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But I never prepared to be hurt by the people I love. By two Cobalts. By my parents. Aren’t they supposed to believe me and trust me? When I’ve done nothing devious in my life to elicit their doubt. Yet, they’re the ones who believed I could be in a forbidden relationship with my best friend.
Fact: Thatcher Moretti taught himself to decipher my handwriting.
I’m frightened of loving a man to an overwhelming degree—to where I’d need to be loved by Thatcher. Necessity is life, and I’m afraid to need his love like I need air.
“We’re still kerosene.” Flammable. Combustible. I smile. “Sounds disastrously right.”
Jane’s dad stands like he owns the world. Expensive slacks and navy-blue button-down, a Cartier watch on his wrist that probably costs more than my uncle’s row house. He has billion-dollar energy that screams I’m better than you. Arrogant. Poised. All the way down to the look in his eyes and posture. How he leans back against the cabinets, hands casually careened on the counter.
But I understand he’s no less deadly than the woman he married. The only difference is that Rose shows you her dagger, and he keeps his behind his back.
“Respectfully, sir, I’m not going to apologize for following my heart. And Jane was just following hers.” His unreadable expression puts me on edge. He stands straighter and grabs his coffee. “You remind me of someone.”
To Rose, I say, “We didn’t get to that yet.” That, as in cock-skewering. “And we never will,” Connor says. “Hyperboles are your affliction, darling.” Rose purses her lips. “Affliction? I think you mean gift. Talent.” He grins. “I meant what I said, but if you need more synonyms for talent, I can also provide those.”
“What’d your dad say?” She takes a shallow breath. “He said you’re not invited to Wednesday Night Dinner. Not yet.”
you’re six-seven
My identical twin, my soul and conscience, someone I couldn’t live without. The sun could be crashing down on the world, and Banks would be right by my side burning alive to push it back into the sky.
I’m head-deep, un-fucking-believably in love with this girl, and I would do anything for her.
CHARLIE Where are you? I reread the text with tightened eyes. Any text from Charlie to me is a thousand meters out of the ordinary.
“I’m supposed to go on this trip and help protect Maximoff, and you’re supposed to stay behind and protect Xander.” His lip rises. “Switch places with me.”
Do not fall into his lap like a bird without wings, Jane. You’re born from lions.
Yes, ladies and gentlemen, that’s right—my boyfriend has a tattoo on his ass. SFO, namely Paul Donnelly, inked script on Thatcher recently, and I wasn’t present. It happened under the cloak of Omega Brotherhood and I just saw the result. They didn’t write “hypocrite” on his butt like I thought they would. Like Thatcher said they could. Instead, SFO decided on something that “better fit” Thatcher. And so they tattooed the word, Cinderella.
“did you talk to Thatcher about He Who Must Not Be Named?” Tony has reached Lord Voldemort levels of evil for Maximoff
“Just say it,” Thatcher cuts in. “You like breaking the rules for her,” Farrow tells him matter-of-factly. Thatcher looks only at me, and my heart swells. No man has ever made me feel like a rare beauty worthy of sacrifice. He’s never sought after my fame or fortune.
He catches me in a front piggyback. My legs instinctively wrap around his waist—his hands cup the backs of my thighs.
I hold his neck, and our eyes sink into each other. As though the world falls hush around us, as though meeting the safety I’ve always craved has the power to stop time and grow impossible gardens. As though we’re Adam and Eve and whatever sinful deed we commit, we’ll commit together.
Life is chess. And I need to be ten moves ahead of Charlie.
Banks tips his head. “We’re just callin’ it like we see it, mermaid.” She huffs. “Yeah? And his cock is probably ten fucking times bigger than both of yours.” Akara and Banks try not to laugh, and then Banks says, “No way in hell.”
“Murder with the Cobalt fam,” Donnelly says through a mouthful of cheesecake. “Those who slay together, stay together.”
First come the bodyguards. I count five. And then five famous faces bring up the rear. Charlie, Beckett, Eliot, Tom, and Ben. Every single one of my brothers. They’re all here, and they’re far too fixated on Thatcher like he’s tonight’s five-course meal.
Eliot grins. “If it’s not, I’d be offended.” He unbuttons his expensive pea coat. If the God of War and hedonistic Dionysus birthed a child, they’d spit out my nineteen-year-old brother.
His lips are noticeably downturned and face sullen. He locks eyes with Donnelly, his former bodyguard. I mutter under my breath, “It’s like a break-up.”
How Eliot can summon tears out of cold-hearted eyes. How Beckett can make your awed gasp feel like the last breath you’ll take. How Ben can harness your empathy so you do the right thing. How Tom can wake the dead things buried inside you. How Audrey can bottle love and romance like it’s life’s greatest necessity. And Charlie—everyone thinks he has no soul but his is just the darkest, deepest of them all.
Cobalts are a tornadic force you don’t want to fuck with. Out of the three famous families, they have the most power and can wield it with the snap of a finger.
My objective: don’t piss off my girlfriend’s brothers. And behind that objective lies another: take care of them.
What the fuck. I’m holding a trophy shaped like a snake. The plaque reads Master of Deception with the year engraved below.
I should be happy that two out of five brothers already somewhat like me. But I’m not jumping for fucking joy that they see me as a third devil in their merry gang of terrors.
Charlie flashes a half-smile. “It’s a game called What Would You Do for Jane Cobalt?”
Tell us your favorite part of Jane’s body. My face almost screws up. I must’ve read this shit backwards or ass-fucking-sideways. Because in my head, there’s no way brothers would want to hear this shit about their sister.
Fresh road kill would smell and look better than what stares back at us. Blood drips off rare, greasy pieces of heart. Collecting in pools at the bottom of the carton.
What have you ever given to something you’ve loved?” “I’ve given all of myself to my family,” I retort, tears burning my eyes.
“What have you learned, children?” This is a classic Cobalt word game. What have you learned, children? Whoever asks this directs the game to those younger than them.
But if someone wrenches Jane into this, I will end them. That’s my line. Clear in the motherfucking sand.
But she’s mine, and I might not deserve her but I swear to God, I’ll never harm her, and I’d give my life to protect her. I know I’m not a prince. I’m not a king. But I’d treat Jane like she should be treated. She’s my princess, my angel, and my queen. Every morning and every night. I’d kneel at her feet and stand by her side.
Farrow Keene has become one of the only people on the team I feel safe enough to talk with about PTSD, because he’s experienced some form of this shit too.
He’ll be sixteen this month, on Christmas day, and I’ve been waiting for him to make it there. Because my older brother never did. And if I do anything in my life, Lord, let me have this. Helping Xander live when I couldn’t do the same for Sky.
Love is the death of duty.’” He quotes Game of Thrones again.
Donnelly inked every single one of Beckett’s tattoos, and all are flowers from roses to daisies to lilies and poppies, as homage to our mom and aunts.
Even if I only have one-tenth of Rose Calloway Cobalt in me, that’s one-tenth of fire and brimstone that I can wield.
Leave it to Maximoff Hale to transform the work of scouting a wedding location into a vacation for other people. He invited his family, security, and any plus-ones who wanted to journey to the Scottish Highlands for a week.
Oscar passes me. “Retro Granny Realness.” He raises his hand for a high-five, and I tap his palm with a smile before he treks upstairs.
His mouth dips towards my ear, his voice low and gentle. “Why are you afraid to love me?”
“There’s always a way out. You don’t have to fall on a sword because it’s sitting in front of you, waiting. You put together the team that’s going to find the right exit. You sidelined me. That’s on you.”
Jane is my match, my mate, and I swear to all that’s holy, I’d give her my breath, my body—but
Charlie even asked genuine questions about catering, and I thought Maximoff’s smile would shatter the window. It’s almost like high school again, the three of us on good terms.
The Four Drunk Stages of Jane Eleanor Cobalt are as follows: Feel-Good Drunk Jane Flirty Drunk Jane Sloppy Drunk Jane Black-Out (SOS) Jane