war has begun, and if they're not careful, a fatality will tear them down.
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 T...
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𝖑𝖎𝖛. He Won't Bargain
Matt
MATT SHIFTS, uncomfortable, as the minutes wear on. Midnight comes and goes. Only her eyes move, skimming the page with blurring speed. She might have it memorized by now. Maeve wanted no part in the message to Chris, remaining in Matt's rooms while the rest of them crafted it. He expected her to be gone when he came back. But she stayed.
He still can't believe what happened. And he still can't believe she's sitting here, on his bed, in the middle of the night. After all that's passed between them.
She stayed.
Matt has given up focusing on the papers in front of him. Counts, mostly. Of soldiers, civilians, casualties, resources. Enough to make his head spin. Cedric is better at deciphering all this, reducing everything to the most important details so his nephew can see the larger picture. But Matt needs the distraction, if only to keep him from the haunting little book in the desk drawer. He almost wants to tell Cedric to take it back. Keep his so-called gift until this war is won and Matt actually has the capacity to face what his uncle wants him to face.
Norta's situation requires Matt's attention, not the book. And their situation is dire. Harbor Bay is his, but it's a poor capital. The city is too old and vulnerable from all sides. And, with Fort Patriot under repair, new defenses will have to be built up for the time being. At least the city is with Matt, if only in name. Ralken surrendered, and the Reds of the Bay willingly follow their own leaders, the Red Watch, who are firmly allied to the Scarlet Guard. Matt ticks off each group in his head, running down the endless list always racing through his brain. At this point, he thinks he even sees it in his sleep.
With a sigh, he tries to clear his mind. He focuses on her instead. Strange that she is both the anchor against the storm and the storm itself.
Maeve sits cross-legged on Matt's bed, her head bent so her hair obscures half her face. The long-sleeved shirt she wears has a high collar, and is enough to hide the brand on her skin. Matt shudders every time he sees the mark burned into her and remembers that his own brother put it there. In the shifting candlelight, she looks like flame. Gold and red, with black shadows dancing at her edges. He watches quietly from his desk, one foot planted on the floor, the other on the desktop. His calf twinges, still aching from the battle, and he flexes his foot, trying to work out some of the pain. He wishes he hadn't sent the healer away earlier, but it's too late in the evening to call anyone back. He'll just have to bear it until morning, along with the other small pains still cropping up whenever he moves.
"How long has it been?" Maeve murmurs again, still not looking away from the page.
Matt leans back in his chair slightly, huffing at the ornate ceiling. The electric chandelier above him is dark, unlit. It sparked out about an hour ago, when Maeve decided to furiously pace the room. Her moods have a trembling effect.
