suzanna-kollinz-acliq-oyunlari-1-hisse-eng

Blinding lights. The deafening roar rattles the metal under
my feet. Then there’s Peeta just a few yards away. He looks so
clean and healthy and beautiful, I can hardly recognize him.
But his smile is the same whether in mud or in the Capitol and
when I see it, I take about three steps and fling myself into his
arms. He staggers back, almost losing his balance, and that’s
when I realize the slim, metal contraption in his hand is some
kind of cane. He rights himself and we just cling to each other
while the audience goes insane. He’s kissing me and all the
time I’m thinking, Do you know? Do you know how much danger
we’re in? After about ten minutes of this, Caesar Flickerman
taps on his shoulder to continue the show, and Peeta just
pushes him aside without even glancing at him. The audience
goes berserk. Whether he knows or not, Peeta is, as usual,
playing the crowd exactly right.
Finally, Haymitch interrupts us and gives us a good-natured
shove toward the victor’s chair. Usually, this is a single, ornate
chair from which the winning tribute watches a film of the
highlights of the Games, but since there are two of us, the Gamemakers
have provided a plush red velvet couch. A small
one, my mother would call it a love seat, I think. I sit so close
to Peeta that I’m practically on his lap, but one look from
Haymitch tells me it isn’t enough. Kicking off my sandals, I
tuck my feet to the side and lean my head against Peeta’s
shoulder. His arm goes around me automatically, and I feel
like I’m back in the cave, curled up against him, trying to keep
warm. His shirt is made of the same yellow material as my
dress, but Portia’s put him in long black pants. No sandals, ei-
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