ROOFTOP - finnick odair

chapter eight

"Oh yeah, go ahead and kill me," I say, rolling my eyes. They both grip my arms and pull me up into the elevator until we reach Snow's room.

They knock on the door and open it, pushing me inside.

"Watch it," I scowl. I turn to look at Snow, amusement spread across his face for no particular reason. Even more peacekeepers surround his desk, and I raise an eyebrow.

"What's all this?" I smirk. "You like what I did to the last one?"

I scan the room for the guard who hurt Winter, the one who's arm I screwed up pretty bad. But he's nowhere to be found.

"Finnick Odair."

His name in his mouth doesn't sound right. I want to lunge at him and wrap my hands around his sickly pale neck, watching the life drain out of him every time he talks. There wouldn't be anything stopping me, besides the fact that I'd probably get shot before I can even take more than one step.

"What about him?" I say, my tone sharp and cold.

"You can't fall in love with him."

I find myself laughing. "And if I do? What, are you gonna kill him? Or kill me, so that we don't fall in love with each other? That sounds like something you'd do, doesn't it?"

He stares at me hard, but I don't feel affected by it at all. None of us say anything for a while, and I start to get impatient.

I roll my eyes. "Why don't you just tell me why I'm here?"

His fingers twitch a little so he grips his mug on his deck to cover it up. "You... don't have any more clients." His voice is strained, like its rejecting all the words that are trying to come out of him.

"You're telling me good news?"

He sighs out of frustration. "Neither does Mr. Odair."

I cross my arms and smirk. Although, I'm almost scared to find out why he's telling me this.

"This is what happens when two victors fall in love. Everyone notices it and suddenly they don't want anything to do with it, because they get obsessed. Now all they want is for you two to be in love for eternity. You're not available for them anymore."

I scoff. "I was never available for them in the first place."

"Unless you don't love him," he says, a wicked smile creeping upon his lips. I stare at him right in the eyes.

"Like you could tell."

He leans back in his chair. "Either way, I can't control how your clients feel. They just get so attached."

I roll my eyes. "Don't you think that's kind of your fault? You brainwashed an entire society into thinking that these Games are meant for fun. They teach their children that murdering innocent people is fun, or betting on who's gonna die first is fun, or using a knife before a pencil is fun. You turn people into psychopaths - you make them sick, and impulsive, and obsessed."

This time he avoids my eyes.

I laugh. "They love the game. Of course they're gonna love the players."