Kill. It was a base instinct, and Clove knew it. But it was the tribute in her. Her mouth started to open, but she clenched her teeth. No. Not again. She wouldn't scream for help, wouldn't make an idiot out of herself when no one came. Because no one would come. Not to help her, and especially not to help her against a friend of Katniss's. She'd been too honest with people here, hadn't kept with the Capitol strategy of playing nice. She'd let herself drop the act, show this place the Career mindset, and she'd pay for it.

"Take another step," she said, the growl somewhere between and mixing fear and anger, "and it's one or the other." A warning arrow for a warning knife. Another arrow to scratch her face. After that, what else could she do. And this is the same situation. Only this man won't keep quiet as long as Katniss did. Or else he'll kill her. But if he does? She'll leave her mark.

Neck. Throat. Hand with the sword. All good, viable targets. Clove clutches the knife tight. Kill or be killed. Strength in numbers -- he has the allies, she doesn't. No one will come if she screams. She's going to die here, but she's not going to make it as easy as she made it for Thresh.