the girl who played with knives || clato ✔️

1

Hey all, and welcome to this book. It's the first full-length novel I ever fully wrote, started way back in 2017 and, though it's taken a century, finally finished in 2020. Thanks to everyone who's read it so far and who waited for months into years for chapters. Thanks for the comments and votes and reading the book's way to nearly 5K views! I really appreciate it. Without further ado, to all who are reading now, I hope you enjoy what I've written and that, if anything, it stirs that little Clato-loving part of you ;)

-shenever

Clove

I wake to the sound of pebbles ricocheting off my bedroom window. Cato. I smile ruefully. This is our reaping day routine.

I whip my blanket off and cross to my closet. I'd had a nightgown on when I went to bed but had taken it off because I was so hot last night. I'd woken up sweating buckets because it's the 1st of July and who isn't?

Everyone says the tributes from 1,2, and 4 live for the Games. Training ahead of time, volunteering, winning. They call us the Career Tributes; Careers. Sure, we do train. We try to be prepared. But that doesn't mean we aren't as afraid as everyone else.

I pull on my nicest, and only, dress. It's made of layers of orange fabric that fall to my knees, cinched at the waist. I run a brush through my hair and rush outside, pulling on simple black flats at the door.

I rush into Cato's arms, and he wraps them around my waist, strong and muscular. My arms drape around his neck. He buries his face in my long brown hair, breathing in my scent. I let out a little laugh when he does this.

"What?" He asks in mock annoyance. I laugh again in response. "I can't help it if you smell like roses."

I smile and lift my face to his. Our foreheads press together and he whispers something almost unintelligible.

"May the odds be ever in our favor," he says.

"We won't be picked. We'll be fine, Cato."

"You always say that."

"And have we ever been picked?"

Cato laughs. The alternative would be to cry, and we know that's no way to start the day. As Careers, we're supposed to be prepared for this, even exited. But we aren't. Every year since we were twelve we have dreaded the reaping, knowing how easily it could tear us apart.

"Cato, if-"

"You always say that too."

"Say what?"

"If I get picked. If I die. If-" He sighs.

"Cato."

"Clove."

"I love you."

Cato pulls away abruptly. I have never said this before. I've thought it, many times, but never voiced it. Cato and I are not exactly an item or anything. We are just friends. Very good friends. We have never kissed or anything of the sort. In fact, I've never kissed anyone, other than maybe a light peck on my mother's cheek. Kissing to me is to finite, such a defining factor in any relationship, that it seems difficult to commit to. It's the same with those little words- I love you. I find my stomach fluttery at the prospect of his response.

Cato sighs. I sigh back.

"I love you too." Cato hugs me again. I breathe a sigh of relief. It's not that I'm in love with Cato, but I do love him. The reason I've never told him is because I figured he'd assume I was the first, I suppose, or that loving him would change our ease of interaction. He is taking this well.