Page 36 of Burn Bright (Cobalt Empire #1)

HARRIET FISHER

T he Cobalt brothers—they are so fucking intimidating when they’re all together.

It took me half a second to psych myself up to air this out myself and decide to “rip off the Band-Aid” as Ben put it.

Now that they’ve all piled out of their Range Rover and I’m facing them in this echoey, empty parking deck with Ben thankfully at my side—I feel their confidence stampeding mine like a pride of lions versus a panicky hare.

God, I’m calling myself panicky.

I’m standing completely still. I’m not on the verge of running. My eyeballs feel swollen, and if I never shed a tear again, I think I’d kiss the piss-stained concrete. Which says a lot.

And look, there’s not much to lose. Ben has made it so clear he still wants to be friends, and that matters more than anything that happens next.

So before they can utter a word, I bite out, “I offered Charlie a deal. I’d blow him so he’d back off Ben. He didn’t take it, and the deal is completely off. Rescinded.” I’m pretty sure my entire face is one massive glare.

Tom’s brows have sprung off his forehead.

Eliot is grinning.

Beckett is only looking at Charlie.

And Charlie is leaning against the shut car door, staring directly at me like I’m made of cellophane.

“Let it be known”—Eliot speaks first, which doesn’t seem to surprise any of his brothers—“Charlie cannot be swayed by blow jobs.”

Is Charlie smiling?

“And you.” Eliot points a finger at me, then claps. The applause is overly loud in the parking deck, like twenty hands coming together and not two. “Very inspired ploy to protect our little brother.”

“Therapy can’t come soon enough,” Tom mutters in a breathy whisper, then gives me a lackluster thumbs-up. Which is way better than the middle finger I was expecting.

“You’re okay?” Beckett asks me.

I try not to startle in shock. I nod once, my cheeks roasting at the attention. “Yeah, fine.” A warm, unfamiliar feeling washes over me that I instantly wish would stay. I cross my arms, shifting my weight with uncertainty.

“Ben?” Beckett asks.

“All good,” Ben tells him, then glances down at me with a rising smile.

Tension slowly ekes out of my body as I realize they’re not brandishing pitchforks. It’s the exact opposite. Do they really not see me as an enemy? Or in the very least, too unhinged to be friends with their brother?

No one gets another word out—not when we hear a car rumbling closer. Everyone turns as a sleek black Audi with red stripes slows to a stop at the butt of the Range Rover. I gauge their complete lack of apprehension right before the driver’s door opens.

Stepping out, black boots touch the ground, and I look up to see black slacks, black belt, and tucked-in black V-neck on a fit, masculine body.

So many tattoos scatter his white skin, all the way up his neck.

He swings out a trauma bag. Blows a bubblegum bubble, pops it in his mouth.

Then lifts sunglasses up to his ash-brown hair—which I’ve seen dyed white, black, even blue before (but never in person, always online and in tabloids).

If “effortlessly cool” were a person, it’d be this guy.

“Famous ones,” he says to the Cobalts, his voice sounding naturally rough and deep while he stays chill. “Pop the trunk.” He’s already snapping on medical gloves. “Whoever’s bleeding goes first.”

I find myself locked in on him. On how he’s triaging Charlie and Tom. On his assured demeanor. He’s not a paramedic. He’s a Yale medical school graduate. He went through residency at Philadelphia General Hospital, according to my Wiki search on him.

He’s a doctor.

Seeing one in the wild isn’t like spotting a rare albino moose, okay, but this little seed of envy-adoration grows being so close to someone who’s made it.

Who knows their shit. Who’s done the arduous leg work, came out with the M.D.

, practices medicine, and his patients trust him to help them.

It’s clear the Cobalt boys called him at two a.m. to come to the rescue.

Now he’s at a random NYC parking deck acting like this is just any regular Friday night.

“That’s Farrow,” Ben whispers to me, probably seeing me ogle the fuck out of him while Charlie hops up on the opened trunk. I sincerely hope Ben doesn’t think I have the hots for their family’s on-call concierge doctor.

I’m like ninety-nine percent positive that’s his job title because I’ve researched the position out of curiosity.

We’re all congregated at the rear of the Range Rover. Charlie’s bodyguard has even joined us, but I keep my distance from everyone.

Only Ben hangs beside me, and I whisper back, “Farrow Redford Keene, I’ve heard of him.”

“ Hale ,” Ben corrects with a small smile. “He’s married to my cousin Maximoff.” There’s a sweet reverence in the way Ben mentions his oldest cousin, and seeing as how he brought up Maximoff in the escape room, I’m sensing a lot of love there.

It’s cool knowing his issues with Xander haven’t tarnished his relationship with the other Hales.

If Ben somehow hated Farrow, I would feel like shit for being this laser-focused on him.

I don’t even tell Ben that I only know of Farrow because of his highly-publicized relationship with Maximoff.

Otherwise, I doubt their family’s concierge doctor would be all over the internet.

Farrow crouches down and rolls up Charlie’s pant leg slowly, then faster (but carefully) once he sees shards of glass still lodged in his kneecap.

I bet he’ll need stitches. His cuts seem deeper than mine—like he anchored his weight on the glass. I’d feel guilty, but I didn’t ask him to drop to his knees. He could’ve just told me to stand up.

Red rivers of blood track down Charlie’s legs.

Tom sucks in a wince.

Eliot grimaces. “Oof. Don’t pass out, Tom.” He clutches his brother’s shoulder when Tom begins gagging. The bloodied wounds are fully displayed.

“That’s worse than what you described, Charlie,” Beckett says quietly to his brother.

“It’s barely even bleeding,” Charlie tells him.

“Eh, try again, Cobalt.” Farrow inspects the depth and size of the visible gashes.

“This is not barely.” He asks him a few questions about how he feels.

Like, “Dizzy? Nauseous?” After Charlie answers, Farrow cleans the wounds, then gathers a needle and vial of…

lidocaine? I squint but can’t read the label from here.

He explains to Charlie, “I’m going to give you local anesthesia?—”

“Skip it,” Charlie interjects. Is he nuts? I would’ve gladly numbed my cuts before bandaging them.

Farrow frowns. “It’s just lidocaine.” I was right about that, fuck yes.

“I don’t need it.”

“Man, you have about five pieces of glass I’m going to extract. Then I’m going to suture at least two cuts. One might need four stitches. You’ll want the lido.”

“Charlie,” Beckett murmurs.

“Fine,” Charlie says. “Just hurry, I’m sure Tom is panicking about never being able to sing Bohemian Rhapsody again.”

“Not funny,” Tom croaks.

Farrow side-eyes him. “Don’t talk until after I check you out.”

Banter escalates between Ben’s brothers, but my attention has been usurped as Farrow administers a lidocaine shot in each knee. He asks Charlie if he can feel anything when he presses near the wound. When it’s numb, he moves on.

I watch him use forceps to pluck glass from Charlie’s skin. He’s in a squatting position, but he’s so still. Quick. Meticulous. His hands never tremble.

When he brings out a suture kit, I stop myself from moving closer. Don’t be that fucking nosy, Harriet. I’m lucky to have permission to watch this at all.

Once Charlie’s wounds are stitched, cleaned, and bandaged, Farrow removes his dirtied gloves and puts on a fresh pair. Then asks Tom’s brothers, “How’d he strain his voice?”

“Stupidity,” Charlie answers.

Tom flips him off with two hands.

“He was yelling over a siren,” Ben tells Farrow.

“A siren?” His pierced brows rise while he chews gum.

“An escape game gone poorly,” Beckett clarifies.

Farrow spins around to Tom. He has a couple inches on him, so maybe he’ll do this examination standing. I’d need to make my patient sit down. “I’m going to touch your neck and check out your throat. You okay with that?”

Tom is a little red in the face. He’s also jittery, shifting his weight around and nodding. “Do it,” he rasps in a whisper.

Farrow presses his fingers around Tom’s neck. “Everyone be quiet for a second except for Tom.” He’s asking him to speak, and I wonder if he’s listening for rattling. Then Farrow has a little handheld light. “Stick your tongue out and say ahh. ”

Tom does as instructed. “Ahhhh.” His voice sounds wheezy.

Farrow shines the light down his throat, then assesses. I can’t decipher the severity of the prognosis from his face, but he doesn’t take long to tell Tom, “You likely just have vocal strain, but I can’t rule out vocal bruising without a laryngoscopy.”

“Are you doing a laryngoscopy here?” I say, my excitement getting the better of me. Fuck, fuck. Everyone is staring at me. I death-grip to the fact that Ben is smiling.

“Harriet Fisher?” Farrow guesses. “Luna’s lab partner?” His memory recall must be insane because I’ve never interacted with him, and I highly doubt any Hale has mentioned me more than once.

“Former lab partner,” I nod.

“Farrow,” he introduces himself, and I’m shocked he doesn’t say Dr. Hale. He must offer his first name to all strangers, because there is no fucking way I’ve leveled-up to one of the inner-circles of these families. I have to still be somewhere on the outskirts.

To me and Tom, Farrow says, “I need to do the laryngoscopy in the office. It’s sterile and all the equipment is there.”

“That’s back in Philly,” Beckett reminds Tom.

Farrow runs down Tom’s options, which include having Farrow’s uncle, also a physician, bring the equipment up to New York. It dawns on me that Farrow isn’t the sole concierge doctor these families must hire.

Tom can also go to a hospital in the city if he wants this resolved like immediately.

“What happens if there’s a bruise?” Eliot asks.

“No permanent damage. A superficial bruise will heal quickly by itself, but if there’s a hemorrhagic polyp…

a blood blister, it will require surgery, but the voice will typically return to its original capability even with surgery.

So whichever way you flip it, your odds look great, Tom.

Don’t stress. Just try not to talk at all.

If you have to, you can whisper. Drink lots of fluids, use a nebulizer and humidifier, and don’t smoke.

If it’s only vocal strain, your voice should heal in a few days. ”

Tom decides on the option where he’ll have Farrow do the laryngoscopy tonight in Philly. No shot at me seeing it then. I try not to be bummed. Eliot offers to go with his brother, that they’ll just crash at their parents’ house, which is in the Philly area.

Must be nice to have an open-door policy with their mom and dad. Welcome back home whenever.

Farrow pries off his gloves. “Anyone else need looked at?”

That’s when Ben peers down at me. My heart flip-flops strangely, especially when I realize all four of his brothers are staring at me too.

“Yeah, Harriet does,” Ben says. “She knelt on glass.”

I’m frozen. “No…no, I…” My brows are furry little caterpillars of confusion. Farrow is already approaching. “Dude, I don’t pay for concierge treatment. I’m not a ‘famous one’.” I use air quotes to quote him.

“If you’re hurt, I’m going to treat you. I don’t give a flying shit about the pay.” He crouches down again, unzipping his trauma bag. “I’ve never been into medicine for the money.”

Me neither. I heard residents don’t make much anyway , I want to say. Is that true? I keep it inside and just roll up my sweatpants while he snaps on a new pair of gloves. “I already cleaned and sealed the cuts. They weren’t as deep as Charlie’s. I bandaged them too.”

“You sealed them?” Farrow asks, peeling off my bandage. “With…?”

“Superglue.” Why the fuck is my heart beating out of my chest? I’m so freaking nervous as he inspects the several cuts I sealed along my kneecaps.

“Keep an eye out for infection.”

I nod stiffly, my pulse still out of whack as I watch him adhere clean bandages to each of my knees. Then he rises so very high above me and peels off his gloves. “Nice work,” he says with so much light in his brown eyes. It’s a smile before his lips stretch. Then he’s packing up to go. Nice work?

Nice work.

Nice work.

Nice fucking work?!?!

I think I black out in joy.

And I only come to focus when Ben quietly teases, “You think he knows you’re pre-med?”

I’m hopefully not blushing. “No way. A baby could do what I did.”

“What babies are you trusting with superglue?” He’s near a laugh, and my insides do an odd floaty maneuver.

“Baby geniuses like your brother.”

“Like you,” Ben smiles.

I start to shake my head but stop myself short, especially as Charlie comes closer with Beckett. Tom and Eliot are gathering their things out of the Range Rover, but they hear Charlie say loudly, “What have you learned, children?”

“Tom can’t speak for days,” Beckett says.

Eliot calls out, “Life is nothing but a maze.” What…is happening?

“Umbrellas can be set ablaze,” Tom whispers and slams the car door.

“Harriet deserves all the praise,” Ben smiles down at me.

I wait for an explanation, but they give none. Their little word rhyming thing just ends, and I look around at each of them. “You all are really fucking weird.”

Ben laughs, “You have no idea.”

My lips nearly twitch into a tiny smile. As everyone starts climbing into vehicles, I’m hooked on him for a moment.

After my mistake, I expected tonight to be absolutely gutting. Then he found me. He held me in my car, stroked my hair, rocked me—and I thought I’d hate it. But I never wanted those intimate moments with him to end.

I’ve never had anyone try to make me feel better when I’ve been down in the dumps. Not as deeply as he just did. I’ve had to crawl out of the overflowing, suffocating dumpster myself.

And to have someone care enough to even open the dumpster, let alone crawl into it just to pull me out, overwhelms me.

It’s like I’m stepping onto a beach my toes have never touched as the sun rises and bathes my skin.

It’s warmth. Tonight has been so warm when I expected it to be bone-chilling cold.

I try not to fear wanting more. Because it’s terrifying to long for a feeling that another person provides when all I’ve ever done is rely on myself. What happens if it stops? Now that I’ve experienced this warmth, will life feel ten billion times colder without it?

I wonder if I’ve crossed the “no turning back” sign. If this is the moment a Cobalt has forever changed me.