Page 2 of Between Passion and Revenge: Part One

Elbow, meet concrete.

After a stunned moment, I zero in on the two men walking through the door. One of them barely looks at me before heading off in the direction of the Commons.

Which infuriates me. Like, does he not see me injured on the ground because he whipped the door open like a theater curtain on opening night?

“Hey!” I yell after him, but I’m quickly distracted when a pair of expensive tennis shoes comes into my field of vision. I look up.

Way up.

The dude standing in front of me has to be a football player, except Asheford University doesn’t have a football team.

His broad shoulders block out the sun, but it doesn’t matter—his skin seems to hold its glow, a rich, golden-bronze hue that looks blessed by the light itself.

A strong jaw; a bright, cocky smile.

My gaze catches on his moss-green eyes, their striking contrast to his deeper complexion pulling me in, making it impossible to look away.

Aaaaaand he’s coming toward me, leaning down.

“You okay?” he asks, his voice like silk over gravel.

I stare at him dumbly, and when I don’t answer right away, he scans my injuries, frowns, then sprints after my assailant.

What?

He slides to a stop in front of the man, who pulls up short with his palms in the air as if my savior were a cop.

Or a criminal, sticking him up.

They share a few short words, then Moss Eyes clasps the man on the back of the neck. It’d look like a gentle move if the man’s shoulders didn’t shoot up to his ears.

A few seconds later, they’re in front of me, my hero’s hand still on the door swinger’s neck.

“Sorry. My bad. In a rush,” the door swinger says.

“No problem,” I murmur, flinching when Moss Eyes’ gaze zeroes in on me when I speak. “Just watch where you’re going.”Asshole.

The door swinger says something faintly that sounds like “thank you,” but the towering god in front of me doesn’t let him go. Why the fuck is that so goddamn hot?

With hard eyes, the deity says, “His apology good enough for you?”

And fuck, there’s his voice again, wrapping around me like hot sex.

Wait, what?

“Yeah, yes,” I say, trying not to stutter. The man scampers away, sprinting across the quad as if his shirt were on fire.

“Kurt’s an ass.” He gestures over his shoulder with his head, nodding in the direction that my assailant—Kurt, apparently—ran off to.

“Yeah,” I mumble, because what else is there to say?

He picks up my now-dinged textbooks, and I grab my bag.

“Thanks,” I say, trying to gain some cool. But all cool leaves my body when the clock tower chimes the top of the hour.

I skirt around him like a startled rabbit, stopping for a second to rip my books from his grasp. After entering the doors that now open easily, I sprint down the hall as classrooms begin to close one after the other.

Fuck. What a first impression to give Professor Hansen. He’s the toughest in the entire Economics department. Unfortunately and fortunately, I need his class, Social Responsibility in Economic Policy. He’ll be a tough grader, but I’m determined to win him over and stand out as a stellar student.

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