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)
That’s engrained too deep within me.
I think it makes these situations easier. The ones that feel like I’m about to hurdle the Empire State Building. I dig out a key to their place from my dark jeans.
Their place—yeah, it hasn’t sunk in that it’s about to be mine too.
When I’m inside, I quickly see I’m alone.
I’m just met with a spacious, overly clean marble kitchen. Most appliances stored away except for a dual coffee and espresso machine. It smells like lemon Lysol and fabric softener. The floors are immaculate, and I have a feeling they had a service do a deep-clean.
I wonder if it’s something that happens weekly.
The apartment is an open floorplan, and stepping farther inside, I pass barstools tucked against the spotless kitchen island. Industrial lighting hangs in the vaulted ceiling of the living room, and a camel-leather couch faces two dark-blue lounge chairs that can rotate 360-degrees.
There is no TV.
Just a Van Gogh on one wall and a marble fireplace on the other with built-in dark wooden bookshelves.
I can’t take in all the vases, knickknacks, artifacts, various leather-bound books displayed fast enough. From a kantharos (a type of Grecian cup) to a glass figurine of two bodies intertwined to a carved wooden pipe to an old flute to Shakespeare’s entire works in thick black binding.
Most, I’m positive, belong to Charlie from his travels. Jet-setting around the world could be his occupation if he posted anything about it on social media, but most of the time, we don’t even know where the hell he goes.
No family photos on the shelves. It’s not that my brothers aren’t sentimental, but more personal items are contained to their bedrooms since they’ve held parties here before and things have “mysteriously” gone missing and then “mysteriously” been up for bid on eBay.
I toss my duffel on the couch and stride closer to the humongous windows overlooking the city. It’s late morning, and the sun refracts against the glass high-rises. But with the tinted window, the natural light is dulled.
A concrete jungle.
I don’t love New York.
I’ve never loved it. As a kid, I’d cry and beg my mom to take me home because I didn’t want to hear the gurgle of exhaust or the honk of pissed-off drivers. I wanted to listen to the rustle of leaves as the wind swept through oaks. Even in Central Park, the city loomed.
Now I’m living inside it.
My nose flares as I consider the possible outcomes of being here. Honestly, some don’t feel great. Some feel fucking terrible.
“And so he arrives.” The dry, slightly bored tone could only belong to one brother.
Fuck.
I was hoping to run into Eliot first.
Tensing, I reluctantly turn to see Charlie leaning a shoulder on the arched entryway of a short hall. Which I remember leads to his bedroom and Beckett’s. His ankles are crossed, and his hands are loosely threaded over his white button-down, the shirt partially untucked from his khaki slacks.
His golden-brown hair is unkempt. He looks like he gives zero fucks because he does give zero fucks. About almost everything.
Charlie Keating—he’s number two.
I’ve hated him for as long as I can remember, but not before he started hating me.
“Welcome home, little brother,” Charlie says with the enthusiasm of a defective confetti popper. “Though, by the looks of it, you don’t want to make this one yours.”
“What do you mean?” I know what he means.
I just don’t love that Charlie acts like he’s in my head when he has no real clue what goes on inside of me. But to be fair, he’s unbearably intelligent and can read a room as well as he can people.
“You only brought one bag.” He sounds irritated and gestures a stiff hand to the duffel. “Unless you’re planning to bring the rest later.”
I’m not. He knows I’m not.
I say nothing.
Charlie rolls his eyes. “This is going to be fun.” He stands off the doorway and comes closer. He favors his right leg, and when he catches me staring at his slight limp, I cut my gaze to the window.
Guilt festers in my chest. It’s a knot I can’t loosen because I caused his injury.
I thumb an elastic cloth bracelet that says don’t worry, be capy with an embroidered Capybara. Winona Meadows, my cousin, gave it to me years ago, and thinking about my obliterated friendship with her just tightens the knot.
I snap the elastic against my wrist.
“Get over it,” Charlie says harshly while slouching back onto one of the blue chairs.
I clench my jaw.
The truth about Charlie? He has no real empathy for anyone outside of his twin. His unconditional love for Beckett is the best thing about him.
It’s the only thing I relate to, but it’s never been enough.
Now he’s acting like it’s so fucking easy to dispose of emotions. As if he understands them at all. If it were up to him, he’d carve out every single one from my body and grind them into dust.