Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

***

Ilya

For his entire life, Ilya had thought there could be no greater feeling than winning the Hunger Games.

He had been raised with that sentiment drilled into his head for years, and it had always been one of the only things he was truly certain of.

But, as it turned out—there was no worse one.

It had been a month since the Games ended.

A month.

And every night since, without fail, Ilya had found himself back in the arena.

He knew they were just nightmares—but they felt so vivid, so real, that after he jolted awake, covered in cold sweat, it took several minutes of sucking in ragged breaths and digging his fingernails into his palms to remember that they weren’t.

It didn’t even matter, anyway, because they didn’t end when he woke up.

Not really.

His waking life had become its own kind of horror.

They had given him exactly a week of quiet after he’d gotten off the train before the invitations had begun arriving.

Quiet was a rather generous word for it, though.

The moment Ilya had stepped off the train, he had wanted nothing more than to turn back around. The people that had gathered at the station had been screaming so loudly that he’d feared going deaf. Girls he’d had brief flings with in the past had sobbed openly when he passed them, hands pressed to their mouths as if the mere sight of him had overwhelmed them to the point of hysterics. Several boys he vaguely recognized from the academy had stood stiffly in the crowd with expressions that hovered somewhere between admiration and resentment, like they could not decide whether they wanted to be him or kill him out of pure jealousy.

Flowers had been thrown at his feet. Golden ribbons had been tied around lampposts. Someone had painted his face onto a banner with the words District One’s Golden Boy scrawled beneath it in elegant script.

And Ilya had smiled through all of it, because what else was he supposed to do?

He had smiled when strangers grabbed at his hands and told him they had always known he would come home. He had smiled when several girls he had never spoken to in his life cried against his shoulder, confessing that they had loved him all along. He had smiled when one of his old instructors clapped him on the back, and said the academy had never produced finer work.

He had smiled when they congratulated him for his display of Career pride.

It had just been complete and utter bullshit.

His family had been waiting for him in front of his new house in the Victor’s Village. 

Ilya could tell his mother had been crying. Her eyes had been red-rimmed and bloodshot, the tear tracks still visible on her cheeks.

It had been one of those days. She’d been having them more often before he’d left.

When she had stepped forward to touch his cheek, Ilya had nearly flinched.

Irina had noticed, and her hand had gone still against his skin for half a second before she lowered it and gave him a fragile smile.

“My boy,” she had whispered. “You came back to me.”

Ilya had felt something strange in his chest then, but the tender moment ended when Grigori had cleared his throat and Irina stepped away.

Alexei hadn’t said much when he saw Ilya again. He had just clapped him on the back, and muttered, “Welcome home.”

Ilya hadn’t minded that, because the brief touch had been more affectionate than either of them had ever been with each other.

The following morning, Grigori moved the rest of the family into the house without bothering to ask Ilya whether he wanted them there.

Which had been utterly ridiculous, because it was his house.

His reward for the performance he had put on.

But Grigori had walked through it like it had always belonged to him, assigning rooms, ordering furniture moved, instructing servants where to place his papers and which windows should remain open during the day based on the direction of the wind.

Ilya had stood at the bottom of the staircase and watched it happen in bitter silence, thinking about how nothing that belonged to him had ever really belonged to him.

Several days later, the invitations started arriving.

At first, they had only been to dinner parties in the Justice Hall, which he had attended many times before anyway, as a guest under his father. 

But now, since he was a victor, he had earned the privilege of receiving invitations addressed personally to Ilya G. Rozanov, sealed with wax and engraved on expensive paper.

Before the first party, Ilya had thrown up all over the fancy marble sink in the bathroom of his new house five times. The fear of not knowing what was going to happen had completely paralyzed him, and had his brother not knocked on the door and said, come on, Ilya, Papa’s waiting, Ilya might never have moved at all.

It hadn’t been that bad, mercifully, apart from the insensitive comments about the Games that had set Ilya’s teeth on edge. No one had done anything strange, apart from asking Ilya about a million questions about his time in the arena, none of which he had answered honestly.

Unfortunately, it had only gotten worse from there—because after Ilya had attended several more of those parties, Grigori had barged into Ilya’s room one day to inform Ilya that he was expected to accompany him to one of his meetings in the Capitol the following week.

Ilya had seriously considered jumping from the ledge of his window after receiving that news.

Parties in the district were one thing, because Ilya already knew most of the people in attendance, and things were kept respectably proper. But the Capitol? He had no idea what would be expected of him there.

Cass’s advice had reverberated in Ilya’s mind the entire train ride when the day had finally arrived.

These people are the elite. They run the government. They know everything. You can use that.

Remember everything. Every room, every client. Ask questions while distracting them with whatever they ask you to do. 

Ilya had tried to keep that in mind, even when he’d found out that the meeting was to take place in none other than Snow’s mansion, and had nearly been sick all over his prep team while they were getting him ready.

The night had ended up being just as bad as he’d feared.

Maybe worse.

The moment Ilya had stepped inside, his father had been ushered away by one of the handlers at the door, and Ilya had been pushed toward the ballroom, where there had been a lavish party in full swing.

There had been tables upon tables piled with food, most of which Ilya had never even seen before, an open bar that spanned for nearly a quarter of the room—and dozens of smaller tables where the guests were seated, though most of them had already been crowding the dance floor when the handler had shoved Ilya through the door.

He had barely gotten a moment to take it all in before they had begun crowding him.

“—Mr. Rozanov, what an honor—”

“—oh, that face! Goodness, you’re even prettier in person—”

“—here, come sit with us, there are some people who are just dying to meet you—”

They had run their fingers over his collar, his arms, even his hair without bothering to ask him for permission, then yanked him over to a table before he had even realized what was happening.

“Have a seat, darling,” the woman who had brought him over commanded. “We were just about to eat.”

Ilya had stared at the empty chair that had been pulled out for him in stunned silence before he’d obliged, and he only had because he couldn’t take another second of their curious eyes on him.

Mercifully, a server had come around with a tray of champagne glasses a moment later, and Ilya had snatched one of them so quickly that he hadn’t noticed the liquid inside was bright purple until the rim of the glass was already at his lips.

“Not here!” one of the guests at the table had shrieked, throwing out a hand to shove his arm away from his mouth at once. 

Ilya had frowned, glancing down at the glass. “What is this?”

Another guest sitting to his left had clicked her tongue against her teeth in sympathy. “Oh, bless him. He’s so new to all of this!”

The woman who had escorted Ilya to their table leaned toward him. “It’s to make you sick, darling. So you can keep eating more!”

Ilya had set the glass back down on the table so quickly he’d been mildly surprised when it hadn’t cracked.

The entire table had erupted with laughter, as if any of that had even been remotely funny.

“Oh, I just love fresh victors,” one of the women cooed, reaching out to twist one of his curls around her finger, as if he were some sort of fucking lap-dog. “They’re always so modest.”

Thankfully, more servers had begun moving around the table then, sparing Ilya from having to dignify that statement with a response.

The first course had been some sort of salad. When the server had set Ilya’s plate down in front of him—he didn’t miss the fact that they had served him first, either—Ilya had glanced up and said, “Thank you.”

The server had frozen at once, then turned away abruptly.

Ilya had been completely lost. Was gratitude not practiced in the Capitol? Had he said something offensive?

The wave of panic creeping in had turned into a tsunami of terror when he’d realized that the entire table had gone silent and every pair of eyes were staring at him with a similar look of shock.

“Darling,” one of the women had said carefully, her tone razor-sharp. “You do not thank Avoxes. Surely you know that?”

Ilya hadn’t had the slightest idea of what the fuck an Avox even was, but he’d nodded anyway, feeling progressively more stupid as the seconds stretched on.

“My apologies.”

Several of the guests sitting at the table had exchanged a glance, then fixed their attention back onto their salads as if nothing had happened.

It had taken Ilya several minutes to remember how to breathe normally again.

After that mild fiasco, dinner had continued uneventfully. Ilya had smiled politely at their compliments, redirected every question they had asked him about the arena, and tried not to be sick when the conversation had suddenly shifted to Hollander.

“Now he’s a handsome one,” one of the women had gushed, dragging the edge of her nail around the rim of her glass. “A little severe, perhaps, but very striking.”

“Oh, I hope they bring him to the gala next week,” one of the men had sighed dramatically. “I would love to—”

“He is very boring,” Ilya had interrupted, his eyes locked on the carrots he was cutting with far more care than was necessary. “You do not want him at a party, of all places. Trust me. I would know.”

Then he’d glanced up and punctuated the sentence with a wink to throw them off, feeling relieved when everyone laughed.

“Duly noted,” the man had said, shaking his head in amusement. “You know him better than we do, I suppose.”

Ilya had wanted nothing more than to hurl his butter knife at him for even daring to assume he knew anything about Hollander at all, but he hadn’t.

He had just smiled politely, and continued cutting his carrots into tiny pieces.

Eight, to be exact.

And he hadn’t eaten a single one.

By the time dinner had finally ended, Ilya’s skin had been crawling so badly that he would have given anything to be alone for five minutes. A bathroom, a hallway, a locked closet, a balcony ledge he could throw himself from—anywhere that wasn’t that fucking table—but before he could even excuse himself, a woman who hadn’t been sitting with them had appeared at his side and dragged him out of his chair.

“I’ve been trying to get to you all night, Mr. Rozanov!” she had exclaimed, as she pulled him across the room. “You’re quite the hot commodity.”

Ilya hadn’t said anything to that.

Which was fine, because she had just kept prattling on without waiting for a response.

“You must see the tables over there, the dishes are much better than that horrid dinner they always serve—”

Ilya had wanted to point out that the horrid dinner she was referring to could have fed several families and then some in the less fortunate districts, but he’d kept his mouth shut.

The tables “over there” had, apparently, been reserved for all the things that hadn’t been served at dinner, though Ilya couldn’t begin to imagine why anyone would want more food after the meal they’d just had.

There had been an entire table for desserts alone, but the woman had led him past it without even slowing down. Instead, she had stopped at the largest one, which was covered with platters upon platters of side dishes and appetizers, all arranged perfectly around a large tray.

It held the strangest dish Ilya had seen all night.

He knew it was some sort of meat, carved into delicate pink slices and fanned around the tray in the shape of a flower, but he couldn’t tell what animal it had come from. There were sprigs of herbs tucked between each piece, and a garnish of sugared berries in the center. 

It looked far too decorative to be appetizing, but several guests had clearly helped themselves already, judging by the missing “petals” in the flower.

Ilya had stared at it for a second too long, unsure why the sight had made his stomach turn.

Maybe it had been because of the color, or the smell that had been coming from it—rich and metallic beneath all the sweetness—or perhaps the way the guests had reached for it almost eagerly, closing their eyes when they took a bite as if it were the finest delicacy on the table.

“What is that?” Ilya had asked, before he could stop himself.

The woman beside him had only laughed.

“Oh, darling,” she had sighed, a coy smile on her lips. “You really are new.”

Ilya hadn’t known what to say to that, so he had just pressed his lips together and turned away, deciding to avoid that table for the rest of the night.

One of the other women had tried to feed him something directly from her fingers then, and Ilya had dodged it so quickly that the woman had given him a startled look, as if she hadn’t been the one actively violating his personal space.

“Oh, don’t be shy, gorgeous,” she’d said sweetly, though her smile had been sharp enough to cut. “Here—”

But luckily, someone else had nudged Ilya to get his attention then, and he’d turned away before she could shove whatever the hell she’d been holding down his throat.

He had been dragged from table to table, paraded around one group of people to the next, and everywhere he’d gone, there had either been a hand at the small of his back, fingers tracing his wrist, or nails grazing lightly over the sleeve of his jacket. 

The guests had held some sort of sick fascination with his curls, too. All night, everyone he talked to had found some way to run their hands through his hair.

They hadn’t bothered to ask for permission, of course.

By the end of the party, Ilya had almost been afraid that one of them had cut a piece off without him noticing.

He wouldn’t put it past them.

He remembered feeling even more disgusted when he’d noticed the shine of grease on their fingers as they reached for him and realized that they hadn’t even bothered to wipe their hands after helping themselves to the selection on the appetizer table.

But he hadn’t let his discomfort show, of course. Instead, all night, Ilya had smiled until he thought his face might crack in half.

Even while he’d been forced to listen to their incessant commentary.

“—oh, I wish we could’ve gotten the matching set tonight—”

“—he’s even more handsome in person, isn’t he? Those eyes!”

“—goodness I know, and those hands, so careful, the entire time he was stitching up Hollander all I could wonder was what they would feel like on—”

That comment had made him excuse himself to the bathroom at once.

He hadn’t even made it to the stall before he’d doubled over the sink and retched, wishing he had just thrown himself out of his bedroom window when he’d still had the chance.

The rest of the party had been a blur after that.

By the time Grigori had finally reappeared, Ilya had been standing near one of the dessert tables while a woman adorned completely in green jewels was insisting that she would simply have to invite him to her home the next time he was in the Capitol. 

She had said it lightly, though her hand had been wrapped around his forearm so tightly he’d been losing circulation in it, her thumb dragging small circles over the inside of his wrist.

Ilya had wanted nothing more than to run away screaming in that moment, but he’d only smiled and said, that would be lovely, because the look on Grigori’s face as he watched the entire exchange across the room had made it perfectly clear that there was only one correct answer.

After that, Grigori had apparently decided that they had stayed long enough to accomplish whatever they had come there to accomplish, and Ilya had been led back toward the front door with his head held high, his suit still immaculate, his smile still fixed neatly in place.

Perfect on the outside, as always.

But inside, he was screaming.

The feeling of their hands had lingered long after he’d left the party, crawling over his skin in phantom traces until he’d wanted to rip it off just to get rid of the feeling.

Even now, three days later, while he was lying on his bed with his shoes still on, one arm thrown over his eyes as the room spun around him—he could still feel their fingers running through his hair. 

Across the room, the latest invitation was sitting on his desk. 

Your presence is requested at the wedding of Dorian Calcott and Lenora Starling, to be held on the twenty-fourth of August…

Ilya had skimmed it briefly, scoffed, and opened a new bottle that he’d stuffed in the back of his closet earlier.

He was not in the mood to attend a fucking wedding.

Granted, it was still two weeks away, but still. Marriage was a sore subject for him right now.

Ever since Ilya had settled into his new house in the Victor’s Village, it seemed as though every broadcast on television covered nothing but speculations on who the Capitol’s favorite victors were currently courting.

The generalization of victors was just a formality, however, because mostly—they talked about Hollander.

It was always the same sentiment dressed up in different verbiage, night after night.

“Shane Hollander, or as we in the Capitol like to call him, 'Bullseye,' has been notably private since returning home after his historic victory alongside District One’s Golden Boy Ilya Rozanov, but sources in District Two inform us that the young victor may already be preparing to settle down and find himself a suitable girl to—”

The first time Ilya had heard Caesar utter those words, he had dropped the glass he’d been nursing in his hand. 

It had slipped straight through his fingers and shattered before he had even realized he’d let go.

Mercifully, no one had witnessed it, because his father had stayed late in the Justice Hall again and his mother and brother had been upstairs, but Ilya had felt completely mortified by his lapse in control anyway.

The young victor may already be preparing to settle down and find himself a suitable girl.

The words had struck him so violently that for a moment, all he had been able to do was stare at the shards glittering beneath his feet and try to remember how to breathe properly.

It was ridiculous.

Completely fucking ridiculous.

Ilya had already made his choice. He had let Hollander walk away on the train thinking that none of it had been real, and he had no right to care what Hollander did with his life now. 

But he did.

He did care.

And he missed him.

Ilya only admitted that to himself when he was far too inebriated to stop the thought from forming—like he was now—and he hated himself deeply for it, because it was utterly absurd. 

Two months ago he hadn’t even known who Hollander was, and he’d been going about his life normally. Why couldn’t he just move on?

Hollander certainly seemed to have. He was looking for a fucking wife, for God’s sake, probably hoping to settle down, have a couple of children, and create a legacy of his own, just like he’d told Ilya in the arena.

Ilya supposed he should be happy for him. After all, this had been the point of lying to Hollander’s face, right? To keep him safe?

But Ilya didn’t feel happy for him.

Not at all. 

In fact, on the contrary, he hadn’t felt anything but violent jealousy whenever he heard Caesar or Claudius prattle on about the girls Hollander had been spotted with that week. He hadn’t actually watched the broadcasts of course—he wasn’t that pathetic—but from the briefest of glimpses that he’d caught in passing, Ilya could tell that none of the girls had been a good match.

They had all been dreadfully plain, which simply wouldn’t do, since Hollander was already boring enough on his own.

Hollander needed someone who could challenge him. Someone who could see beneath the cracks of that cold facade and bring out the fire in him that Ilya himself had been mesmerized by every time he’d caught a glimpse of it. 

He needed someone who respected his strength, but wasn’t afraid to call him out on his bullshit. Someone who fueled his competitive nature, who wouldn’t concede easily, who would make him work for what he wanted.

Ilya sincerely doubted that the bores he’d seen so far could do any of that, and a part of him couldn’t help but feel a vicious sort of satisfaction at the realization.

He scowled at the ceiling, irritated with himself. 

Why did it even matter to him if Hollander found a suitable match or not? They weren’t in the arena anymore, and they resided in different districts. They weren’t even friends. There were no ties left between them, apart from the godforsaken Victory Tour coming up, but even that was still months away.

Ilya wondered if Hollander would be married by then.

The mere thought was so unbearable that he sat up at once and reached toward the nightstand where he’d left the bottle earlier, taking several swigs before he slammed it back down and threw himself onto the pillow again.

He shouldn’t care.

He didn’t care.

Hollander could do whatever he wanted. 

Ilya absolutely did not fucking care.

He closed his eyes and curled into a ball, burrowing into the mattress, hoping that if he repeated that sentiment enough times to himself he would wake up tomorrow and actually believe it.

He felt himself begin slipping into unconsciousness a minute later, and a part of him almost forced himself to stay awake, because he knew the nightmares would wake him up again soon anyway.

But he was too tired to fight very hard.

One final thought passed through his mind before the darkness finally took him.

None of those girls could ever understand him the way I do.

***

Shane

After being back in Two for less than a week, Shane had decided the arena had been the high point of his time as a tribute.

For one thing, he had never been truly alone there—not after the alliance, anyway—and for another, his days had not consisted of mind-numbingly boring lunches with every girl of “breeding age” in the fucking district.

The phrase alone had nearly made him put his head through a wall the first time Scott said it.

“Of what age?” Shane had asked, completely taken aback.

Scott had just given him a dark look, and sighed. “You heard me.”

Shane had been in his new house in the Victor’s Village for all of two days when Scott had pounded on his front door, his face barely visible behind the stack of files teetering in his hands, and told him what the next six months of his life before the Victory Tour would look like.

“Don’t expect to have a single free afternoon until December,” Scott had announced grimly, tossing the pile onto Shane’s fancy new dining table. “Or until you find a girl they approve of, whichever comes first.”

Yes, because even the decision of who Shane spent the rest of his life with belonged to the Capitol now.

The contents of the files were worse than he could have even imagined, all containing a headshot—typically the portraits they took every year at the academy—along with a brief description of the girl’s age and attributes, scribbled beneath the photographs by whatever idiot had put the folders together.

Shane would have burned them all already, if Scott hadn’t had the sense to take them home with him every night.

It was complete insanity. 

He didn’t want a wife. 

He wanted to be left alone so he could suffer in peace.

But that wasn’t going to happen anytime soon, of course, given his new status as District Two’s most desired bachelor.

Shane added that to the growing list of words in his mind to try and figure himself out.

Son.

Tribute.

Ally.

Victor.

Rival.

Bachelor.

He couldn’t help but fear what word he would add to it next.

His mind would supply the most horrifying options possible whenever the thought occurred to him, of course.

Fiancé?

Husband?

Father?

The last one made him nauseous.

He wasn’t ready for any of it. Not at all.

He didn’t even know how to begin getting himself ready.

In the past month, he had spent many excruciatingly painful hours with dozens of the girls from Scott’s files.

Shane had to admit, they had all been beautiful, each one more striking than the last. 

But beyond half-hearted aesthetic appreciation, he hadn’t felt anything while conversing with them. 

He didn’t think about them when they were gone, either. 

The truth was—even though he had tried desperately to ignore it—that none of the prospects he’d been forced to spend time with had ever made him feel the way a certain arrogant blonde asshole from District One had.

Shane hated himself deeply for it.

Marrying a nice girl and starting a family was the expectation for all of the boys in Two. Most of Shane’s classmates had been talking about their weddings from as early as age eleven.

Shane had never wanted any of it. He had never noticed girls the way the other boys did, and the thought of marriage repulsed him. He wasn’t entirely sure what he wanted to do with his future yet, but none of the options available to him intrigued him, anyway.

God, why couldn’t he just be normal? Everything would be so much easier if he didn’t long for things he could never have.

Though not so much things, as it was someone.

But that someone didn’t want him.

That someone had been busy attending what seemed like every party in the fucking country ever since he had returned from the arena, his photograph appearing in the evening broadcasts daily.

And the worst part? In every single one, Rozanov was surrounded by a flock of Capitol women, an easy smile on his face, as if he were having the time of his life.

The first time Shane had seen Rozanov’s face on a broadcast, he had stormed downstairs to his at-home training center—a special addition custom-built for him, courtesy of the Capitol sponsors—and thrown so many knives at one of the targets that the center of it had been a gaping hole by the time he finally tapped out.

He had pictured a different face in the center of the target with every throw.

Rozanov.

The women hanging off his arm in the photographs.

Snow.

Rozanov again.

Only when his arm had grown numb had Shane finally stopped, his chest heaving—but Caesar’s commentary had still been stuck in his head, no matter how hard he had tried to shut it out.

“—our sources tell us that District One’s Golden Boy has already made quite the impression among Capitol society. In fact, many are speculating that the young victor may be one of the most charming we’ve seen in years—”

And of course, as if things hadn’t already been bad enough, when Shane had dragged himself back upstairs, the broadcasters had been talking about him.

“Shane Hollander, or as we in the Capitol like to call him, 'Bullseye,' has been notably private since returning home after his historic victory alongside District One’s Golden Boy Ilya Rozanov, but sources in District Two inform us that the young victor may already be preparing to settle down and find himself a suitable girl to—”

Shane had shut it off at once, not wanting to hear another word of that nonsense.

Settle down.

He had to settle down into a loveless marriage while Rozanov smiled for cameras, looking even more infuriatingly beautiful than ever.

What a sick fucking joke.

But what was even worse was that after that night, something had become painfully clear to Shane.

He had realized that he wanted Rozanov.

He wanted him so much, in fact, that he couldn’t sleep at night because he couldn’t stop thinking about him.

It was horrible.

Shane hadn’t been able to sleep much after the arena, anyway—because every time exhaustion inevitably pulled him under, he jolted awake only minutes later, hearing Jewel’s screams echoing in his ears and the sound of the cannon vibrating his very bones—but still. 

He had tried everything to make himself forget. Every morning, he woke at dawn and ran sprints around his neighborhood like he had before the Games, when he had still lived in his grandparents’ house. 

He ran until his legs shook and his lungs burned before finally going back into the perfect, hauntingly empty house he’d been exiled to, then stood under the shower with the water set to the lowest temperature possible, as if he could freeze his longing away.

But the cold had reminded him too much of the stream in the arena when Rozanov had pushed him against the stone, his bare chest pressing flush against Shane’s, his heartbeat synced to Shane’s own.

So instead, Shane had resorted to setting the water to the highest possible temperature instead—which hadn’t helped, either, because it had only reminded him of Rozanov’s strong arms carrying him out of the burning forest.

He had decided that the only option he had left was to try and starve the want inside of him, and that was when he’d made the rules.

Rule one—under no circumstances would he allow himself to watch the broadcasts.

That one had only lasted two days before he’d caved and turned the television on, his curiosity getting the best of him.

He had deeply regretted it the moment he’d seen a clip of Rozanov dancing with a woman at some gala with an easy smile, his hands on her waist, and proceeded to hurl knives at his targets for the next three hours.

Rule two—he would actually try to get to know the girls he was forced to have lunch with every afternoon, in the hopes that eventually, maybe one of them would actually make him feel something.

That one had lasted for all of five minutes when he’d attempted it the following day.

Rule three—every time he caught himself thinking of Rozanov, or the arena, he would do some form of physical activity instead. 

That one he’d actually stuck to, even though he revisited the arena every night in his dreams against his will anyway.

But after a few weeks of waking up covered in cold sweat, he had reluctantly accepted that he would probably never be able to escape it no matter how hard he tried, so he’d given up on that.

Every time he caught himself thinking of Rozanov, however, he would go run sprints, or hurl more knives at his targets, or do push-ups until his arms gave out.

It only brought him a temporary feeling of relief—but he could feel himself getting stronger, so he kept doing it.

His meals had become structured again. They had assigned him a maid—which Shane had insisted he didn’t need, but Scott had cut off his protests with one sharp look, so he had given up on arguing—and once a week, she came by with groceries. She had offered to cook for him too, but Shane had told her there was no need.

Mercifully, he had won that argument.

His diet had become the only thing he felt truly in control of, and he kept it blissfully simple—a form of protein and a small serving of grains, paired with steamed greens.

He had stopped eating breakfast, because the few times he had, he’d felt horribly nauseous as an aftereffect of the nightmares that had woken him in the first place.

Because even that comforting ritual had been stolen from him.

A few days after he’d returned, Shane had asked his parents during one painfully awkward visit if they would accompany him to see his grandmother.

They had exchanged a look that Shane hadn’t been able to decipher, but agreed.

Vera hadn’t recognized him, of course, but Shane couldn’t even blame her.

He didn’t recognize himself anymore, either.

Apparently, neither did his mother, because when he’d seen her for the first time after the arena, she had stared at him like she couldn’t quite believe what she was seeing.

Or who she was seeing.

His father had been slightly less awkward, but Shane hadn’t missed the strange look that had been in his eyes, either.

Shane didn’t know if it was because they had seen him slit someone’s throat on national television, or because he had almost died, or if they had seen something between him and Rozanov that he himself still refused to fully acknowledge—but he had hated every second of being trapped beneath their knowing gaze, and had locked himself in his new house thanking whatever higher power existed that he hadn’t been forced to move in with them.

He’d been so busy with the stupid lunches and his new training regimen that he hadn’t seen much of them over the past month, which was a relief—but he knew the imminent conversation was inevitable, because he had already been failing spectacularly to dodge it whenever someone else brought it up.

Shane was getting ready to see another girl now, standing in front of the mirror with a scowl on his face as his fingers fumbled over the buttons on his collar.

He didn’t even remember the girl’s name, but Scott had mentioned that she had requested to go for a walk instead of sit through an excruciatingly polite meal with him, so maybe the hour wouldn’t be as painful as it usually was—though a part of Shane wanted to do anything else instead of going outside and risk being seen. 

It wasn’t like he had a choice, anyway. He would just have to grit his teeth and get through it.

Shane finished buttoning his shirt, smoothed it with his hands, and turned away from the mirror without sparing himself another glance.

Scott was already waiting downstairs, sitting at Shane’s dining table as if he owned the place. He gave Shane a once-over when he approached, raising a brow.

“What?” Shane demanded, glancing down at his clothes. 

Scott shrugged, reaching for the glass of wine he had already poured himself without Shane’s permission. “Nothing. Are you planning a funeral later?”

Shane shot him a glare, crossing his arms over his chest defensively, realizing that the outfit he was wearing was in fact all black. “Only if it’s yours.”

Scott raised his glass in a mock toast, and took a long sip. “I’ll try my best to arrange that for you.”

Shane rolled his eyes, glancing at the clock on the wall. 

It was five till. The girl would be arriving any minute.

“Are you going to chaperone again?” Shane asked warily, taking the seat beside Scott’s elbow. “Because I would prefer it if you didn’t.”

Scott’s brow lifted by another fraction. “Are you planning on doing something improper?”

Shane pressed his lips together at once. “Fuck you. No.”

“Watch your mouth,” Scott replied flatly, swirling the contents of his glass around. “I’m still your mentor.”

“No, actually. The Games are over. Your duties have been fulfilled.”

Scott let out a humorless laugh. “If only.”

Shane opened his mouth to ask what he meant by that, but there was a quiet knock on the door that interrupted him.

His insides curled with dread.

Ugh.

Scott motioned toward the hallway. “Go on. I’ll trust that you won’t do anything to scare her off if I stay here, apart from looking at her.”

Shane rolled his eyes and stood, making his way toward the door. “You’re one to talk.”

Scott didn’t reply.

Shane took a deep breath to steady himself before pulling the door open, faintly surprised to see the girl standing alone on the step. Every prospect that he’d met with so far had usually been accompanied by her mother, who did most of the talking. 

But this girl was alone.

She had dark brown hair, olive skin, and green eyes that looked almost hazel in the sunlight. She was wearing a simple black dress that stopped just above her knees, and there was a gold pin fixed to the collar that appeared to be a bird of some sort.

Shane stared at it for a moment before remembering that it would probably be considered inappropriate if she noticed that his gaze was fixed directly on her chest.

Fuck.

He glanced back up sharply, already feeling his face begin to heat.

He was truly terrible at this.

“Good afternoon,” she said politely, inclining her head. 

She hadn’t noticed, thank God.

“Good afternoon,” Shane replied stiffly, stepping out onto the porch and shutting the door behind him. 

He held out his arm for her without further comment, and she wrapped her fingers around his bicep delicately, allowing him to guide her down the steps.

“Nice day, isn’t it?” she pointed out as they began walking down the sidewalk.

“Yes, it is.”

Shane wanted nothing more than to turn and run back inside the house. He hated small talk more than anything. It was arguably the worst part of this entire “courting” ordeal.

They walked in awkward silence for several minutes, stopping when the sidewalk ended abruptly. There was a winding path beyond it that led to the woods on the outskirts of the district.

Shane began to guide the girl back toward the direction they had come from, but she shook her head, and rested her other hand gently on his arm. “I want to go there.”

Shane froze, feeling slightly taken aback. “You want to go into the woods?”

She nodded again. “Yes.”

The fuck?

“Why?” Shane asked, glancing down at the flats she was wearing. They weren’t exactly built for hiking.

She shrugged, giving him a coy smile. “Some things are best talked about when you’re surrounded by trees, don’t you think?”

Then she pulled her arm free from his own, and started down the path. 

Shane stared at her back in disbelief, feeling extremely confused by what she could have meant by that.

“Come on, Shane!” she called over her shoulder. “I promise I don’t bite.”

It was then that he decided that this girl was extremely weird.

But he was curious now, so begrudgingly, he followed.

He broke into a light jog to catch up to her, and she gave him another smile when she noticed him appear at her side.

They reached the forest entrance a minute later, and Shane stopped dead, his insides flooding with panic as he stared up at the trees.

You’re not in the arena anymore, he reminded himself firmly when he realized what the reason was for his body’s reaction. Get a fucking grip. It’s just a forest.

But his legs wouldn’t move. They were stuck in place, rooted to the spot like one of the trees looming in front of him.

“You alright?” the girl asked, reaching out to touch his arm gently. 

Shane flinched before he could stop himself.

“Yeah,” he replied shortly, clearing his throat. “I’m fine. It’s just my leg, you know. I get tired easily.”

He could tell the girl didn’t buy that for a second, but she made a sympathetic sound, and reached up to squeeze his shoulder. 

“That’s alright,” she said. “I’ll give you a minute.”

Shane nodded, still extremely confused on why she even wanted to go in there in the first place.

He realized that he didn’t even know her name.

Shit. 

He probably should have asked Scott beforehand.

Too late now.

He cleared his throat again, giving her a sheepish look. “I’m sorry, your name is…”

She gave him an understanding smile. “Marina. Marina Vann.”

Shane froze.

The girl noticed, and her smile turned bitter at once. 

Her hand dropped from Shane’s shoulder, and she turned to face the treeline, gnawing at her bottom lip.

“You’re the one Lyra volunteered for,” Shane said slowly. 

It wasn’t phrased as a question, because part of him already knew the answer.

Marina nodded, looking down at her shoes. “Yes, I am.”

Shane stared at her, trying to recall if she had been in their year at the academy, or if he had ever seen her with Lyra at all.

But his memories before the arena were all a blur now, and he couldn’t fucking remember.

“Were you two…close?” he asked hesitantly, trying his hardest not to sound like he was prying.

Marina glanced up, and he noticed that her eyes had welled up with tears.

Oh, fuck. She wouldn’t expect him to comfort her, would she? He was no good at that. The best he would be able to do was pat her on the shoulder and tell her Lyra was in a better place now—even though deep down, they both knew that sentiment was just bullshit that people said in a weak attempt to offer comfort to someone who was grieving.

“She was my best friend,” Marina said quietly, reaching up to wipe her face with the heel of her hand when a tear fell down her cheek. 

Shane had no idea what to do with that information.

He didn’t miss the irony behind Lyra’s best friend having the same name as the tribute who had killed her, either.

It made him nauseous.

He turned away, feeling furious about her death all over again, suddenly understanding why Marina had wanted to go into the forest.

They could speak freely there.

He gave the trees a long look before he gritted his teeth and took Marina’s hand in his own, giving her a short nod. 

“Let’s walk.”

She nodded back, and allowed him to guide her down the path.

His entire body stiffened when their surroundings turned dark the second they stepped inside the woods, but he forced himself to take a deep breath and keep going.

Marina gave him a sideways glance, then squeezed his hand once. “If you’re alright with it, there’s a spot I want to show you.”

Shane hesitated for a moment before answering.

Fuck it. He was already here, and maybe exposure to his irrational fears would help him get over them.

“Lead the way,” he replied.

She pulled him along until they reached a fork in the path, then veered sharply left. 

They walked until the trees began to thin, and Marina stopped abruptly.

Shane nearly ran into her.

“What—”

Then he looked past her, and the rest of the sentence died in his throat.

The path had ended at a small overlook that gave them a clear view of the mountains surrounding Two, their snow-capped peaks illuminated by the early-afternoon sunlight. There was a meadow stretching out before them, full of late-summer wildflowers, the long grass swaying in the breeze.

Shane stared at it, feeling something in his chest break clean in half a moment later.

It reminded him too much of—

“We used to come here after training,” Marina said, interrupting Shane’s thoughts. “Me and Lyra.”

Shane glanced at her, feeling secretly grateful at the distraction. He didn’t want to spiral over Rozanov. Again.

Her arms were wrapped loosely around her, as if she was literally trying to hold herself together.

He wasn’t sure why she was telling him any of this, or why she had bothered to bring him up here at all, but he didn’t ask.

He waited.

Marina took a deep breath, her eyes shining with the tears that had welled up there again.

“We had a fight last year,” she continued, wiping her face again. “She was mad because I’d been spending all my time with the boy I was seeing at the time. I told her to lay off. That it wasn’t my fault that she didn’t care about boys, and she had no right to be jealous.”

Her grip on her own elbows tightened as she spoke.

“She hated that, of course,” she went on. “There were other things said that I won’t bore you with, but she never spoke to me again after that.”

Marina turned to look at him then, openly crying now.

“And then my name was called,” she said, her voice breaking, “and she volunteered before I could even process it.”

Shane remembered. He could still hear Lyra’s voice, clear and steady, carrying through the square.

I volunteer.

“I fought with her again before she left,” Marina admitted, with a bitter laugh. “I went to see her in the Justice Hall, and I told her that what she did was incredibly stupid.”

She buried her face in her hands then, a sob escaping her. 

“She disagreed, of course. And now she’s gone.”

Her shoulders shook with another sob then, and Shane dearly wished that she would just stop crying, because he had no idea what to do.

So, of course, what he did do was probably the least helpful thing possible.

“Why are you telling me all this?” he asked.

Marina looked up, lowering her hands from her face.

“Because of what you did,” she replied, as if the answer was obvious. “The sendoff, I mean.”

She reached out to take one of his hands in her own again, her eyes fixed on his.

“You didn’t have to do it,” she went on. “You barely knew her. But you did, and I wanted you to know that I’m grateful.”

Shane shook his head. “You don’t have to thank me. It wasn’t anything profound.”

“It was to me,” Marina argued. “And…I guess the other reason why I’m telling you any of this is because no one else wants to talk about her. They just change the subject.”

Her voice broke over the last word, and she turned away, blinking rapidly.

Shane looked down at the ground, shifting his weight uncomfortably. 

He had no idea how to respond to that, but saying nothing at all felt cruel.

“I’m sorry,” he said eventually, because it was the only thing he could think of.

Marina looked up at that, staring at him for a moment with a strange look on her face.

Her hand was still wrapped around his own. Shane only noticed because she suddenly squeezed it so hard that it nearly cut off his circulation.

He tried to pull away, but she held on for dear life.

“What are you—” he began.

“Listen to me,” she said quickly, leaning in close, her voice barely above a whisper. “There’s been talk ever since you and Rozanov won. Talk of—” she looked around, her voice dropping even lower. “—rebellion.”

Shane stiffened at once, glancing around sharply as if a Peacekeeper would pop out of the trees at any moment.

“What do you mean?” he whispered.

Marina motioned for him to lean in, pulling his head toward her, stopping when her lips hovered above his ear.

“My father works in the mayor’s office,” she murmured. “I’ve overheard plenty of conversations since you and Rozanov were announced victors. Apparently, the other districts are furious at the whole ‘Career rivalry’ explanation the Capitol’s been enforcing.”

Shane could feel his heart begin to pound. “Why?”

“Because they know it’s a lie. They see it as further proof that the Capitol is constantly manipulating us to believe whatever they want, instead of just telling the truth.”

Shane’s throat was bone-dry now. He was almost afraid to ask what she was trying to imply.

But he did anyway.

“And what truth is that?”

Marina pulled back slightly, giving him a knowing look. “The truth they’re trying so hard to cover up in Lyra’s case as well.”

She paused, her eyes trailing over his face.

“That it was love.”

Shane took a step back at once.

What the fuck?

No.

The mere thought was insane.

“They’ve got it wrong,” he said firmly, shaking his head. “At least, that’s not the case for me and…him. Not at all.”

Marina just gave him a sad smile. “You can’t even say his name, Shane.”

Shane shook his head even harder, turning away from her to run his hand through his hair in aggravation. “Stop. I can. It’s just—they’ve just got it wrong, alright?”

Marina didn’t say anything to that, but he could practically hear what she was thinking.

Bullshit.

He clenched his teeth and turned back around a moment later, something suddenly occurring to him.

“What did you mean when you said…rebellion?”

He mouthed the last word because a part of him didn’t trust that they were fully alone, even all the way out here.

Marina twisted her hands together. “I can’t tell you, exactly, because I’m not entirely sure myself. From what I’ve heard, it seems as though there’s been some sort of…uprising.”

Uprising.

Holy shit.

Shane had only ever heard that word in school, when they had been forced to learn about the Dark Days, or when Ward had told Shane fragments of stories that he’d heard from Otto over the years.

“Which districts?” he asked, a strange sort of adrenaline coursing through his veins now.

Marina shook her head. “I don’t…I don’t know. I’m sorry.”

Shane nodded.

Oh, well. She had already told him more than enough, anyway.

Though he still wasn’t entirely sure why.

But he didn’t have time to ask. It would take them a while to get back to the house, and he was almost certain their hour was almost up.

They had to head back, or Scott would probably send out a fucking search party, and Shane really didn’t want to explain why he had ventured into the woods with a girl he barely knew.

He hesitated for a moment before offering her his arm again. “I think the hour’s almost up.”

She wrapped her hand around it wordlessly, and then they began walking in the direction they had come from.

A few minutes passed in silence before Shane asked the question that had been on his mind for a while.

“Why did you agree to this?” He motioned between them with his free hand. “To meet me, I mean.”

Marina gave him a look. “It wasn’t exactly optional.”

Shane frowned. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, they’re not only forcing you to find a wife, they’re also forcing every eligible girl to present herself as an option. Today was my turn.”

Shane stopped walking. 

“What?” he demanded.

Marina laughed under her breath. 

“Come on. You think all these potential prospects you’ve been meeting with were there of their own accord? No offense,” she added quickly, when she noticed the look on his face.

Shane waved a hand in dismissal, hardly caring about that. His mind was still reeling.

“And how…how do they determine whose turn it is?” he asked, already dreading the answer.

“The day before you returned, every girl in the district old enough to marry without it creating a scandal received a notice in the mail with a date and time,” Marina replied, completely oblivious to the fact that Shane was about to lose his fucking shit.

Notice in the mail.

As if things couldn’t get any worse. 

Marina must have finally noticed the murderous rage he felt beginning to slip through the cracks of his composure, and she quickly pulled him down the path again. 

Silence settled over them again, and Shane tried very hard to focus on the path beneath his shoes to keep it together until he could get to his training room and hurl knives at his targets to soothe himself.

“I’m sorry,” Marina said eventually, after several minutes had passed.

Shane glanced sideways at her. “For what?”

“That you’re being forced into something you don’t want.”

Shane looked away at once. 

“You too,” he said quietly.

She gave him a short nod, turning back to face the forest before them.

Shane’s gaze briefly caught on the pin at her collar again, wondering what the bird stood for.

He looked away a moment later, telling himself not to dwell on such trivial matters when there was an entire fucking rebellion beginning to happen somewhere in the country.

Oddly, the only person he really wanted to share that news with was Rozanov.

But he couldn’t.

It didn’t matter, anyway, because Rozanov was most likely getting ready to attend another party right now, and Shane was probably the last thing on his mind.

Shane tried to ignore how badly the thought made his chest ache.

He failed spectacularly, of course.

Fuck.

***

Ilya

It was the twenty-third of August, the night before Lenora and Dorian’s wedding.

Ilya had been trying to come up with ways to get himself out of attending for the past week.

But there was no getting out of it. His father had seen the invitation on his desk, and told the mayor Ilya would be coming.

Heaven forbid the mayor be disappointed. Who knows what could happen? The sky might cave in, or the district might erupt into flames!

It didn’t matter that Ilya now understood what Cass had warned him about on the train ride home better than he’d ever wanted to, and had spent so much time in the shower ever since he’d returned home from his second party in the Capitol that the hot water had run out twice. He didn’t even know how that was possible in this fancy house, given its brand-new plumbing system.

Mercifully, he hadn’t actually done anything that night, but it had deeply unsettled him all the same.

His father had barged into his room one night with an envelope in his hand, giving Ilya a stern glare when he’d noticed the bottle on his nightstand.

Ilya hadn’t given a single fuck. The man had no right to judge his coping mechanisms.

Grigori, of course, hadn’t stopped by without reason. He’d come to inform Ilya that he was expected in the Capitol again in two days time.

“For what?” Ilya had asked, dreading the answer.

Grigori hadn’t even blinked. “A private engagement.”

And without any further explanation, he had left the room, leaving Ilya in stunned silence.

The private engagement had turned out to be a dinner with a woman old enough to be his grandmother. One of her Avoxes had brought Ilya straight from the train station to her enormous house, and ushered him into the dining room.

She had been dressed in a crimson dressing gown that was so long it trailed over the floor when she walked, and the way it had caught the light had immediately informed Ilya that it was made of silk.

Very expensive silk, paired with the obnoxiously large jewels that were clasped at her throat and dangling from her ears.

Ilya had felt his blood turn to ice the moment she’d fixed her sharp eyes on him, but he had somehow managed to take a seat across from her without being sick all over the table.

The night had not gone at all the way he’d been dreading. It had still been horrible, of course, but she hadn’t asked him to strip or touch or—God forbid, kiss her—to his relief.

She had asked him for his price and what his terms were, however. Ilya had nearly been sick then, but he’d answered in a surprisingly steady voice.

No kissing on the mouth, and no marks.

She hadn’t even blinked before asking him for his price again, and smiled when he’d replied with, secrets.

I see that you’re one of the smart ones.

Ilya hadn’t known what to say to that.

Thank you hadn’t seemed appropriate.

Fuck you had seemed unwise.

So he had just smiled instead, because apparently that was the only skill he could still manage to perform when he was nearly suffocating from dread.

Ilya hadn’t eaten anything when her Avoxes had served dinner, but the woman hadn’t commented on it.

Instead, she had talked.

That was all.

At first, Ilya had thought it was a trick.

He kept waiting for the moment when the performance would end, for her to remind him of the terms he had named earlier and test the boundaries of them, but she hadn’t.

Instead, she had eaten her meal slowly, asked him questions, and told him little pieces of gossip as if they were sweets she had decided to place on his tongue one at a time.

A speculation she had overheard about the upcoming Quarter Quell.

Cargo trains having to take different routes when transporting goods from Eleven due to construction on the railroad.

Certain fabrics being unavailable due to a fire in one of Eight’s textile factories.

None of the secrets had been particularly useful, but Ilya memorized all of them anyway, like Cass had told him to.

Remember everything. Every room, every client. Ask questions while distracting them with whatever they ask you to do.

This woman had not asked Ilya to do much of anything, however.

He’d been preparing himself for the worst all night long, but she had just looked at him, as if he were something rare and fascinating to be admired.

After dinner, she had led him into the sitting room.

Ilya’s stomach had turned the moment they entered, but again, nothing had happened.

The room had been dimmer than the dining room, the only source of light coming from the fire burning low in the hearth of her fireplace. There were paintings everywhere, most of them portraits, probably of her own family. A decanter of amber-colored liquor had sat on the table in front of them, though she hadn’t poured any.

For several minutes, she had only studied him.

Ilya hadn’t said anything.

He’d become very good at being looked at.

The woman had reached out eventually, her fingers hovering near his face.

“May I?” she had asked.

The illusion of choice had been so absurd that Ilya had nearly laughed.

Instead, he had just inclined his head, trying not to cringe when he’d felt her fingers rake through his hair a moment later.

She had dragged her nails over his scalp for a while, murmuring nonsense about how lovely and exquisite he was until he’d nearly gagged all over her velvet couch cushions.

Arguably, the worst part of the evening had been when she’d tipped his chin up to face her, and said, “You remind me of my son.”

The statement had thrown Ilya off so badly that he had just stared at her with his mouth hanging open like a fucking idiot.

She had clarified a moment later that her son had been dead for thirty years, and that statement had been even more off-putting than the first.

By the time she had finally dismissed him, Ilya’s skin had been crawling so badly that he’d checked to make sure there weren’t any bugs on him several times.

There hadn’t been, unfortunately, because if there had then he could’ve just brushed them off.

So his skin had prickled horribly all night long, and the fact that he’d been summoned to another private engagement the following night hadn’t helped at all.

Ilya had realized that the other woman had been one of the stylists in the earliest Games he could remember, though her appearance was so altered now that the fact that he had recognized her at all had been an impressive feat.

She’d had many surgical enhancements done to her face over the years, and her skin had been covered with tattoos resembling tiger stripes. 

The combined effect had been slightly terrifying. When Ilya had first walked through the door and caught a glimpse of her, his heart had stopped. 

The first thing that had struck him as odd about that night—and there were many things to choose from—was that this woman didn’t live in a fancy house like he’d thought everyone in the Capitol did. On the contrary, she resided in a small apartment above a shop selling fur-lined clothes in the shopping district of the city.

She had barely spoken to him all evening. She had just pulled out a chair at the table, gestured for him to sit, and stared at him for an uncomfortably long period of time.

Eventually, Ilya hadn’t been able to take the suspense anymore, and asked her what it was that she expected him to do.

The strange woman hadn’t said anything then, either. She had only stood and brushed his cheek with her pointer finger, the false nail scraping unpleasantly against his skin, before dragging it down his chin and tilting it up toward her.

His entire body had locked in place the moment she had touched him, every muscle bracing for whatever would come next. 

But nothing had. She had released him a moment later, and handed him an envelope containing an invitation and a key to meet her in the apartment at the same time next month.

That had been four nights ago, and now, Ilya was standing in front of the mirror in his bedroom, adjusting his collar with unsteady fingers.

He had to admit, he looked good. His suit was perfectly pressed—it was pale blue instead of gold, for once—with a crisp white shirt peeking out beneath the blazer, the top buttons undone to expose the necklace at his throat.

It was almost haunting how he could look so put together on the outside, when he was completely unraveling on the inside.

He didn’t have time to dwell on it, however, because there was a soft knock on the door, and his mother stepped inside a moment later.

Ilya hadn’t seen her much lately. Ever since he had returned home, she’d been spending all day in her room, sitting in the armchair by the window with a vacant look in her eyes.

“May I come in?” she asked from the threshold.

Ilya nodded, and she quietly shut the door behind her, walking over to meet his eyes in the mirror.

“Handsome,” she said, smoothing the shoulders of his suit.

Yes, and that was the problem.

She frowned when she noticed the look on his face, stepping in front of him to cup his cheek with a cool hand. “What is it?”

Ilya tried to open his mouth to tell her he was fine, but no sound came out.

Her touch was so tender that he was suddenly overcome with the urge to do something utterly humiliating, like cry.

Ridiculous.

He shook his head and tried to turn away, but she tightened her grip, keeping his chin firmly in place.

“You can talk to me, you know,” she whispered, running her thumb across his cheek. “I might understand certain things better than you think.”

Ilya sincerely doubted that.

Even if he wanted to confide in her, what could he possibly say?

Oh, it's nothing, Mama. Just that I think I might like boys too, but the boy I feel something for is getting married after I lied and told him that he meant nothing to me, and now I’m being forced to attend all these horrible fucking parties where they treat me like property.

No, he definitely couldn’t say that.

“I’m fine,” he said instead, nearly choking over the lie as it came out.

Irina studied him for a moment.

“No,” she murmured. “You’re not.”

Ilya closed his eyes, wishing she would just go away before he lost control over his already fragile composure.

“I am,” he insisted. “I need to finish getting ready. Cass will be here soon.”

Irina didn’t dignify that with a response.

Instead, she did the worst thing imaginable and wrapped her arms around him, pulling him against her chest.

Ilya flinched.

He couldn’t help it.  

He opened his eyes at once, feeling so guilty when he saw the stricken look on his mother’s face that a tear nearly escaped his eye then.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—”

“Shh,” she interrupted, reaching up to cradle his face in her hands. “You have nothing to apologize for. Nothing. Do you understand?”

Ilya glanced up sharply toward the ceiling, blinking rapidly to keep the tears from spilling out.

It didn’t work. He felt one slide down his cheek a moment later.

Fuck.

He reached up to brush it away, but his mother beat him to it. Her thumb swiped the moisture away from underneath his eye, and she pulled him back into an embrace.

Ilya squeezed his eyes shut to keep himself from completely losing it, burying his face in her shoulder, his prior embarrassment gone now.

He breathed in the familiar comforting smell of her hair, feeling extremely stupid that after everything he’d been through, the warmth of another person touching him with genuine care rather than fascination was enough to undo him completely.

“I’m sorry,” she said, her voice slightly muffled. “I’m so sorry. I tried, you have no idea how hard I tried—”

Ilya shook his head, needing her to stop before she said something that made him fall apart completely. “No, stop, it’s fine—”

She pulled away at once, and Ilya noticed that there were tears clinging to her own lashes now.

“It is not fine,” she argued, reaching out to brush the chain at his throat with shaking fingers, resting them over the pendant. “I know you won’t remember, but—”

“I remember.”

Irina nodded, and a tear brushed against her cheek.

“I never wanted you to be trapped like me,” she said quietly. “I wanted you and your brother to be free.”

Ilya frowned, confused about what she was referring to, but she didn’t clarify. She just gave him a weak smile, and smoothed the front of his suit again.

“So handsome.”

“Ilya!” Alexei’s voice called from downstairs. “Time to go.”

Ilya glanced at himself in the mirror one last time, then turned back to face his mother.

“Cass must be here,” he said.

She nodded, her eyes searching his face for a moment before she stepped away.

Ilya crossed the room and opened the door for her, following close behind when she walked out. 

Irina veered left, shutting herself in her room again. Ilya turned toward the stairs, where Cass was leaning against the railing at the bottom step, dressed in a beige suit so light that it almost appeared white.

Ilya walked down slowly and stopped directly in front of him, giving him a once-over. “Bold choice for a wedding.”

“It’s not a wedding,” Cass snapped, folding his arms over his chest. “It’s the rehearsal dinner.”

Ilya raised a brow.

Touchy.

Cass noticed the look on Ilya’s face and rolled his eyes, turning to make a beeline for the front door. “Be quiet, Rozanov.”

“I didn’t even say anything.”

“Good. I’m not in the mood to hear your voice.”

Well, this was going to be a fun evening.

***

Dinner had been going on for approximately ten minutes so far, and Ilya already wanted to throw himself into the nearest centerpiece.

Unfortunately, the centerpiece in question was made up of white roses tied by a pale blue ribbon in a crystal vase, so he doubted it would do much damage.

A pity, really.

He was seated at the main table, because apparently, being District One’s newest victor meant he had earned the great privilege of sitting with Lenora’s family and the family of her soon-to-be husband, which was an honor Ilya would have gladly traded for being seated near a window he could jump out of.

Cass was sitting directly across from him, Elias to his right, Lenora to his left—who was sitting beside Dorian, of course. 

Ilya himself had been seated between a girl whose name he had already forgotten and Cliff Marleau, winner of the sixty-eighth Hunger Games—and, from what Ilya had gathered so far, one of Cass’s few actual friends.

Which was surprising, really, because Marleau was several years older than them. He was also absurdly handsome—broad-shouldered, dark-haired, and he was dressed in a pale pink suit that was almost as subtly obnoxious as the easy grin on his face. 

“So, Cassie,” he said, leaning back in his chair. “What’s with the suit? Did your stylist stitch it together in the dark? It’s practically white.”

Ilya took a sip of his wine to hide the smile threatening to appear on his face.

He sobered at once when he remembered that he’d nearly had a breakdown less than an hour ago.

Cass shot Marleau a dark look, taking a sip of his own wine. Beside him, Elias covered his mouth to stifle a laugh.

“Can it, Ellie,” Cass muttered, but the intended effect was immediately ruined when a smile appeared on his own face as Elias’s shoulders shook.

He set his glass down and reached over to playfully pull Elias into a headlock, his grin nearly splitting his face open when Elias burst out laughing.

Ilya watched the exchange with mild amusement, noticing that Lenora was fighting off a smile of her own.

But the moment was ruined a second later.

“Cassius,” Dorian said sharply, giving Cass a stern look. “Do control yourself. We’re eating.”

Cass released Elias slowly, reaching for his wineglass again. “My apologies, Dorian.”

Ilya didn’t miss the edge in his voice. 

Or the fact that Lenora’s fingers had tightened around her own glass.

Interesting.

“You must be so excited for tomorrow!” Dorian’s mother said to her, apparently determined to steer the conversation back into safer territory before things could escalate any further.

Lenora turned toward her at once, plastering a bright smile on her face. “Of course.”

Dorian’s mother smiled back, relieved at the successful change in subject. “You’ll make such a beautiful bride—”

“Thank you—”

“—and Dorian has been looking forward to this day for months, it’s just all so very exciting—”

Lenora’s smile sharpened by a fraction. “I’m sure he has.”

Cass pressed his lips together at that.

Ilya shot a sideways glance at Marleau, wondering if he was seeing this too, but he was far more interested in pouring himself another generous measure of wine to pay much attention to what was going on in front of them.

He poured some into Ilya’s glass without being asked to, and Ilya immediately decided that he liked this guy.

“Cheers, kid,” Marleau said, clinking his glass against Ilya’s. “Drink up. It’ll make the evening less painful.”

Ilya snorted into his wine, completely taken aback.

Well. They were definitely going to get along.

Dinner dragged on for what felt like hours, a new course delivered as soon as the one prior was cleared away. 

Ilya hardly paid the food any attention, favoring the wine that Marleau kept pouring him and Cass instead.

They had touched on various topics throughout the meal, but somehow, the conversation had shifted to their account of Ilya’s Games.

“And when I tell you,” Marleau said dramatically, his words slightly slurred now, “the moment I saw you wink toward Hollander when he was in that tree, I was like holy shit, this kid makes good television! It was fucking legendary!”

Cass cackled loudly, completely ignoring the glare Dorian shot him. 

“Oh, please,” he deadpanned, filling his own glass again. “Even my tamest moments in the Games were better than that.”

Ilya scoffed in outrage as Marleau slapped a hand against the table.

“Let’s not forget who mentored you, show-off.”

Cass rolled his eyes, nudging Elias’s shoulder. “Are you hearing this? Good thing I volunteered for you, or you would’ve been subjected to dealing with this insufferable bast—”

“Cassius,” Dorian interrupted again, looking entirely unamused. “This is hardly an appropriate conversation to have around a child.”

Cass opened his mouth at once to make a retort, but Ilya beat him to it.

“Forgive me,” he said dryly, his gaze fixed directly onto Dorian’s beady eyes. “But if a child is old enough to fight to their death in the arena, I think they’re certainly old enough to hear about what it’s like.”

He knew he had fucked up when the entire table went silent.

Shit.

Cass’s glass had frozen halfway to his lips. Elias was glancing between Ilya and Dorian with a petrified look on his face. Lenora was staring at Ilya in shock, but there was something else in her expression too.

Agreement.

Dorian’s eyes narrowed, and he gave Ilya an answering smile so cold, it chilled him straight to the bone.

“Well, I suppose no one understands what it’s like quite as well as the two of you do,” he said smoothly, reaching for his own wineglass. “You better than Cassius here, I imagine, given your more recent victory.”

Ilya tightened his grip on his own glass, never breaking eye contact.

“I have to admit, I’ve been wondering what possessed you and Hollander toward the end,” Dorian continued, tilting his head in a display of mock curiosity that made Ilya’s fingers twitch around the stem. “A very dramatic choice, putting knives to your own throats like that. Though I suppose there are only so many reasons two young men would become so… attached to one another in such a short amount of time.”

Murmurs broke out around the table at once.

Ilya’s grip was so tight on his glass now that he was faintly surprised it hadn’t shattered in his hand.

“Dorian,” Lenora warned.

Dorian ignored her completely, his smile growing wider.

“I mean, really,” he went on, his tone deceptively light. “It was rather intimate, wasn’t it? One might even say it was an act of devotion rather than—”

Ilya felt a flare of rage at the implication, his retort already waiting on his tongue—but Cass slammed his glass down on the table before he could. 

“That’s enough.”

Dorian turned toward him, all the prior amusement wiped from his face completely. “Oh, of course you have something to—”

“Dorian,” Lenora cut in, her voice razor-sharp now. “That’s enough.”

Dorian snapped his mouth shut, and for a horrible second, the look on his face suggested he might turn on her instead—but he didn’t when he looked around the table and realized that everyone was staring at him, finally remembering where he was.

“My apologies,” he muttered, setting his glass down. “I’ve been under a great deal of stress lately. The wedding, and all.”

“Oh, of course you have, sweetheart,” his mother simpered, resting a hand on his shoulder. “You just work so hard—”

Ilya immediately took another sip of wine, his pulse still pounding in his ears.

He hoped Lenora wasn’t too attached to the idea of getting married, because he was going to strangle her fiancé with his bare hands for having the fucking audacity to speak about Hollander like that.

The utter nerve to reduce everything that had happened between them to some lustful fantasy fueled by forced proximity as if Hollander wasn’t the sharpest, most infuriatingly complex person that Ilya had ever—

“Rozanov,” Cass said quietly across the table, nudging Ilya’s foot with his own. “You good?”

It took Ilya a moment to remember where he was.

Right.

Rehearsal dinner.

Public appearance.

Get it together.

He gave Cass a short nod, draining the contents of his glass in one sip.

“Perfect,” he replied, shifting his focus to picturing Dorian Calcott’s head on a stick, instead of thinking about Hollander.

God, what he wouldn’t give to be listening to another one of his annoying lectures right now.

But he couldn’t, because Hollander wasn’t here. 

He was in District Two, searching for a wife, and Ilya was probably the last thing on his mind.

Ilya tried not to dwell on how painful the realization was, but he was nowhere near drunk enough. 

Luckily, Marleau refilled his glass a moment later without being asked.

Bless him.

Ilya took a long sip, hoping the alcohol would actually start having an effect soon, or he was seriously going to lose his shit.

***

As if the evening hadn’t already been disastrous enough, an hour later, the speeches began.

Dorian’s father went first. Ilya completely tuned him out, only catching fragments about legacy and bloodline and honor.

Also known as bullshit, bullshit, and even more bullshit.

Mayor Starling went next. He spoke of Lenora as a little girl, of her stubbornness, her intelligence, the way she had always known exactly what she wanted and exactly how to get it. Lenora smiled the entire time, but it was visibly strained.

Of course it was. If the man cared about his daughter at all, he wouldn’t be forcing her to marry the complete asshole sitting beside her with his back too stiff and his own smile not reaching his eyes.

When he finally finished, he turned toward Cass, raising his glass slightly.

“Cass asked me personally if he could share a few words about Lenora earlier. Go on, son.”

Lenora’s eyes widened slightly. She turned to give Cass a surprised look as he stood, raising his own glass, his eyes never leaving hers.

“I’ve known Lenora for most of my life,” he said slowly. “And for that reason, I can safely say that she is the most stubborn, terrifying woman I’ve ever met.”

Lenora’s mouth twitched as a ripple of quiet chuckles broke out around the table.

“But she’s also the kindest,” Cass continued, his fingers twitching around his glass. “She’s always had my back, even when I didn’t deserve it, and for that, I’m eternally grateful.”

Ilya glanced at Dorian then, feeling extremely satisfied when he noticed the disgruntled expression on his face.

“Anyone with eyes already knows that she’s also devastatingly beautiful,” Cass went on, a small smile appearing on his lips, “so I suppose I don’t need to mention that part.”

Lenora’s cheeks turned slightly pink.

Dorian shot Cass a murderous glare, but Cass didn’t seem to notice.

He was still looking at Lenora as if there was no one else in the room.

“She has more patience than anyone deserves,” he said, his voice softer now. “And she has always taken care of the people around her, even when no one asked her if she wanted to be taken care of too.”

Lenora went completely still.

Ilya decided then that all the wine they’d had during dinner had been a very, very bad idea.

“I can say with full confidence that she will be an incredible wife,” Cass continued, his glass trembling slightly in his hand before he steadied it again, “and an even better mother.”

He finally tore his eyes away from Lenora’s face then, and shifted his gaze to Dorian, who looked as though he wanted nothing more than to reach out and strangle him.

“I hope her efforts will be appreciated,” he finished, a dangerous edge in his voice now. “She deserves nothing but the best.”

Dorian narrowed his eyes, but Cass turned away to look around the table, raising his glass into the air.

“To the happy couple.”

The word happy sounded like it had tasted bitter on his tongue.

“To the happy couple,” everyone echoed, taking long sips of their own drinks.

Ilya watched Cass sit back down with a grim look on his face, a realization occurring to him with sudden clarity. 

Lenora must be the girl Cass had been talking about on the train.

She didn’t want me.

Well.

It seemed as though he and Cass understood each other better than Ilya had initially thought, then.

The thought was so painful that Ilya stood abruptly, pushing his chair back. 

Cass and Marleau both gave him a strange look, but Ilya just muttered, “I need some air,” and quickly made his way over to the door before either of them could say anything.

Since the party was being held at the Starling’s estate, the grandest house in all of One, he had the option of walking around their spacious grounds.

Perfect.

He found the exit a moment later, breathing in deeply when the cool night air hit his face.

Much better.

Ilya started down the stone steps and away from the house, trying to clear his head like he’d come here to do in the first place, but it was useless.

No matter how hard he tried not to, all he could think of was Hollander.

He knew he shouldn’t, and he knew he had no right—but he couldn’t help but wonder what Hollander was doing right now. 

Was he sleeping? No, probably not. It was still early—though Ilya wouldn’t put it past Hollander to go to bed obnoxiously early, probably wearing matching pajamas or something.

The mental image his mind supplied then almost made him smile, but he clenched his teeth and forced himself to get a grip.

He tried to think of what else Hollander could be doing instead, but that only made Ilya realize that he didn’t know anything about Hollander’s domestic routines to be able to make a guess.

So of course, his mind then supplied the worst answer possible.

Was he with someone?

Ilya flinched as if he’d been struck when the thought occurred to him.

No. 

There was no way. 

No way in hell.

And even if by some insane miracle he was, Ilya did not care. Hollander could do whatever—and whoever—he wanted. 

Ilya stopped walking abruptly, pinching the bridge of his nose to try and force himself to get it together.

Fuck. 

He wanted another drink.

He wanted to go back inside and punch Dorian Calcott in his smug mouth.

He wanted Hollander.

Fuck.

Ilya exhaled shakily, bowing his head.

Stop, he told himself firmly. You’re being stupid. He doesn’t want you. He will never want you.

But no matter how many times he silently repeated it to himself, it didn’t kill the longing inside of him.

He doubted anything ever would.

God, how the hell was he supposed to survive the Victory Tour if being away from Hollander for over a month hadn’t helped him get his feelings under control at all? They were going to be constantly forced together with cameras in their faces and sleeping on the same train for nearly three weeks.

Ilya had barely been able to control himself in the arena. If they were left alone together at any point—

He cut the thought off before it finished fully forming.

Stop.

Hollander wasn't thinking of him. In fact, he was probably sitting across from some pretty girl right now who had shiny straight hair that wasn’t curly at all, saying something boring while she giggled and touched his arm and imagined what it would be like to become Mrs. Shane Hollander.

Ugh.

The mental image alone nearly made Ilya gag.

He scowled and resumed walking again, kicking at the gravel in irritation.

He truly was so fucking pathetic.

Why was it that after everything, he couldn’t shake Hollander no matter how hard he tried? Hollander was boring and insufferable and—yes, alright fine, he was also infuriatingly handsome, but that was beside the point. The point was that—

Ilya stopped dead, suddenly noticing the sound of voices coming from somewhere nearby.

He ducked behind an ostentatious tree coiffed into some sort of ridiculous shape he couldn’t make out in the darkness, listening intently.

“—would you lower your voice? What if someone hears!”

“I don’t care.”

Ilya went still when he recognized them as Lenora and Cass.

Fuck.

He should probably leave.

Whatever was happening beyond that hedge was absolutely none of his business, and the smart thing to do would be to turn around, go back inside, and drink enough wine to forget he had ever stepped outside in the first place.

But that sentiment was quickly forgotten when he heard Cass say, “Don’t marry him.”

Well.

Ilya moved closer, just drunk enough to allow his curiosity to get the best of him.

Carefully, he stepped toward the hedge until he could see them through a narrow gap in the leaves.

Cass was standing directly in front of Lenora, whose arms were crossed over her chest, looking absolutely furious.

“Are you seriously asking me that now?” Lenora demanded. “During my rehearsal dinner?”

“When else would you prefer that I say it?” Cass shot back. “During your vows?”

“I would prefer that you don’t say it at all!”

“Well that’s just too bad, because—”

“Stop,” Lenora cut him off, raising a hand. “I’m going to marry him, and nothing you say will change my mind.”

Cass let out a humorless laugh, shaking his head.

He took a step closer.

“Don’t marry him,” he repeated, sounding desperate now. “Please, Lenora. Just…don’t.”

“I have to.”

“No, you don’t, I can get you out—”

“No, you can’t,” she interrupted. “The contracts are signed. There’s no getting out of it.”

Cass broke off, the expression on his face one of complete devastation.

Ilya figured he should probably leave, now, but he stayed rooted to the spot, unable to look away.

“Don’t marry him,” Cass said again, his voice raw now. “He doesn’t love you. Not like—”

He turned away, raking a hand through his hair, blinking furiously.

“Not like I love you,” he finished quietly.

Lenora went completely still, her mouth dropping open slightly.

“What did you just say?” she whispered.

Cass shook his head, looking down at the ground. “You heard me.”

“No,” Lenora snapped, though her voice shook over the word. “Turn around, and look me in the eye when you say it.”

Cass sucked in a sharp breath and obeyed, clenching his hands into fists at his sides when he met her gaze again, as if he was fighting to hold himself back.

“I love you,” he repeated, his own voice barely audible. “Always have, always will. And I think a part of you already knew that.”

He reached out hesitantly to take her hand, and the second he touched her, it was as if something in him snapped. He bowed his head over their joined hands and pressed his mouth to her knuckles, his shoulders shaking slightly.

“And I’m sorry, I’m so fucking sorry that I didn’t do anything to stop this—”

Ilya looked away then, because the entire thing suddenly felt way too intimate to intrude on.

He found himself, inevitably, thinking of Hollander again.

A part of him was already mourning the fact that he would never get to have a similar conversation with Hollander before he got married.

He didn’t love Hollander, of course—that notion was entirely ridiculous—but Ilya could imagine telling him other things.

Don’t marry her, Hollander. You will be bored within a week.

Don’t marry her, Hollander. Someone needs to keep you sharp.

Don’t marry her, Hollander. She can’t make you feel the things I can.

Well, clearly, the alcohol had finally taken effect, because he was being fucking delusional.

“I’m sorry,” Cass was still saying, his voice breaking slightly now. “I should have done something, I should have stopped it before it got this far, I should have—”

“Stop,” Lenora cut in. “There’s nothing you could have done, and you’re not going to change my mind now. My father—”

“Fuck your father.”

“Cass, please.”

“No.” He pulled Lenora closer, his hand still clutching hers tightly, a determined look on his face. “It’s bullshit. He doesn’t get to decide this for you.”

“He already has.”

“I don’t care,” Cass countered, reaching up to absently brush a stray hair out of Lenora’s eyes. “Say the word, and I’ll do anything to get you out. I can’t stand the idea of you with him.”

Lenora laughed bitterly, shaking her head. “You’re not listening to me. It’s already done. Tomorrow is just an excuse for our families to throw a party. On paper, I’m already his wife.”

Cass dropped her hand. “What? Since when?”

Lenora shrugged. “A few months now.”

Cass took a step back, looking as though she had slapped him.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” he demanded.

She gave him a sharp look. “Oh, I’m sorry. I must have missed all the house calls you’ve paid me ever since you became a victor.”

Cass flinched, but she didn’t stop.

“But I guess I can understand, given your new status, you certainly wouldn’t want to be seen with someone as ordinary as the mayor’s daughter—”

Cass took a step forward, cupping her face firmly with the palm of his hand. “Don’t. You have no idea what I’ve been through.”

Lenora straightened, looking him directly in the eye without blinking. 

“And whose fault is that?” she shot back. “Or did you just forget about the months I spent begging you to confide in me?”

Cass’s hand fell away from her face at once.

Even from where he was hidden behind the hedge, Ilya felt the air shift.

“I didn’t know how,” Cass said quietly.

Lenora laughed once, but there was nothing amused about it. “No, you just didn’t want to.”

“That is not true—”

“Oh, spare me,” she snapped. “You came back alive, and I lost you anyway. You have no idea what that felt like.”

Cass closed his eyes, shaking his head. “I do know what it felt like. I lost you too.”

“You didn’t have to. I would have been there for you through everything, if you had just let me in.”

Cass flinched again.

“But you didn’t,” Lenora continued, the bitterness in her voice painfully clear now. “And now you’re standing here on the night before my wedding, asking me to ruin everything for you.”

She folded her arms over her chest again, as if holding herself together through sheer force of will. 

“You keep looking at me like I’m trapped because I don’t understand the cage, but I understand it perfectly. I know exactly what kind of man Dorian is. I know what he wants, and I know what he thinks a wife is for. I know what he thinks I owe him after tomorrow.”

Cass’s eyes shot open again. “What does that mean?”

Lenora gave him a pointed look. “Don’t be naive, Cass. It doesn’t suit you.”

Cass stepped forward, his eyes searching her face intently.

“Has he hurt you?” he asked quietly.

Lenora looked away at once.

Her silence was answer enough.

Cass had gone completely still.

“Lenora.”

She shook her head, her arms tightening around her chest. 

“Don’t.”

Cass stepped back, clenching his hands into fists when he realized they had begun shaking.

“I’ll fucking kill him.”

Lenora scoffed. “No, you won’t.”

“Lenora, I mean it—”

“So do I.”

Cass’s head snapped around, his expression outraged, but she ignored it completely and just reached out to straighten his tie. 

“I assure you, I’ve imagined killing him in far more detail than you have. But it doesn’t matter.”

Cass stared down at her fingers, dumbstruck.

Lenora ignored him, still focused on his tie.

“You’re going to go back inside,” she said firmly. “You’re going to drink water, not wine—”

“Lenora—”

“—you’re going to dance with Elias, and don’t you dare put him into another headlock to piss Dorian off, because I really can’t stand hearing him whine—”

Despite himself, Cass huffed out a laugh.

“And tomorrow,” Lenora continued, reaching out to smooth his lapel with more force than necessary, “you’re going to stand where you’re told, you’re going to smile when people look at you, and you are not going to start a fight at my wedding.”

Cass glanced down, staring at her hands where they rested on his jacket. 

“I don’t know if I can do that,” he admitted.

“You can.”

“You have a lot of faith in me.”

“No,” she countered. “I’m giving you instructions. We’re well past faith at this point.”

Cass let out another broken laugh, and for a second, they just looked at each other.

Then, very quietly, he asked, “Can I kiss you?”

Lenora stared back at him for so long that Ilya was almost certain she would say no.

But then—she pulled Cass toward her by his collar, and pressed her lips against his.

Cass froze for half a second in surprise before he kissed her back with a groan, like it was causing him physical pain.

Ilya looked away at once, hating himself for how jealous he felt.

What he wouldn’t give to do that.

When he looked back, Lenora had already begun pulling away again. Cass followed her on instinct, his hands still resting on the small of her back, but he stepped back at once when he realized what she was doing.

They stared at each other for a moment, both breathing heavily, and then Lenora leaned in to kiss Cass on the cheek. 

“I love you,” she said quietly. “Always have, always will.”

Then she turned on her heel and walked back toward the house.

Cass looked as though she had struck him. He watched her go with a stunned look on his face, reaching up absently to touch the spot where she had kissed him.

Ilya couldn’t help but feel sorry for him.

It had to hurt, watching the girl he loved be married off against her will.

Cass stood there for several minutes, staring at the spot where Lenora had just been, before he finally turned back toward the house.

Ilya watched him go until the rest of the hedge blocked his view, then pulled back, his mind reeling slightly from what he had just witnessed.

He really should have walked away when he’d had the chance.

But he hadn’t, of course, and now—even though the whole point of coming out here had been to forget—he was thinking of Hollander again.

For fuck’s sake.

It had to be because he was drunk. That was all. He was drunk and tired and miserable, and he had just watched Cass get his heart carved out, so of course his mind had decided to betray him.

Hollander was nothing to him.

They had only been allies for a handful of days in a death match, and it was Ilya’s own fault for being stupid enough to confuse survival with something else. Something he had ruined forever when he had looked Hollander in the eye on the train and lied to him.

Whatever.

He had done the right thing.

Hollander deserved to be safe and kept far away from Snow’s reach. He deserved his boring, respectable life in Two with some annoyingly perfect girl who would never understand him and never challenge him and never know what it felt like to have a knife at her throat and choose death over glory.

Ilya buried his face in his hands, desperately wanting another drink to try and drown the thought.

Pathetic.

He stood there for another long moment, trying to force the feeling back down where it belonged.

It didn’t work, of course, because he didn’t actually want another drink. 

Not really.

He wanted Shane.