This was, however, a moment of weakness.

“Really?” She remarked bitterly, then hastily wiped her face.

“Yes. Though I wish we could have this conversation somewhere warm. In the car, maybe? You’re freezing, Phoebe.” He spun her around and squeezed her shoulders, trying to settle her, to no avail. He could still fix this; he just had to figure out how.

She jerked free from his grasp one last time. The bow on her dress was now askew, the stitches of one corner ripped from her previous effort to break free. A bright punch stain sullied it, and what a shame that was. Perhaps he could buy her another dress to make it up to her, but she’d proven time after time to have no appreciation for the gifts he gave. “Because I am gracious,” she huffed, half breathless, “I won’t tell my father what you did. But I never wish to speak with you again, am I clear?”

She was a mess, mascara streaks staining her cheeks, her dress disheveled.

“Can I… at least take you home?” he murmured, tersely. “Your father would have my head if anything were to happen to you.”

He swallowed at the mention of her father. Would she tell him what he did? That he had played her? There would be no way in hell he’d let him court her daughter after this, even if they patched things up. Or… would he allow it?

He imagined an industrious man like Silas Blackwood prioritized practicality over sentimentality.

If he was under the assumption that he’d ruined her, that would create a predicament for him. She’d be lucky if any respectable elite wanted to marry her then. The cleanest solution in that case was, truly, to grovel and hope that he married his daughter.

Phoebe begrudgingly allowed Coriolanus to escort her back to the front steps of Clemensia’s townhouse. She refused to enter, not wanting to make a spectacle of herself, he assumed, as everyone was still inside. He made a quick call to his chauffeur before joining her out on the steps, to freeze with her in solidarity.

Her teeth chattered as she pulled her shawl tighter around herself, seeking what little warmth she could. “Come wait inside,” he implored, and she stubbornly shook her head. Sighing, he unbuttoned his coat and then draped it over her shoulders. The way he did on their first date, when she was shivering after eating all that ice cream.

A wall of roses cloaked her. His scent. He rather liked the idea of her being covered in it, smelling like him. Despite how much he was sure she hated him now, her need for warmth took precedence over it. She bounced on her heels and when he tried to pull her close, she pushed him back. “Don’t.”

I’m just keeping you warm, he wanted to say, but refrained from doing so. “The car’s already on its way,” he informed her. “It’ll be three minutes.”

Those three minutes felt like an eternity until finally his chauffeur pulled up to the curb. Phoebe didn’t wait for him to open the door for her like he usually did; she helped herself inside and hugged the other side of the vehicle, attempting to insert as much space between them as physically possible.

For a long moment, they stuck to their corners, staring out the windows awkwardly.

Now was his chance to speak. While she was still trapped in here and the car was rolling.

“You must hate me right now,” he began, delicately.

She hummed, chin propped on her palm.

“But what I said earlier was true. When I approached your father, it was after I decided not to follow through with that bet.” Sort of. He’d not officially brought it up to his friends, though he figured, why not let things run their natural course? Eventually, he’d have her. All of her. And, in that way, he’d win. It was the cleanest solution.

“So.” She tilted her head. “Am I to forgive you, then? Forget about that?”

“What do you want me to say?” Exasperation laced his tone.

“Nothing, preferably.” She finally turned to him.

“I don’t expect your forgiveness. I just wanted to come clean,” he explained, straightening up in his seat. “I don’t know what it is about you that I’m drawn to. But I know that I am, and I cannot help it.” In a way, she’d bewitched him. It was unlike him to feel anything for one of his girls. Anything but lust, perhaps, and that feeling was fleeting at best. Whatever he’d felt for this girl, however, had lingered. No… festered. “You’re free to do whatever you’d like. Scorn me, hit me if you want, I’ll allow it—”

She brightened up at that. “Are you offering?”

“… Go ahead.”

He would allow her this much, to give her a chance to simmer down. Maybe she’d feel better afterwards. Coriolanus braced for it as she scooted closer, then raised her hand. She didn’t strike him like he anticipated she would; he flinched when he felt nothing but air on his cheek from her hand grazing past it. “I will not hit you, as tempting as it sounds.” She withdrew and he exhaled slowly.

“As I was saying. I can’t control how you feel about all of this, and I apologize if I hurt you.” He sighed. “There is no bet anymore. There hasn’t been one for a while now. Urban Canville’s simply bitter that you didn’t choose him, so he caused a scene.” It wouldn’t make things better, but it was something. If she expected him to grovel, she’d be sorely disappointed.

“I see.” Phoebe shifted uncomfortably in her seat, and then went back to ignoring him. She stared out the window, at the passing fixtures and buildings illuminated by the streetlamps. Once they neared the Blackwood townhouse, she wiped her face and fixed her hair, attempting to make herself presentable. Probably to avoid her father’s suspicion.

“You can ignore me all you want, I won’t blame you for it. It’s only natural that you’re upset,” he continued, not letting her frigid behavior deter him. “But I wanted to inform you that you’re still mine.”

Mine, in every way.

Her brows furrowed as she tried to make sense of his words. Their fingers brushed and she shivered. “I won’t let you go. Make do with that what you will,” he told her. Every couple had their obstacles. Their quarrels, their meaningless spats. This was one of them, he supposed. He could give her some time to simmer down so they could reflect on this.

Only they didn’t have time.

The Ball was right around the corner.

A minute later, they arrived at her townhouse. She stepped out as soon as the car rolled to a stop, not wanting to be stuck in there with him for a second longer, it seemed. “Here,” she fumbled with the buttons of his coat and tossed it to him, “have your coat back.”

He escorted her to the front door of her house because he insisted it was the right thing to do. Phoebe held it together, smiling and playing along as Coriolanus debriefed the gathering they attended to her father. At least the version of it that he would’ve liked to hear.

Then he returned to his car.

✦ ✦ ✦

The interior of the Snow penthouse provided little reprieve from the frosty air outside.

Father liked it cold, as did he. But she didn’t, his girl, always shivering here. So much that he usually gave her something warm to drink, a blanket, and one of his jackets. He took care of her like that. Liked to watch her play with the oversized sleeves.

And then he rolled his eyes, because he’d thought of her again.

“You’re back early.”

Father’s imposing voice boomed from across the living room. He was relaxing on the couch—a rare sight for a man who could not stay put without purpose. Perhaps he had a busy day and had earned himself a break. Now he was enjoying a drink, and through the TV, he heard Lucky Flickerman’s eccentric voice.

“It was a boring party,” he informed Father, shrugging off his coat and hanging it on the rack.

“Boring, was it? Even with your girl there?” His sharp gaze was fixed on him, and he could only wonder, what did he want? He was rarely involved with his life unless something went wrong or he had a piece of his mind to give.

“…Yes,” came his terse reply.

“Did something happen? You seem…” Father sat up in his seat, giving him a once-over. “Upset.”

“I’m tired. I’m retiring for the night,” he announced in a clipped tone, cutting their conversation short.

That night, he tossed and turned in bed. Sleep was no friend when all he could think of was his tarnished image. Perhaps tarnished was a strong word to use for such a minor incident over a bet, but the shame of being called out like that stung his pride. What would they all think of him? Would they laugh? Murmur about how he’d lost his charm?

The morning after, his behavior hadn’t improved.

He snapped at the maid for preparing him a cup of tea that was a touch too sweet for his liking. It was his usual, but today, everything felt off. The middle-aged woman flinched at his unusual outburst, but soon recovered, taking off at once to prepare him another cup.

Across from him at the dining table, Father was buttering his toast.

They rarely talked during breakfast. Them sitting together wasn’t out of some obligation to bond; Father had a rule that everyone must eat at the table. In his eyes, it was slovenly to eat anywhere else. So sometimes they ended up eating together by happenstance.

“Something did happen,” he spoke, to his surprise.

But he said nothing in return, instead cutting the eggs on his plate.

They communicated with silent gestures, usually. A raised brow indicated amusement. Silence was either disinterest or a sign of something bothering them.

“So it seems.” Father took a sip of his coffee and set his cup down on the coaster. Then considered him for a long moment. “What happened?”

“You’re rarely interested in my social affairs,” Coriolanus’s jaw tightened.

“You’ve been acting off.” More silence. “Did something happen with your girl?”

“Why would you assume it’s about my girl?” he deflected.

“Because I’m observing a pattern, son,” Father answered. “You’ve been spending quite a bit of time with this girl. Tutoring her. Surely not out of the goodness of your heart.” He took a bite of his toast and swallowed. “You and I both know you aren’t the charitable type.”

His eggs tasted like rubber.

Upon his silence, Father continued. “So, what has she done?”

A Snow was never at fault. In his eyes, she was to blame.

“We had a misunderstanding. She’s upset with me,” Coriolanus replied, crisply.

“Then fix things with her. Make it right.”

As if he hadn’t already tried. “It’s not that simple,” he argued.

“Women are such emotional creatures,” Father agreed, leaning forward in his seat. “I’ve had my fair share of quarrels with my Lucilla before.”

“How did you resolve things?” asked Coriolanus. Perhaps he could impart some advice. If only Phoebe were more materialistic—the answer to his problem would’ve been as simple as showering her with gifts and promising her all sorts of things, then.

“Time. Lots of it. But you don’t have much time, do you? The Ball is right around the corner.”

“And I am dead to her,” Coriolanus remarked dryly, but he found no humor in this.

“Some women are wild. Harder to tame,” he reflected. “But none of them are unbreakable.”

“So… What do you suggest I do, then?” His observation was lost on him. How would one go about ‘breaking’ something they couldn’t catch?

“If I were you…” he trailed off in thought, twirling his fork, “I would leave her with no room for doubt. Remind her that she is yours. Remind her of her place.”

Remind her that she is yours. How? He could show up at her house and confess to her, though at the expense of his dignity (because there was no guarantee she’d forgive him). At best, she may push him off her balcony, right onto the thorny trellis, in a fit of rage. “And if that doesn’t work?” Coriolanus swallowed.

“Make sure it does. If you want something bad enough, you will do whatever it takes. Do not be afraid to get your hands dirty, son.”

Do whatever it takes.

A/N: This series was supposed to be a short deal, but here we are at 4 parts!! I have no idea where this will go next, but I do love drama. Stay tuned 👀. Reader discretion is advised! My stories are never planned out so they may take (dark) unexpected turns.