The promise

Chapter Twelve (Melody and Finnick)

The second day of training passed in a blur, much like the first, except for one significant event—Maxwell decided it was time to challenge me to a fight without weapons. Big mistake.

By the time it was over, I walked away with a few bruises, but Max? He wasn't so lucky. His nose was bleeding, one eye was already starting to swell shut, and there were dark, angry bruises blooming around his neck where I'd nearly strangled him. Wanna take a guess at who won?

Max coughed, wiping the blood from his nose with a lopsided grin. "You didn't have to go that hard, Mel."

I just smirked, crossing my arms. "You said no holding back."

"Yeah, yeah," he muttered, still catching his breath. "Remind me never to challenge you again."

I glanced around, noticing the wide-eyed looks from the other tributes. Our so-called allies had taken a few cautious steps away from us, whispering amongst themselves. The rest of the tributes? They were practically shaking in their boots. Can't say I blame them. If I weren't me, I'd be terrified too.

The third day of training, though? It started... differently.

I woke up to the sound of someone screaming. At first, I thought maybe one of the tributes had snapped—wouldn't be surprising given the pressure. But no, the noise was coming from Finnick's room.

For a moment, my instincts told me to run in and check on him, see what was wrong. Old habits, I guess. But then I remembered who I was dealing with. I didn't care.

I rolled my eyes, turned over, and took a long shower instead.

When I finally saw him that morning, Finnick looked like hell. His skin was pale, almost sickly, and there were deep purple bags under his eyes that made him look more like a ghost than the Capitol's golden boy. For half a second, I almost felt bad for him. Almost. But then I remembered—this was the man who killed my sister.

I brushed past him in the hallway, shoulder-checking him harder than necessary. Whatever he's going through, he deserves it. I hope he rots.

Later that day, we were all sitting around, waiting for our private sessions with the Gamemakers. Celeste had just gone in, and I was leaning against Max, his arm draped casually around my shoulders. It was comfortable, easy. But, of course, someone had to ruin it.

"I think they're dating," I heard one of the tributes from District 8 whisper.

"Yeah, there's no way they'd be sitting like that if they were just friends," the other one added.

I tensed, immediately irritated. I shoved Max's arm off me and spun around in my seat, glaring daggers at the two of them. Their conversation died instantly, the blood draining from their faces.

Without saying a word, I traced a slow line across my throat with my finger and pointed directly at them. The color drained even further from their faces, and they practically turned white. Satisfied, I leaned back against Max, who let out a low chuckle beside me.

"You're scary when you're pissed, you know that?" he whispered.

"Good," I muttered, closing my eyes. "I like it that way."

When it was my turn to show off for the Gamemakers, I went all out. Knives, ropes, swords—I even grabbed an instructor to demonstrate some hand-to-hand combat, though I think I might've gone a little overboard. By the time I was done, the poor guy looked traumatized. Hope they pay him enough for therapy.

Still, the Gamemakers were impressed, so it was worth it.

Later that evening, when the scores came in, I got a ten. Maxwell, with his charming smile and brute strength, pulled in an eight. Not bad for a Career, but I wasn't going to let him forget who got the higher score.