Matteo's Rapture

Trois

Emma Chassériaux

Corsica, France
The Chassériaux family villa
The twenty-eighth of June, 8:15 a.m.

"Emmy,"

My eyes slowly peel open—still heavy with exhaustion and remnants of the event that kept me up all night. The blinds are open halfway—rays of morning yellow and gold filter through in horizontal beams, casting across a familiar face.

"Em," Maxence repeats, moving gracefully to sit down at the foot of my bed. He looks normal, in his usual dark blue three piece suit, presentable and ready as always. But something's off, and I can't put my finger on it.

Blinking the sleep away from my eyes, I prop myself up on my elbows—squinting at Max. His narrowed gaze is fixated on the window, jaw tight with a slight down tilt of his brow.

"Qu'est-ce qui ne va pas?" I sit up even more, alert with a certain uneasiness I've felt since Matteo's been here.

His hands intertwine, "He's waiting for you in the courtyard." Max replies smoothly in English while simultaneously turning his head to look at me, and it's now that I see what I didn't earlier.

"Maxence," I'm nearly speechless, frantically pushing back the covers while I crawl over towards him. "W-Who did this you?"

It's a silly question, and I don't even know why I've asked it. I already know the answer, even if he himself didn't exactly do it—one of his men did.

The bruise under Max's left eye is blending color of red and a dark purple, irritated and no doubt painful. Analyzing his face even more, I can see that his lip's split.

Is this why he wasn't on guard last night? What the fuck happened?

Flicking his wrist, he looks down before settling his attention on me again. "It's eight-nineteen, you're supposed to meet him at eight-thirty."

"Max—"

I don't even realize I'm crying until his thumb gently wipes underneath my eyes, the rough skin on his knuckles grazing my cheeks. The soft look in his eyes isn't comforting, because it tells me everything and more that he won't. That he can't.

"Where's Papa, Max? Have you told him about this?"

Max's eyes search mine before they flicker to my neck and back up to my face, confusion prominent in them.

"Quoi?" I ask, watching his forehead crease as he scowls.

In the mere second I realize why his face has morphed into one of thinly veiled anger, his hand suddenly grips my chin—carefully tilting my head up. "Have you told him about this?"

"Max—"

His hand drops from my chin and his shadow casts over me as he stands up, momentarily blocking the sun. There's this look on his face that I've never seen before, and it's scaring me. "J'aurais dû être ici, I'm sorry."

"No, it's not your fault Max. Tu ne savai—"

"He sent this up," Max flicks his head to the side, my eyes following his wordless clue until I see a yellow dress folded neatly at the bottom of my bed. "don't be late."