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“It’s meant to be pretty,” whispers Octavia, and I can see the tears threatening to spill over her lashes. Posy considers this and says matter-of-factly, “I think you’d be pretty in any color.”
I know he only spoke out of concern for me, but I really need him to be on my side, not Coin’s. How can he not know that?
“President Snow used to . . . sell me . . . my body, that is,” Finnick begins in a flat, removed tone. “I wasn’t the only one. If a victor is considered desirable, the president gives them as a reward or allows people to buy them for an exorbitant amount of money. If you refuse, he kills someone you love. So you do it.”
“No. My mother and younger brother. My girl. They were all dead two weeks after I was crowned victor.
Like compassion. A bomb explodes. Time is allowed for people to rush to the aid of the wounded. Then a second, more powerful bomb kills them as well.
“So, by taking them out, we prevented further attacks.” “But that kind of thinking . . . you could turn it into an argument for killing anyone at any time. You could justify sending kids into the Hunger Games to prevent the districts from getting out of line,” I say.
“You’re not very big, are you? Or particularly pretty?”
“You had me treed.”
??? treed?
