Page 39 of Between Passion and Revenge, Part One (The Griot Chronicles #1)

SHAE

I f I weren’t so conflicted, I’d probably be well on my way toward getting a complex when it comes to Storm Sandoval.

It’s been a week since I found out about Harvard, and it’s the biggest elephant that has ever been in the room. Yenn, Ezra, and my parents are all under the assumption that I’m going. Why wouldn’t I?

Why wouldn’t I, indeed.

But Storm and me? We don’t talk about Harvard or me leaving or our fight or, hell, what it means for us. So I pretend it doesn’t matter, either.

I pretend the issue of Harvard doesn’t exist. At least, not until I reach the confirmation deadline in a few months.

March 15 th seems like forever from now, but also like the date is seconds away.

Storm and I aced our presentation, and we’re finished with the co-written paper we’ll have to submit to Professor Hansen in a few days. Finals week is upon us, and Christmas is around the corner.

We’ve worked together well…but that’s it. We’ve worked.

Via email.

That’s not to say we haven’t talked, in fact, we talk every day via text. His excuse? He’s been busy with his father on some big project.

“The biggest of his life,” is what he said.

So have I seen Storm outside of class? No. But we still communicate, and sometimes it’s random messages first thing in the morning like:

Did you know the oldest library in the world that is still in operation is in Morocco? It was founded in 859 AD. It’s one of the seven wonders of the world, but it’s not nearly as wonderful as you are.

I smiled for a while after receiving that one, even though it’s as cheesy as they come.

Other times it’s things like:

You have no idea how much I miss your lips on mine. I miss seeing you smile, Sweetness.

But then, that’s where the forthcoming complex comes in. Because every time I offer to go to him, he says no.

There’s always a very reasonable excuse, but still…he says no.

Except today.

I think I hate myself a little for the fact I practically jumped out of my bed and sprinted to his apartment when he offered for us to work on our finals at his place.

So that brings us to now: Me sitting on his sofa, him on the floor near my feet, both of us with laptops open and neither of us paying attention to our screens.

But I’m focused on him, and he’s far off in his own world.

God, I want him. Even when I’m mad, even when I want to hit him...damnit, I still want him.

“Are you…okay?” I ask, trying to keep my voice low.

Storm, who hasn’t scrolled down the report he’s been reading for the last thirty minutes, looks up to me, blinking fast before he seems to focus on my face.

He leans back against the couch, his shoulder brushing my leggings-covered calf.

“Yeah. Yes, sorry. Did you need something?”

Yeah. I need you to pay some attention to me. Wait. No, I don’t need him to pay attention to me. I want him to—oh, hell.

He releases a small grunt and closes his eyes when his head lands on the seat cushion.

“I’m sorry, Shae,” he grinds out. He doesn’t open his eyes for a long moment after he speaks, but when he does, I almost gasp at the pain in his gaze.

He looks…lost?

“Storm,” I ask, my tone gentling. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

He stares at me for a long moment before saying, “I just have a lot on my mind.”

We fall into silence, a quiet that’s neither comfortable nor uncomfortable.

“Do you want to talk about it?” I reply, holding his gaze. He frowns and straightens, moving the pages on the coffee table to the side to place his laptop on the glass.

“No,” he says, and adds nothing more.

Well. Okay then.

Maybe sensing my swirling emotions, he stares straight ahead and blinks before sighing and lowering his shoulders. Moving to face me with his back to the coffee table, he puts his hand on my knee.

Tingles surge up my thigh to my snatch when he does.

Girl, please. Please get it together.

“I’m sorry, Shae. There’s a lot going on, and most of it has to do with stuff around my father. And Stratos.”

He seems like someone’s just batted his favorite dessert from his hand for a flash of a second, but then his expression clears. A cool indifference replaces the look.

“Is he in trouble?” I ask. There are a dozen ways a wealth management fund like the one Storm’s dad runs could get in hot water.

Storm squeezes my knee a fraction before saying, “Nothing he couldn’t handle if he wanted.”

I tilt my head at that strange response and Storm blows out a breath.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “I’m not very good company right now. I understand if you want to leave.”

His head hits the cushion, and I resist the urge to run my hands over his short waves.

Do I want to leave? No, not at all.

But I don’t like being confused, either. Or being played.

I am so fucked.

“Storm, I?—”

Storm’s iPhone vibrating on the table interrupts the moment, and loose pages flutter to the floor at the movement.

He flips the device over and glances at the screen, his expression hardening when he sees the caller ID, which is clearly visible to me, too.

Bambi.

Well, there goes those warm feelings.

He says she’s just a friend, but there’s no planetary dimension in which she thinks they’re only friends. It’s completely clear she has feelings for him—I could tell from the moon eyes she was giving him from across the quad.

Is that why he’s been so distant? Could it have nothing to do with his father and everything to do with her?

I can’t help the flicker of annoyance that crosses my face, but I quickly mask it with indifference.

After all the intimacy we shared, he hasn’t acted at all like someone who actually cares about the things he said.

Hot and cold. Hot and cold. He’s the one playing games, but I’m the one on the roller coaster.

Why should I care that the girl he told me not to worry about is calling him? Why have I been hanging on to the thought of him when I could be out living my life?

And that’s how you get played, sis.

Storm silences the call, not even an inch of regret in his expression.

“You can take it if you need to,” I offer, trying to keep my tone neutral, but there’s a tightness in my chest I can’t quite suppress.

“No, it’s fine. Bambi can wait,” he assures me, but the damage is done. The intrusion shatters our fragile connection.

I gather my things, the need to escape suddenly overwhelming. “I’m going to head out. I have some things I need to take care of,” I say, avoiding his eyes.

“Shae,” he says, and I ignore the note of steel in his tone.

“Anyway, email me if you need notes or anything,” I reply, slinging my bag over my shoulder.

“Shae—”

“See you later,” I rush out, practically running from the living room. Storm’s low curse has me moving faster, making a beeline for his front door.

His heat hits me before I register his broad palm on my upper arm. In a second, he has me pressed against the wall beside the exit, his scent and the blaze of emotion in his eyes setting me on fire.

I pant when he presses so close to me that my tortured nipples rasp against my shirt.

“Why are you running, Shae?” His lips are a hairsbreadth from mine, and I stare at his luscious mouth as he murmurs the words.

“I-I’m not running from anything, Storm,” I say, calling on all my strength to defy him. Because I’ll be damned if I let this man make a fool of me.

“Yes, you are, Sweetness,” he replies, and I shiver, my pussy clenching, when he runs his hand up my arm and tangles his fingers in my curls. “You’re running from me and I just…I need you to stop running.”

My hands go to his chest, wanting to push him away, but my brain and fingers are disconnected because all I do is pull his shirt into my fists.

I get angry—livid at him. At myself.

“Storm Sandoval, you play way too many damn games. You think you’re slick but I’m not fucking dumb.” My bottom lip trembles, and I go from livid to infuriated, nearly incandescent with rage.

I finally get my hands online and push him away, but I might as well be pushing against a wall.

“Let me go, asshole,” I snap, and his face goes even more grim.

“No,” he says, his body and tone calm.

“Storm, I?—”

“If you really want me to let you go,” he says, his nose running up the side of my neck, his cologne fuzzing my brain even more. “Then I’ll let you go. But I really wish you wouldn’t. And we’re going to talk about why your immediate instinct is to run from me.”

I almost laugh out loud. “It’s because this is stupid. You’re not trustworthy, and it makes no sense for me to entangle myself with you when there are a million other things I should be doing instead.”

Those words. They hit like a shockwave, and his face morphs into a hard, serious expression.

And even though he looks terrifying, I’m not scared of him.

But there’s a twisted part of me that feels transcendent when I push his buttons. It’s immature as hell, but I come alive when Storm Sandoval has all his attention fixed on me.

Girl, please get some damn therapy.

Storm growls— oh, fuck! —and then we move. He shifts to slide between my thighs and wraps my legs around his waist, completely pinning me to the wall.

“Storm,” I start, but his lips are on mine. All my thoughts scramble like Gordon Ramsey preparing an omelet.

After several dizzying seconds, he pulls away and says, “New rule between us. Let’s never lie to each other. No matter how bad it sounds or how much we think it might hurt the other person. Let’s never lie to each other. Okay?”

The look on his face seems so serious, so…pleading, I find it impossible to draw my gaze away from his.

Still, I focus on his words.

“You first, Sandoval,” I whisper. He presses his forehead to mine, and I can almost feel the wheels turning in his brain.