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)
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 & Barrel that I could order online. “So I can just fly over there and get another one, right? This exact cup?” I know I can’t. My entire stomach is lodged in my throat. I feel like throwing up.
“You don’t have to get me anything. I can get one like it.” Charlie pries himself from the chair, nearing me. As he takes a knee, he strains his bad leg and winces a little.
“Don’t,” I tell him. “I can clean this up myself. It’s my fault.”
He cocks his head, his brows pinching. “Why are you acting like the world is caving in?”
“I broke an irreplaceable artifact you found halfway across the fucking world,” I say in one taut breath.
“I. Don’t. Care. About. It. So why the fuck do you?” He’s glaring.
I glare back. “Just let me clean this up.” I have to make it right, and what if he cuts himself on the pottery? I’ve injured him enough.
Charlie rakes a frustrated hand through his golden-brown hair. He tosses the same hand at me. “Go back to bed.”
“I can’t—”
“Stop,” he sneers at me. “The self-flagellation routine is tired. You’re not the cause of my pain. You can’t hurt me. Not by breaking a stupid cup. Not by living five feet from me.” He sweeps me. “Do you understand?”
All I understand is the crater-sized rock in my throat. “No,” I choke out.
Charlie stares so deeply into me; 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?”