Page 19 of Burn Bright (Cobalt Empire #1)

They aren’t unfamiliar to me. Neither is the language.

We all learned French from our parents, who were taught at a young age in school.

They fostered our knowledge through carrying conversations at home and our travels to Europe.

It feels like I’ve always known French, the same way my siblings have.

Another book draws my attention. Tugging it out, I thumb through a hardcover titled Grandes Esperanzas by Charles Dickens.

I can speak Spanish better than I can read it—thanks to all the time I spent with the Meadows. My Uncle Ryke is fluent from learning in school as a kid too, and he helped teach some of us, including his daughters (Sullivan and Winona) and Maximoff Hale and me.

I’m really close to my Uncle Ryke and Aunt Daisy. Hell, I spent more time at the Meadows Cottage than the Cobalt Estate some months as a kid. They were right down the street, but they had the most acres of woods, the most secret hideouts, the most creeks to wade through.

I haven’t hung out there since I left for college. Since I distanced myself from Winona. Losing a friendship with my cousin was painful, but losing time I loved spending with my aunt and uncle hurts more somehow.

I stare at the book in my hands. This Spanish edition of Great Expectations has to belong to Charlie. He’s a polyglot like our dad and knows more languages than I can count. Spanish is on that list.

As the yellowed pages brush my fingers, my thumb catches one, and I see Pip. From Pirrip.

My middle name.

My pulse skips. I shut the book. Put it back between other classics. Then I pick up the kantharos by one of the two swooping handles. The black Grecian cup has intricate artwork of a girl cradling a fruit…maybe a pomegranate?

I can’t see much else in the dark. So I turn to grab my phone to use the light. As I tap on the flashlight app, I lose grip of the cup. It slips and drops.

And shatters on the hardwood.

Fuck.

Wide-eyed, unbreathing, I stare at the shards of pottery at my bare feet. It must’ve made a decently loud noise because I hear the pitter-patter of footsteps like I woke someone.

Please be Beckett.

Please be Beckett.

I squat down to pick up the pieces. Just as a shirtless Charlie emerges. He wears gray cotton pants and a blank expression.

He comes closer, then roots a hand to the blue revolving chair. Using it as a brace, maybe. I don’t fucking know.

I do know that I just broke a prized memento of his. It was displayed . It had to have meant something to him.

He sees the mess. “Planned on drinking wine?” His voice is void of emotion. Unreadable.

“What?” I breathe out my first breath.

He rolls his eyes. “It was a kantharos. It’s meant for drinking wine.”

I know what a kantharos is. I’m full of random facts that’d make me a decent Jeopardy competitor. A lot I learned during Wednesday Night Dinners. Some have been permanently etched in my brain. Some I’ve completely forgotten out of disinterest.

I still can’t get a solid read on Charlie.

“I broke your cup,” I say as I gather the scattered fragments.

“Sorry. It just fell out of my hands…” I shouldn’t touch anything of his.

I shouldn’t be here. If I just called Harriet, I wouldn’t have picked it up.

I wouldn’t have broken it. This wouldn’t have happened.

“It’s a cup, not an organ,” he says like I’m overreacting.

Does he really not care? “Where’d you get it?”

“Sifnos.”

I frown. “Where’s that?”

“Greece.”

I’m not shocked it’s authentic. I wish it was a knockoff from Crate it almost overwhelms me to sudden, scalding tears as he says, “You feel everything. I feel nothing .”

It pushes me like a shove against my chest.

“Go to sleep,” he says numbly.

At this, I hand him the pottery. He collects the last of the shards, and I walk to the bathroom. Unable to be present while he sweeps up the remaining bits and pieces.

I tuck myself on the floor beside the toilet. And I cry. I don’t even know why the fuck I’m crying, other than it’s releasing this knot in my body that so badly wants to untangle.

Charlie must’ve called Beckett.

He comes in and takes a seat on the floor across from me. His hair is disheveled like he abruptly woke up. His black drawstring pants hang low on his waist, his tattoos visible along his carved bicep. The light in the bathroom causes him to squint a little as his eyes adjust.

“You need the sleep,” I rasp out. “Don’t worry about me. I’m fine.” I’m screwing everything up. I rub roughly at my wet face.

“I’d rather be here,” he whispers, his voice so soothing in comparison to Charlie’s. He wears remorse. “Whatever Charlie said to you?—”

“It’s not that.” And this wouldn’t be the first time Beckett has tried to apologize on his twin’s behalf. I broke his Grecian cup. He doesn’t care. So why do I? I don’t know.

I don’t know.

Am I the only Cobalt who doesn’t know enough? Am I the only one who would think, I don’t fucking know?

I press the heel of my palm harder against my eye, trying not to groan out my gnarled emotions. I manage to get out, “I’ll get over it.” I hope.

He rests his forearms on his knees. “You should talk to Dad.”

I shake my head so hard, a muscle screams in my neck to stop. He wouldn’t understand. I’m being unreasonable. “I’m okay,” I promise. “I’m okay, really, man. This is just…me being me, you know?”

Sensitive.

Fragile.

Irrational.

Ben.

I use the side of my fist to dry the last of my face.

Beckett slides over to me, wedging himself on my other side. He wraps an arm around my shoulders. “I love you, Pip. You being exactly who you are, I love you.” He squeezes me a little fiercer than usual. “N'en doute jamais.”

Never doubt that.

It burns my eyes. “I love you too, Beck.” I breathe in, breathe out. Deeper. Until I can swallow the rock back down. “N’en doute jamais.” Never doubt that.

“Je n’ai jamais pu,” he murmurs. I never could.

I don’t want to leave. In this single second, I want to exist quietly beside my brother, in the safety of this bathroom. I want to freeze time and know that everything is okay. Everything will be okay forever.

I’m okay.