Series: Cobalt Empire Series by Krista Ritchie
Total pages in book: 234
Estimated words: 226965 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1135(@200wpm)___ 908(@250wpm)___ 757(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 226965 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1135(@200wpm)___ 908(@250wpm)___ 757(@300wpm)
“Beck—”
“Just another second.” His smooth voice sounds like a taut wire in threat of snapping, but he’s unable to reach that relief. He’s scrubbing more vigorously, more hurriedly, and I’m afraid to touch him. When he rinses the soap off his forearms, shuts off the faucet with his elbow, I almost let out a breath, until he turns on the sink with the hand-free sensor, then off, then back on. Three times. And he resumes the entire fucking scrubbing all over again.
I bolt for Charlie.
Half-expecting Beckett to chase after me and stop me, but he never leaves the sink.
Once at Charlie’s room, I just open the door, grateful it’s unlocked, but I crash to a halt in the doorway. I’ve never been in here before, even if he gave me permission, and the warmth of his room throws me back—the wood paneling, the intricate beams, the green English ivy spindling down bookcases. It’s unlike all the other bedrooms. The architecture of the domed ceiling unhinges my jaw.
It resembles the Oxford library. I’d bet all my bartending tips that was the inspiration. It’s so far from dank or decrepit, but I don’t waste fucking time gawking. Thankfully Charlie is here and not at the airport for some spontaneous trip.
His king-sized bed is framed between bookcases, and he’s under a white comforter. I don’t need to jostle him awake. He hears me barge inside and immediately sits up and squints. “What the hell do you want—”
“It’s Beckett.”
Like he’s on fire, he surges out of bed and pushes past me in a frantic hurry, knocking into my shoulder since I’m frozen in shock. He sprints to the kitchen, and I’m right behind.
Charlie slows as soon as he sees the cupboards, the trash bags, the sink, our brother. Quietly but urgently, he goes around the counter to reach Beckett.
I hang back while they meet gazes.
“I can’t stop,” Beckett says in a single tight breath to Charlie. “Je ne peux pas m'arrêter.” I can’t stop.
My ribs squeeze. Air thins.
I haven’t lived with Beckett since I was twelve. I can’t remember the last time I even saw him this submerged beneath his OCD. I don’t know what to do.
“You have to stop,” Charlie says. “You’re about to bleed.” He pries the sponge out of Beckett’s grip and reaches around him to shut off the faucet.
Beckett elbows him and waves so the sensor cuts the water back on. Charlie plants his hand on top of our brother’s raw skin. “Beckett, listen to me. You have to stop. Take a breath.” His chest presses up against Beckett’s back, and he clutches his forearms, forcing Beckett from reaching the sponge or the faucet.
“I can’t.” Beckett lets out a deep, pained groan of torment.
“Yes, you can. Je sais que tu peux.” I know you can.
“I can’t look at it,” Beckett murmurs. Is he referring to the emptied cupboards, the trash bags, his arms?
“Close your eyes.”
Beckett shuts them, takes a much bigger breath, then Charlie spins him around and brings him into his chest, holding him there and whispering something against his ear. I can’t hear anything. All I see are Charlie’s bloodshot yellow-green eyes as he looks up and stares at me. I’m standing here like mortared brick. Not sure what I should be doing. How I should be helping.
I’ve never felt so fucking helpless.
As they peel away from each other, Beckett beelines for the hallway to his bedroom. Charlie is seconds behind him—only braking to tell me, “If you leave this apartment tonight, Ben, I will murder you myself. Do you understand?”
Everything hurts. “I’m not going anywhere.”
“Call Moffy.”
“What?”
“Call your favorite person on this planet.” I immediately think of Harriet. Charlie disappears, and I can barely breathe. I’m barely functioning in my own skin. The surrounding garbage bags are closing in on me. I dazedly back up into the pull-out.
My legs hit the metal frame. I sink down. It was me. I did this. I know I did.
I’m stressing out Beckett. His OCD is flaring up, probably getting worse, because of me.
My phone rings beside me. It’s Moffy. Charlie must’ve texted our cousin. Told him to call. I hang up on Maximoff, and I shoot a quick message.
BEN COBALT
I’m okay. Charlie is overreacting.
I don’t even look at Moffy’s response.
Words cycle on repeat inside my brain. I can’t shake them.
It was me.
I did this.
I shouldn’t be here. I was never supposed to be in New York. I knew this would happen. My nose flares as emotion ransacks my insides. I hold my thumping head in my hands.
Tears spill out of my eyes as I see my brother…my favorite brother at that sink. I see his arms scrubbed raw. The skin starting to rip open. “Fuck,” I choke on a guttural noise, my body trying to unleash a sob. My leg jostles. I push back my hair to pick up my phone.