Page 26 of Burn Bright (Cobalt Empire #1)

BEN COBALT

W e enter the dusty, dimly lit brownstone. The heavy door thunks as I shut it behind us. Harriet sneezes into her elbow.

“Bless you,” I say.

“Thank—” She sneezes again. I keep a protective hand on her shoulder, unsure of what we’re actively walking into. Other than a musty, dingy-looking library.

Weathered texts line floor-to-ceiling, dark oak bookshelves. Globes and old artifacts pile on towering stacks of hardbacks. If someone told me we entered a movie set for an 1800s antique bookshop, I’d believe them.

I touch the top of her head, rounding her body. “Stay behind me, yeah?”

She doesn’t protest. “Scared I might sneeze up a dust storm?”

“More like I’m afraid bats will come flying at us.”

“Bats?” Her light brown brows vault into her uneven bangs. “I do not want to have to take the rabies vaccine. I don’t care if they’re not as painful as they used to be, it’s a series of shots, Ben.”

I slip her a smile. “You’re scared of needles?” It’d be ironic since she’s pre-med, but it’s not that outlandish to me. So many times, I feel like I’m too many conflicting things at once.

“It’s just my pain tolerance…it’s not that high.” Red flush creeps up her neck, like this is an embarrassing trait. I wonder if her parents told her to “suck it up” a lot.

“That’s why I’m taking one for the team. Stay behind me, petit oiseau.”

Harriet tucks herself closer to my back, and I reach behind me and hold her hand. Her grip is much tighter than it’d been earlier tonight in the study room.

We go farther into the disorganized foyer. No one is seated at the ornate wooden podium. I tap a brass bell. It dings. Harriet looks left and right, up and down, and as her fear subsides, I spot her intrigue.

“Okay, this is cool,” she whispers like we’re in a real library.

No one responds to the bell. So we follow muffled voices down a winding footpath. It’s not a hall exactly. Stacks of leather-bound hardbacks on the floor create partitions and leave a twisting, curving space that guides us forward.

The sheer number of books reminds me of a shop in Italy called Libreria Acqua Alta. One hot summer day during a family vacation in Venice, my eldest brother did his typical routine of wandering off.

Charlie was fifteen at the time, and a fleet of bodyguards fanned out to try to locate him in the maze of Venetian streets.

I was eleven and hanging around my dad when he had the idea to check Libreria Acqua Alta.

We found Charlie inside with one of the bookstore’s tabby cats circling his legs.

He’d been flipping through La Divina Commedia by Dante Alighieri like nothing was out of the ordinary.

Instead of lecturing Charlie, our dad talked to him about Dante and the Inferno.

It pissed me off. Charlie gets special treatment because he’s Charlie . Because he’s a genius stuck inside a world that will never understand him.

I don’t pretend to understand what torments Charlie. I just hate how the same grace isn’t offered to me.

You feel everything. I feel nothing.

His gutting, mind-fucking words from the apartment ring in my ears as we walk toward the muffled voices and come into a vintage parlor. On instinct, I want to leave. I’d rather play Frogger in city traffic than be in breathing distance from Charlie.

I look down at Harriet. At how her scowl intensifies to “fuck you” levels. At how she keeps her determined gaze forward. At how she’s here for me.

And then I want to stay.

We step into the parlor. Black lacquer walls, ornate gold-framed portraits of revolutionaries on horseback, red velvet Chesterfield sofas, and an oil-painted ceiling of gods in fluffy clouds immerse us in a regal space reminiscent of sitting rooms in Versailles.

Flames flicker in a roaring fireplace, and I feel the heat in the confined space as we arrive.

All four of my brothers go silent and turn their heads. They resemble a still frame. A photograph out of an issue in Vogue, and I’m not sure what’s more magnanimous. Them or the gods illustrated above us.

Beckett brings a lit cigarette to his lips, his lithe movements too compelling.

It’s impossible to look away. He has on a black leather jacket and dark jeans, and for as calm as Beckett is, his yellow-green eyes can puncture with unmitigated intensity.

He’s assessing Harriet—since he’s only ever heard of her.

I bring her up a lot during our breakfasts together.

He takes a long drag, then passes the cigarette to Charlie.

Eliot grips a high shelf on a bookcase. He chose a khaki trench coat for the occasion, unsurprisingly on theme.

The polished buttons and tailored fit seem expensive enough that I’m positive it’s designer.

Tom is sitting on top of a club chair, his Sharpie-doodled Vans on the cushion.

He’s in ripped jeans and a black muscle shirt.

Charlie looks the most editorial. Standing near the fireplace in black slacks and an oversized black cardigan with a deep V-neck, clearly not wearing a shirt underneath, he pinches the cigarette and fixates on me .

Harriet releases a tensed breath. She stiffens, then tears her hand out of mine. It’s very clear they notice.

I’m not hurt. She’s crossing her arms as a defensive measure. If I thought she couldn’t handle them, I wouldn’t have invited her here.

Charlie casually leans an arm against the wall and cuts an annoyed look between Harriet and me. “Nice of you to show up.” He sucks on the cigarette while checking his watch. “Twenty minutes late.” He blows smoke in my direction.

I narrow my eyes and waft the air. “I didn’t know this was time sensitive. I thought we were going to a club.”

Beckett swings an accusatory look at Eliot. “You lied to him?”

“I didn’t think he’d show if he knew it was an escape room,” Eliot confesses without a hint of remorse. And he’s not wrong.

I would have rejected him. Again.

Charlie returns the cigarette to Beckett. “There’s this thing called Google.” He lifts his brows at me. “But of course you didn’t look it up.”

I glower. “Yeah, because I didn’t think my own brother would lie to me.”

Beckett slices a powerful, warning look to Charlie like shut up . Whatever Charlie was going to say next remains a mystery because he thankfully goes quiet.

Placing a hand on Harriet’s shoulder, I introduce her. “This is Harriet Fisher. She’s my friend at MVU.”

“We know who she is,” Tom says, the spite in his voice clear. Beckett lets out an exasperated sigh, and I wonder if he had a pep talk with the rest of our brothers to be nice .

I warn Tom, “Don’t be a dick to her.”

“It’s fine, Ben.” Harriet stares Tom down like she’s the headlights and he’s the deer caught in her way. “I know who you are too.”

Tom flips open a silver Zippo lighter. “Let’s hear it, Harry. Who am I?”

“Okay, Tommy . Lead singer of The Carraways. Horrible taste in music.” She’ll have to strike harder to land a blow in my unyielding family. I don’t love that Tom is egging her on, but at least she’s not backing down.

“ I have horrible taste in music?” Tom makes a face. “Says a girl who’s trying to be an Avril Lavigne knockoff. Where’d you get those pants? Hot Topic.”

She glares. “At least my vocals didn’t sound like shit in my most recent live performance.”

Tom stews. “At least I have live performances.”

“Probably not for long.”

That strikes a nerve. Tom chokes on a coarse noise. “ You begged me to be in my band.”

“And I might’ve improved it, but you’ll never know.”

Tom spreads his arms. “A mystery I don’t care to solve.”

“Glad we’re here to solve one you’re interested in,” she slings back.

Eliot has moved closer to Tom, as if to aid him in battle. Charlie and Beckett are exchanging indecipherable looks from across the parlor.

I never leave Harriet’s side.

Frustrated, Tom spins to Eliot for backup. “Dude?”

“‘Though she be but little she is fierce’,” Eliot quotes. I almost laugh, which slices through the tension.

Tom groans. “You did not just whip out the Shakespeare for her.”

Charlie rolls his eyes. “You act like he reserves it for special people. He’s a walking lexicon of sixteenth century plays.”

Eliot takes a dramatic bow, then steals the Zippo from Tom. The lighter actually belongs to Eliot, and he clicks it shut with one swooping motion. “Shall we begin, brothers and Harriet?”

“Please,” Beckett says smoothly, blowing more smoke away from us.

Eliot wags his brows playfully at Harriet while he approaches me. Her scowl deepens, and he laughs while he hands me a sheet of paper with game instructions. He’s a natural flirt, but I’m not even marginally threatened by my brother.

For one, I’m confident if we were competing for a girls’ attention, I’d win in the end if I wanted the W.

But mostly, Eliot would never hit on a girl I brought over.

The depth of that betrayal would eviscerate him inside-out.

So in a lot of ways, I will always and forever trust my brothers, even when they deceive me. The intent is always pure.

Mine is too.

I take the instructions, having trouble concentrating on the typed font when some tension still swarms the parlor.

From what I can tell, Eliot seems to like Harriet. Charlie has zero opinion of her so far, and Beckett watches my reaction more than hers. I didn’t expect to be most worried about my favorite brother, but if he continues being this overly observant of me, I might have problems.

Fuck.

Yeah…I’m hiding a lot from them. Like being broke. Like why I have money issues in the first place.

I don’t need Beckett digging too hard tonight. Before I figure out how to shrug off the attention, a man—wearing what I can only guess is a Sherlock Holmes costume—pops into the room.

“Welcome to The Labyrinth Library. The exit door is about to be locked, and it will remain locked until you find the key. No phones are allowed once the game begins.” He holds out a basket for us to deposit our phones.

I’m about to chuck mine in there.