Page 13 of Between Passion and Revenge, Part One (The Griot Chronicles #1)

SHAE

S torm fucking Sandoval.

Out of thirty-six other students, Professor Hanson just had to pair me with Storm I’m-Gonna-Smirk-At-You-and-Make-Your-Panties-Wet Sandoval.

Surely, the professor’s a sadist.

The class shuffles out, everyone pairing off with their project partners. But for some reason, I stay seated, not even putting my textbook in my bag.

“So,” a smooth voice says to my right, too close. “Looks like we’re stuck together this semester.”

Stuck together?

I take a deep breath, deciding he probably hates this as much as I do.

And…I do hate this.

Right?

“Sorry to disappoint you,” I say, finally getting to my feet.

I look up, meeting his gaze—and damn, his eyes are even more intense this close-up. Also, he has to be a full foot taller than my 5?3?, and his muscles are somehow thicker.

Bet he’s thick everywhere.

I mentally slap myself.

Jesus, Shae. Focus. He barely wants to be here, let alone have you drooling over him.

The AC kicks on with a loud hum, and I flinch, realizing we’re the last people left in the room.

“Library?” I say, quickly gathering my stuff, hoping he doesn’t notice the effect he’s having on me.

“Nothing about working with you is a disappointment, Shae,” he murmurs.

And then, of course, I drop my notebook. It lands with a loud thwack.

“Shit, sorry,” I mumble, bending to pick it up. As I straighten, my ponytail snaps across my forehead and, of course, right into my eye. “Ow!” I mutter, swatting at my face as the notebook slips again.

Storm’s stifled laughter makes me freeze, and I force myself to look up. He grins but doesn’t comment—he just picks up the notebook, stacks my texts, and slips them into my bag with a deftness that makes me want to shrivel and smile.

He slings my tote over his shoulder along with his backpack, nodding toward the door.

“Library?” he asks, quiet amusement in his voice.

“Yeah,” I say, barely trusting myself to speak. I tilt my chin up just a little as I brush past him.

The walk up the stairs to the top floor of the economics building gives me some time to clear my head and get my hormones under control. I must be ovulating or something. That has to be the explanation as to why I want to climb Storm Sandoval like a tree.

I swear on my grandmama’s Bible, I will leave all my attraction for this man at the door of this library.

But when the glass double doors come into view, I fear lightning might strike me down soon.

The econ library feels like a maze, with shelves stretching high to the ceiling and students tucked away in every corner. Storm walks just behind me, staying close but silent as we make our way toward the study rooms at the back.

Storm hands me my bag, and I place it on the table, pulling out a notebook.

“Okay. Let’s start with what we know: We need to come up with a business plan that supports minority entrepreneurs, focusing on real solutions to their most common challenges. And”—I glance up at him—“we need to present it as something investors will actually get behind.”

Storm settles into the chair across from me, his fingers steepled under his chin.

“Investors will care if they see value. If we show them this program isn’t just a handout but something that can build real, lasting businesses, they’ll be on board,” he offers.

I cross my arms, feeling the faintest twinge of irritation.

“I’m not looking to impress them with some ‘socially conscious charity’ vibe.

This has to actually help people in these communities, not just look good on paper.

That means addressing the real barriers, not just skimming over the surface for a quick PR win. ”

His eyebrow ticks upward, and I catch the faintest curve of a smirk. “Which is what I’m saying. Show investors how their money will work. If we frame this as an opportunity to profit while making an impact, they’re more likely to invest and even stay on board longer.”

I take a breath, trying to rein in the frustration bubbling in my chest. “You’re missing the point. I’m not trying to create another vehicle for the rich to pat themselves on the back. The people this program helps should be the priority. It’s not just about appealing to investors.”

Storm leans forward, resting his elbows on the table. “I’m not missing the point. I’m saying you won’t help anyone if you can’t secure funding to get this off the ground. Investors are a necessary evil.”

He’s careful with his words, but there’s an edge to his tone that has me sitting up in my seat. “Necessary evil? That’s a convenient way to excuse people who exploit these communities instead of investing in them.”

Storm’s lips twitch, but he doesn’t break eye contact. “You think all investors are vultures?”

“I think most of them are,” I snap, my voice sharper than I intend. “I’ve seen it happen. My dad’s worked on projects for our neighborhood that investors swarmed around for the optics, only to bail as soon as the cameras stopped rolling.”

The flicker of amusement fades from his face. “That’s why we make it different. We build something that can stand on its own, even after the cameras leave.”

I pause, his words striking something in me I don’t want to acknowledge. He’s right—at least partly. But I’m not ready to admit that. Instead, I flip open my notebook and pick up my pen, clicking it as I debate saying my next words.

“I wanna do something for the South Side.”

“Oh?” he asks, his tone carefully neutral.

I rear back. “What? You don’t wanna stain your Jordans with the ghetto?”

His expression blanks like I’ve slapped him. Cold. Controlled.

It’s probably, definitely irrational, but I want to hurt him, just a little. Just enough to feel in control. But looking at his face now, I realize I didn’t just miss—I struck too deep.

“Don’t do that, Shae,” he delivers, his voice so damn low I feel it in my snatch.

I lick my lips. “D-do what?”

His expression goes even darker as his gaze moves from my eyes to my mouth.

“Don’t cast me as someone I’m not. You think you’ve got me all figured out, but I can see you’ve got shit backwards as fuck about me.”

Heat rises to my cheeks, but I don’t back down.

“Oh? So you’re not a spoiled little rich kid who probably has never been on a commercial flight in his life because private is the only way to travel? You don’t wipe your ass with hundred-dollar bills or have bitches hanging off your dick every night?”

I don’t know why I add that last part. Pettiness, maybe? It’s not like I’ve seen a gaggle of women swarming around him aside from the one I’m sure is his girlfriend. There are rumors, but I haven’t actually experienced this version of him, this Playboy Storm that Yenn warned me about.

“ Wow ,” Storm drawls, leaning back in his chair with an angry-stunned expression. “If that’s what you think of me, how can you stand to be in the same room? The person you describe sounds terrible.”

It’s because I know I’m lying.

“If my assumptions are wrong, please feel free to correct me,” I reply, crossing my arms over my chest.

And then we’re in a stare-off. We remained locked in for one heartbeat, then another, but it’s Storm who rises, breaking the moment.

With stealthy movements, he glides around the table until he’s standing right next to me. He leans back against the tabletop, bracing himself on his hands with straight forearms.

He’s so fucking close to me, I can smell his cologne again—and there goes another cootch twitch.

“Let’s get this straight right now, Shae,” he starts, his voice still low. “Because you’ve got me all fucked up.”

With him towering over me, the power imbalance is stark, but I still hold my ground.

“Okay. Set me straight, then,” I whisper, hating that his close presence makes me weak.

The smile that shapes across his lips appears in slow intervals.

“First, about my wealth,” he says, leaning down until his mouth is close to my ear. “And we have to keep this between you and me, because it’s rude to talk about vast sums of money, isn’t it? It’s gaudy, at minimum.”

I’ve been robbed of speech, so I nod.

“In some ways, you’re right. The Sandoval family has a cumulative net worth of around twelve billion. That’s a far step from where my father started, fresh out of U of I with a few thousand he was able to hustle up between his paper route and tutoring job.”

I nod again, but snap my mouth shut when I realize it’s dangling open.

Storm inhales slowly, rocking forward and moving so close to me that I can feel his nose nudge one of the curls on my neck.

Don’t start moaning in the middle of this quiet-ass building.

“My dad started Stratos Wealth Fund out of his apartment with my mama behind him. My mama’s folks had a few cents over pocket change, so they were his first clients.

Then he took on a few prominent business owners, a few politicians, and the next thing anyone knows, my father is on the cover of Forbes as one of the richest Black men in America. ”

“That’s nice,” I mumble, but only because he’s still so close to me and I’m scared he’ll be able to tell how turned on I am if he doesn’t give me some space.

“It is. So that hot rich guy persona you think I have?—”

“I never said you were hot!” I interrupt. Slapping a hand over my mouth, I curse my instinct to say whatever the hell I’m thinking. Storm does pull back then, and I feel like I can breathe.

A little bit.

“Sure, Shae,” he murmurs.

I want to die of humiliation when I realize the direction of his attention, which is on my hard-tipped nipples pressing through my top.

“Yes, I come from money, but I also come from hard work. Nothing in this life comes easy, so if I was born into wealth, it’s my job to work to keep it.”

He’s serious again, and I’m nodding like a dummy at his words.

And yes, what he says makes a lot of sense—and feels like…like he really means it.

“And about the other part,” he adds. “I have never in my life tried to flush money down the toilet because what the actual fuck? But most importantly, I wanna know who has been in your ear.”