An awareness exists between them, that he could grasp her yielding throat between his large palms and snap her neck in one simple move, be rid of her for good, just as she ought to find out how well Bellamy's vulnerable and exposed jugular vein would hold up under the pressure exerted by the knife she keeps concealed on her person and ready to use at all times.
They would survive longer together, Raven knows that. He'd voiced as much aloud when they'd discussed whether or not it would be best to not have a Careers alliance this year - a rarity in the history of the Games. It hadn't come down to that, but honestly, with how Bellamy ignores her concerns and swats away her ideas as if they are mere flies buzzing around his ear, she is certainly considering breaking off the team herself. Clarke and Finn, the Tributes from One, wisely stay quiet and keep to themselves in the background, knowing better than to risk either Two Tribute's wrath.
With her patience stretching and wearing thin, it is only so long before Raven snaps, explodes spontaneously and allows her rage to consume her like a forest fire would mercilessly chew away at the defenseless trees. "Bellamy, where the hell are we going?" To no one's surprise, he pays her no attention. Fine, she can force his hand in other ways.
"If you're going to be the one to lead the pack," she reasons, hardly calm but just managing to keep her voice from rising in volume, "you have to at least have a reasonable plan, instead of just wasting all our time. Show the others you give a damn, and that this isn't just a wild chase." Raven is at his side now, although the lack of distance between them is hardly friendly, and his arm brushing against her is not companionable or comforting in the slightest.
Oddly enough, despite the source being an arrogant ass she will be glad to rid them all of soon, the contact does bring a strange, ironic warmth. The fabric of his jacket is soft and inviting, and despite the lack of hygiene with no facilities available in the Arena to address such matters, his odor is woodsy rather than offending, making her crave... something she shouldn't.
He cures her of such needs quickly enough, shaking his head with clear annoyance for her, even though she's trying to help their situation. "I should've killed you when I had the chance," he murmurs, voice gruff with disuse and the intent to scare her. Anger sets her heartbeat racing - certainly not the deep, masculine baritone of his voice when he makes his juvenile taunts.
They've come to a stop in the hunt, pausing their trek to stare each other down. He faces her with narrowed brown eyes, hardened like the rocks their families mined for back home, inexplicably enticing and infuriating at the same damn time. Not one to back down, she relentlessly meets his gaze, her own eyes cool and unforgiving. Clarke and Finn don't bother to intervene. Despite the stereotype of the golden, ditzy, shallow Tributes One always managed to bring in, these two are certainly smart enough, or perhaps too afraid of Bellamy and Raven, or both.
"Really?" Raven's voice is a smooth, controlled rasp, icy with her anger and thick with implied warning. Her eyes scan him up and down, head to toe, in a condescending once-over, slightly difficult since he stands so much taller than her but somewhat manageable. It might be a bad idea, what with the already murderous tension existing between them, thick mutual disdain lingering in the air, but she steps closer anyways. "Well, I'm right here," she challenges, shaking off her certainty that his warm gaze - heated by homicidal wishes and something else that is certainly not just her overactive imagination - flickered down and briefly dipped to her lips.
In a dizzying flash of movement, Raven finds herself pinned to a tree with Bellamy's sizable hand wrapping around her throat, pressing against the sides rather than cutting off her airway. An empty threat, then - not that she's surprised, when he told her in that tent just hours ago that he needed her, his hand resting on the crook of her elbow instead of the skin making a boundary between her trachea and the outside world. To keep up appearances, she responds in kind, swiftly finding her knife and bringing the point against his chin, giving herself the freedom to admire the tan column of his throat and the paths of freckles dotting his sculpted jawline, meandering alongside his cheeks and nose.
She could have sworn his lips twitched slightly, the corners lifting into a small, aggravated, lethally sexy smirk, before he relented and lifted his hand from her throat in an obvious surrender. Raven tries very hard not to feel too disappointed.
