Page 55 of Burn Bright (Cobalt Empire #1)

BEN COBALT

A fter Harriet texts that she’s on campus, I think I’ll relax, but tension still flexes every tendon in my body. I’m back inside Pink Noir, and Eliot and Tom have already pulled me onto the dance floor.

I have to pretend for thirty minutes that I’m not dying inside. The club feels too small. Bodies packed too tight. I can spot the NYBC dancers on the floor, not just because I recognize their faces.

The beat of the music seems to flow through their limbs, their veins, with soul-bearing rhythm in each lithe movement.

Leo rolls his neck like the melody is a drug he’s high on.

Beckett lifts a girl in his arms and twirls.

She sways her hands upward like she’s skimming the surface of a lake and not the air.

A couple dancers drift off to the side complaining about being sore and exhausted from their performance earlier tonight.

I try to let the remixed songs absorb my thoughts like the most powerful sponge, but I just keep thinking, Harriet dissects mice. And now she’s gone. I’m not sure which one feels worse. There is a definite void she’s left behind.

She dissects mice? I wish it were a question and not an absolute fact.

I’m so conflicted that my stomach is caving in on itself. I might hurl.

“Ben! Brother!” Eliot cups my jaw, then the back of my skull with love. “No pouting allowed!”

“No pouting, Ben Pirrip!” Tom hollers in agreement. “It’s our brothers’ motherfucking birthday!” Half the dance floor cheers with them.

I want to smile and join the fevered elation.

Not that long ago, I would’ve been bellowing with joy.

Tonight has been entirely worry-free, stress-free, panic-free.

I never stopped grinning during the ballet.

Of the countless times I’ve seen my brother dance, this was hands-down my favorite watching him on stage.

His favorite ballet. On his birthday. Then I looked next to me and saw Harriet entranced with the way Beckett glided and took each turn with perfect precision.

His sky-high, effortless jumps made the whole theatre audibly gasp, including her.

After his variation, a booming roar of applause erupted. We were all on our feet.

I haven’t even feared the terrible outcomes to being around them. I just existed in the moment with my brothers and with her.

We left the ballet and wandered down the sidewalk toward the club, singing “Happy Birthday” to Charlie and Beckett, with all of Beckett’s friends.

I picked popcorn kernels out of Harriet’s blonde hair, and she tried not to trip while she walked in front of me.

I thought about scooping her up in my arms, thought about kissing her under the sparkling city lights, thought about all the ways in which I never wanted this to end.

Eliot led the way into Pink Noir, all of us cutting the velvet ropes and the long, weaving line out the entrance.

It’s been a flood-my-lungs, stay-out-forever, soar-to-the-stars kind of night.

Now it’s crashing to the concrete.

In the middle of a pop ballad, I feel my phone vibrate in my palm—I’ve been keeping it there in case Harriet or Guy texts. Before I even look at the screen, I’m wishing it’s from her.

My stomach plummets.

Guy Abernathy (Honors House President)

I got held up. Really want to make it, but it looks like I’ll need to take a raincheck.

Could this night tank even harder? I skate a frustrated hand through my damp, sweaty hair before I stuff my cell in my pocket. Fuck tonight. Truly. I try to slip away from my brothers, but Eliot seizes my shoulder and leans into my ear. “Where are you off to?”

“To find Beckett!” I yell over the music as it changes to a bass-heavy song.

Eliot fists a handful of my shirt and pulls me away from the amps to a quieter side of the club. I let him drag me there. I’m not sure I have a lot of fight in me tonight. He wipes dripping sweat off his temples with the side of his fist. “Did you have an argument with Harriet?”

My muscles cramp. “What?”

“You were fine before she left.” Eliot kicks a crumpled beer can out of my vicinity, like its mere two-inch radius to my feet might hurt me.

I wonder how crushed I look. “And I’m still fine,” I lie and pat his shoulder. “The music is just loud. I want to be outside. I’m going to go find Beckett and say goodbye.”

“Souviens-toi.” Remember. Eliot grips my shoulders with two hands. “Tu n'es jamais seul.” You are never alone.

I’m okay.

I’m okay , I want to tell him, but I struggle to lie twice in a row. I hate doing it just once. “Je dois y aller,” I choke out. I have to go.

He drops his hands off me. “I saw Beckett head toward the bathroom. Tom and I will be out front waiting for you.”

“You don’t have to leave too.”

“The party is played out anyway.” He wears a wry smile, in part to lighten my mood.

Last thing I want is to ruin his night, but arguing with him is futile.

So I just let out a thanks and try to hang on to the relief of having my brothers around.

It’s been more in reach tonight than it has been the past three years.

But I feel it being drowned by this stupid fucking feeling. The severe need to pull away begins to escalate.

I pat his shoulder again, then slide past him, but I can practically feel his worried eyes follow me as I curve my way around the dancers. When I take a sharp turn down the dimly lit hall that leads to the bathrooms, my feet skate to a sudden stop.

I’ve found Beckett near the bathroom door, but he’s not alone. He’s standing two short inches apart from Leo Valavanis, and they’re both talking in hurried, enraged words that I can’t decipher—but that’s not what has my shoes glued to the sticky floor.

Their bodies curve inward not outward. Beckett has a hand bracing the wall above Leo’s head. I’m decent at reading body language, and these aren’t two people about to throw punches, even if their voices carry ire.

But it doesn’t make sense—Beckett is straight…I think?

I don’t know his sexual history, but I can’t imagine a world where he’d have hooked up with guys and not told Tom.

All my life, all I’ve ever known is that Tom likes guys.

It had never been a big deal or a question.

And I was there that Christmas when Maximoff, our cousin, came out as bisexual to the family.

I was there when my ten-year-old brother broke down crying.

I think that might’ve been one of the happiest days in Tom’s life.

We’re all out here just striving for empathy. Connection. A common bond between the people we love. I know I’ve gone to bed begging for it. It’s hard to wrap my head around Beckett withholding that from Tom.

So yeah, this doesn’t make any fucking sense.

Personally, I don’t need it to make sense. I just need air.

I reroute out of the hallway without disturbing Beckett and Leo.

My bodyguard follows. Novak’s presence feels more like a weighted blanket than a shadow, and I’m keenly aware of his concern as soon as I head for the back exit doors and not the front. He doesn’t say anything as I push them open—grateful no alarm goes off—and meet the night air.

The doors swing shut behind Novak, and I don’t even have time to think or process.

On this empty sidewalk, there’s a girl sitting on the dirty cement in a sparkly pink halter dress.

Her back leans up against the wall, and her face is an ashen gray.

She looks incredibly fucking unwell. “Heyhey!” I rush to her, dropping to my knees. “What’s wrong?”

Soft brown curls frame her round cheeks. Pieces stick to her clammy forehead. She’s staring beyond me. “I can’t see…I’m going to faint—” The whites of her eyes come into view as her eyeballs roll back.

Shitfuck. Her head slumps, and I catch her cheek in my palm before her skull can collide with the cement.

She’s fully passed out on the ground. Looking up at Novak, I shout, “Get help!” He tries the double doors, but they locked behind us.

So he sprints around the corner, speaking hurriedly into his radio.

I press my fingers to her damp neck, her pulse a steady thump. Then I find her cell phone beside her, and I turn it in front of her face. The security interface recognizes her features and unlocks. Her last call was to a Nikolai Rurik Kotova Jr.

I don’t know who the fuck that is—but I’m about to dial him when a voice of panic pitches into the air.

“There she is!”

I look up to see the girl that Beckett had lifted on the dance floor earlier. Tight red mini dress, pin-straight bleach-blonde hair, long ballerina legs—she’s one of the NYBC dancers. Beth Anne Blanchard. I met her tonight when Beckett introduced me to more of his friends.

She races over with Leo and Beckett at her heels. She squats down to her unresponsive friend while I’m beside her. “Roxy. Roxy. Roxanne .” She snaps her fingers in the brunette’s face, then glances quickly to me. “When did she pass out?”

“Five seconds ago.” I’m still cradling her head.

Beth Anne lets out a breath of relief, and Leo wets a bandana with his water bottle and hands it to her.

I’m guessing Leo shares friends with Beckett in the company since he’s out here.

I watch as Beth Anne lightly dabs the damp bandana to Roxanne’s forehead.

Whatever’s happening seems to be familiar for all three of them because they wait for another few seconds before Roxanne’s eyes flutter open.

“Oh my God,” she moans, warmth returning to her features. Her skin is a light golden-brown hue, and her face pinches in more embarrassment than anything. “This didn’t just happen. Whywhywhy?” she mutters quickly to herself.

“Welcome back to the living, Roxy,” Leo says. “You picked a disgusting place to pass out.”

“Just take it easy,” Beckett advises her and shoots Leo a look.

“Yeah, don’t sit up right away, babe,” Beth Anne adds.

She moans again, more mortified, and sits up straight. Seeing me squatting beside her. “Uh, hi? You’re…Ben Cobalt.” She’s losing color again. Her horrified hazel eyes soar to Beckett above us. “I fainted on your brother?”

“Not on me ,” I say lightly. “I just caught you.”

“Yeah, okay, that’s great.” She face-palms herself. “IfaintedonBenCobalt.”

I look up at Beckett for clarity, and he introduces, “This is Roxanne Ruiz. Ballerina.”

“Hi,” she squeaks out. “And I already said that…” She shuts her eyes like she’d prefer to disappear.

“I would’ve introduced you earlier,” Beckett tells me, “but she had to run out to meet with her family.”

Beth Anne presses a hand to her collarbones. “You scared the shit out of me when I couldn’t find you.”

Roxanne blows out a long breath, still not fully a hundred percent yet. “I walked out here to take a call, and I was burning up. It’s colder outside, so the temperature change got to me.” It is a brisk night, but she’s still shy about it.

“Rox, it’s fine,” Beth Anne assures. “We’re all just glad you’re okay.”

“I’m scared if I stand, I might get light-headed,” she mumbles into her water bottle. Her cheeks are on fire.

“Blood pressure thing?” I ask Beckett and back up.

He nods. “Vasovagal.” Then he easily lifts Roxanne in a cradle, his arm under her legs and another behind her back. So routine that I wonder how many times he’s done this.

Beckett has a whole world in ballet I’ve never delved this deeply into.

The desire to be an integral part of his life is overwhelming.

It slams into me and lifts the carriage of my body.

I love feeling closer to Beckett. I would’ve given anything to tag along on his adventures in New York when I was a kid.

I’m here now.

I want to murder the ugly monster that says I shouldn’t exist in breathing distance of him. There hasn’t been a moment where I haven’t wished it dead. I wish it never arrived. I wish it never crawled out beneath my bed. I wish it never stood in the corner of my room and grew.

I hope it’s shrinking. Until it’s so small, I can squash it beneath my foot. But it’s terrifying because when have I ever willingly exterminated something? Is this thing alive in me?

Beckett’s yellow-green eyes zero in on me. Confusion draws on his face. “What were you doing out here?”

“Saving the day,” Beth Anne answers for me. “Roxy might’ve had a full-blown concussion, if your brother wasn’t here.”

I nod slowly, but I don’t speak. Beckett is staring through me like my intentions are visible etchings in my agonized heart. I was leaving without saying goodbye. And he knows that’s out of character for me.

“Let’s call a cab and get her home,” Leo says, “because I, for one, Roxy socks, do not want a run-in with your Russian family after you fainted.”

I don’t hear the response. I’m the forceful gust being propelled away by my own need.

“Ben!” Beckett calls out. “Can you wait a minute for me?” I take too long to respond, and he shouts—literally shouts in a way that Beckett almost never does, “S'il te pla?t, attends une minute!” Please wait a minute.

His friends go wide-eyed and still. They’ve likely never heard him raise his voice. It’s a well-regarded fact among the public that Beckett is like idle water while the rest of us are the tempest—the turbulent, torrid storm.

All the ballet dancers are staring at me.

I nod tensely, solidified to the sidewalk. “Désolé.” Sorry.

“Ne t'excuse pas,” he says much quieter. Softer. Don’t apologize. He takes a tight breath before he disappears around the corner with everyone. For the first time in a long while—I’m alone.

Truly alone on this sidewalk.

Beckett knew he’d be risking that by leaving me. I hear Eliot in my head, “Tu n'es jamais seul.” You are never alone.

No bodyguard. No people. The air is much cooler out here than in the crowded club. I close my eyes for a second, trying to hear the birds. But the sound of exhaust, of a faint ambulance siren, and squealing clubgoers around the corner murders the chance.

When I snap my eyes open, I hear footsteps behind me. Novak readjusts the radio on his waistband. Before our eyes crash together, I look away and listen to an impulse.

I stride down the sidewalk and head toward the nearest station. I’ve always liked Novak, but knowing he probably ratted out my bartending job to my parents is fucking unnerving.

Maybe that’s why I have this itch to run.

I’m five blocks away from Pink Noir when a black SUV rolls up beside the curb at the same pace as me. My pulse accelerates as the car keeps in time with my stride. Fuck—am I about to be kidnapped? Mugged? Assaulted?