she's an anomaly, and they can't help but be infatuated with her.
NO SMUT OR SEXUALIZING ━ if any of the triplets are uncomfortable with this fanfiction, it will be taken down immediately.
matt sturniolo x fem! oc x chris sturniolo (LOVE TRIANGLE)
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𝖝𝖑𝖛. Glass Sword
"KILL ME."
The words sear in Maeve's mouth, slashing past what must be a throat burned raw from screaming. She expects to taste blood ━ no, she expects nothing at all. She expects to be dead.
But as her senses return, she realizes that she's very much still alive. She's not stripped bare of flesh and bone as she thought. She's not even bleeding. She's whole, though she certainly doesn't feel it. With a burst of willpower, she forces her eyes open. But instead of Chris and his executioners, she's met with a familiar friendly face.
"Maeve."
Weston doesn't give her a chance to catch her breath. His arms circle her shoulders, pressing her into his chest, back into darkness. She can't help but flinch at the contact, remembering the feel of fire and lightning in her bones.
"It's all right," he murmurs. There's something so soothing about the way he speaks, his voice deep and shuddering. And he refuses to let her go, even when she involuntarily shrinks away. He knows what her heart wants, even if her frayed nerves can't handle it. "It's over, you're all right. You're back."
For a moment, she doesn't move, curling her fingers into the folds of his old shirt. She focuses on him, so she doesn't have to feel herself shaking. "Back?" she whispers. "Back where?"
"Let her breathe, Weston."
Another hand, so warm it can only be Matt's, takes her arm. He holds on tightly, the pressure careful and controlled, enough for her to focus on. It helps the rest of her swim out of the nightmare, fully returning to the real world. She leans back slowly, away from Weston, so she can see exactly what she's waking up to.
They're underground, judging by the damp, earthy smell, but this isn't another one of Cyrus' tunnels. They're far out of Harbor Bay, if her electrical sense is any indication. She can't feel a single pulse, meaning they must be well away from the city. This is a safe house, dug right into the ground, camouflaged by forest and design. Red-made, no doubt, probably used by the Scarlet Guard, and everything looks faintly pinkish. There's no decoration; in fact, there's barely anything in here at all. A few sleeping bags, her own included, ration packs, a switched-off lantern, and a few crates of supplies from the airjet are all Maeve can see. Her Stilts home was a palace compared to this, but she's not complaining. In fact, she sighs in relief, happy to be out of danger and away from her blinding pain.
Weston and Matt let Maeve blink around at the sparse room, allowing her to come to her own conclusions. They look haggard with worry, transformed into old men in the span of a few hours. She can't help but stare at their dark-circled eyes and deep frowns, wondering what wounded them in this way. Then she remembers. The light slanting in from the narrow windows is red-orange and the air has gone cold. Night is coming. The day is over. And they've lost. Declan Freeman is dead, a newblood to Chris' slaughter. America too, for all Maeve knows. She failed them both.
