Sparks Fly

Chapter 17

It's near noon when I finally awake. I wake up slowly feeling well-rested, happy even. It's rare that my dreams are unsullied by nightmares, but after the events of last night, how could they be anything but pleasant? I scan over the powerful body of the slumbering boy next to me, still naked from the night before, so beautiful in the sliver of sunlight that has crept through the shutters and illuminates his golden hair. My husband.

My eyes crinkle as I smile at the thought. I'm married. To Peeta.

He stirs and his eyes blink open. He sees me looking at him and immediately grins, pulling me in for a kiss. I pull away, resting my face a small distance from his and take a moment to gaze at him. His eyes, which have now devoured every inch of my body. His hair, now mussed where my fingers grasped for a hold in a moment of passion. His mouth, which was everywhere . There's a quiet voice in my head that reminds me there's things I must do, precautions I must take in light of what we've done, but I bury the thought deep in my brain. No, I wouldn't let anything ruin this perfect moment with Peeta.

"I could get used to this," he admits, smiling and stretching his arms behind his head, staring hungrily at my own bare body.

I swipe at him playfully and pull the quilt over my chest, my cheeks heating. "You're horrible," I say, but there's laughter in my voice.

"I'm not going to pretend I don't find you attractive, Katniss. It's not like I can hide it anyways," he says.

That thing inside me stirs again, but I leash it before things can go too far. However much I wish I didn't have to. But my mother will be expecting me home soon, and I need to stop by the Meadow to see if there is any thistle that has managed to break through the dwindling snow.

Thistle is normally harvested in the warmer months and dried out to be used as needed by the women in who do not want children. I'm certain there are more high-tech methods of prevention in the Capitol, but in District 12 we have nothing to resort to save for herbal contraception, the most common of which is a tea made of thistle. It's never entirely effective, but everyone is aware of the risks and it works for enough women that it has become a staple household ingredient for couples who don't wish to conceive. Which we are now one of.

I know my mother has a stash of it back home — I've seen enough desperate women beg for more when their own supply runs out, chug gallons of the stuff to try and reverse the effects when it doesn't work — but I can't bear the idea of her noticing the missing stores and confronting me about it. It's odd — I don't particularly mind that she watched me murder innocent children on television, but I can't stand to imagine her reaction if she found out that Peeta and I slept together. I don't think she would be angry, but I also don't think I'd ever be able to meet her eyes again. I can only hope that she has bought the story of me spending the night at Madge's.

I jab a finger at Peeta's chest. "You behave."

"Yes, ma'am," he says, a mischievous glint in his eyes. He holds his hands up in surrender.

This boy is going to be the end of me.

We reluctantly untangle from one another and go to put our clothes back on. I fish through the pile of clothing on the floor, eventually finding my dress from the night before. It's wrinkled and smells faintly of smoke, so I decide that I'd rather change into a plain pair of trousers and a soft, worn shirt that have been forgotten in the dresser. Some of the few things I own from my former life.

Peeta takes a bit longer getting his prosthesis fitted on, but it's only a few minutes before we are ready to leave. I know my mother and Prim don't come here anymore, but I make sure to erase any signs that we were ever here. At the end of our tidying up, all that's left is my dress, which is now folded and hidden in the bottom drawer of the wardrobe, the small bouquet of dandelions in the kitchen windowsill, and the remainders of the loaf of bread, which we decide to wrap up and take back to Victor's Village. The cottage would look untouched, unsuspecting to the normal person, but the wilting flowers, the half-eaten toast being eaten by birds in the backyard, the ruffled sheets are all subtle signs of the rite we performed.