13. Brielle

The scent of musk and sweat hangs heavy in the air, unfamiliar and intoxicating. My eyelids flutter open to a ceiling that isn't mine, cornflower blue instead of the soft ivory I'm used to. Heat pools under my skin, sticky and uncomfortable, and there's sweat dotting along my forehead as I shift on sheets that feel too silky against my overheated body.

I'm not home. The thought spirals through my mind, dizzying and laced with a thrill that has nothing to do with fear. It's reckless, the knowledge spreading over me like the flush that creeps across my cheeks. The room swims into focus, and so do last night's events.

Conrad. Grayson. I see their hands, their mouths, the places their bodies met mine…

Images cascade through my mind, vivid and sharp. Fingers entwined, gasps swallowed by kisses, whispers of need answered by movements both rough and tender. The recollection ignites something within me, a warmth that starts deep in my belly and spreads outward, flushing my skin with a guilty pleasure.

The morning light seeps through half-closed blinds, casting a glow on the tangled mess of sheets and limbs. My gaze drifts down to where Conrad's head rests near the foot of the bed, his dark, silver-streaked hair a stark contrast against the pale linens, his chest rising and falling in the rhythm of deep sleep. His snores are soft but distinct, a comforting rumble in the quiet room.

The weight of Grayson's arm is secure around my waist, a possessive band of heat that pins me to the spot. Even as I shift ever so slightly, he stirs, his fingers tightening before relaxing again, his breath warm on the nape of my neck.

Panic flits through my thoughts. It's a Saturday, but I have a meeting for a group project at some point this morning. I need my phone, need to check the time…

I recall the placement of my phone with sudden clarity—on the kitchen counter, abandoned in a moment of heated distraction.

Sliding out from under Grayson's arm feels like peeling away a second skin, delicate and silent. His breath hitches, but he doesn't break into wakefulness. My pulse thrums with the thrill of the escape, my movements slow-motion careful.

I inch my legs free from Conrad's tangle, my skin mourning the loss of contact. A quiet snore reassures me; he's still deep in slumber's grip. The cool air of morning kisses my bare shoulders, a stark contrast to the lingering heat of their bodies.

One foot, then the other, touches down on plush carpet, grounding me. I'm on my feet now, heart racing not just from the risk of waking them, but from the memory of how they made me feel—wanted, wild, free.

A discarded shirt—Grayson's, I think, by the faint scent of cedar and spice that clings to it—catches my eye. It's crumpled on the floor, a casualty of our tangled night. I snatch it up, slipping it over my head, the fabric hanging loose and long on my frame.

The room behind me fades as I step into the hallway. I slip into the kitchen, the cold tiles a shock against my bare feet. My phone lies there, accusing, on the counter, its screen dark.

Please don't be dead.

I reach for it and press the power button, sighing in relief when the screen comes to life.

My fingers close around the phone when a voice slices through the silence, sharp as broken glass. "Idiots," it sneers from behind me, and I freeze.

"Sleeping with their best friend's daughter." Levi's words wrap around me like a vine, thorny and uninvited.

I don't turn right away, not yet. Instead, I let out a slow breath, bracing myself for the storm that is Levi Griffin.

"Levi," I say, my voice steady despite the chaos he always stirs within me. Finally, I pivot on my heel to face him.

He's a vision of raw power. Water drips from his wet hair, trailing down the valleys and peaks of his muscles, a towel slung low on his hips. It's a battle to keep my eyes up, to not trace the water's path with my gaze or my fingertips.

I swallow hard, the air in the room suddenly too thick, too charged. The rush is undeniable, a heat unfurling between my thighs as if his mere presence commands it. I curse my body for its betrayal, for reacting to Levi Griffin of all people.

A man who's made it clear he doesn't like me.

"Making coffee?" I venture, hoping to sound unaffected, casual even.

"Observant," he grumbles, not looking at me. His hands are skilled and sure as he scoops the grounds, the rich aroma filling the space between us. My senses are heightened, every sound and scent amplified.

"Mind if I—" I start, gesturing toward the inviting steam.

"Yes." His voice is deep, husky, laced with something like disapproval—or is it disdain? Hard to tell with Levi, always playing his cards close to his chest. "I do mind."

"I don't think it would hurt you."

"Unlike you, I know choices have consequences, Brielle."

What is that supposed to mean?

"Look, Levi," I start, my voice firmer than I feel. "You don't need to worry about me or what I do. I can handle myself."

He moves, a predator's grace in his step, closing the distance between us until I'm acutely aware of every inch of space he occupies. The hum of the refrigerator fades against the drum of my pulse, loud in my ears.

"Can you?" His voice is low, a challenge wrapped in velvet.

"Absolutely," I shoot back, but it's like throwing feathers at a storm.

"Whatever you say." His breath fans across my face, smelling of coffee and something darker, something like temptation. It's dizzying how quickly he can make the air thick, charged with an electricity that buzzes under my skin. "You can leave now. Can't you tell when you've overstayed your welcome? You got what you wanted, didn't you?"

My heart stutters, my defenses splintering. I stand my ground. "You can't just kick me out, Levi," I say, but my voice trembles like a leaf in a storm. I hate that he hears it, that he knows how he affects me.

Levi's laugh is a low rumble in his chest. It's mocking, a sound that scrapes across my nerves. "Your father always said you were bright, Brielle," he says, and the way he rolls my name off his tongue feels like a caress I shouldn't crave. "Clearly he doesn't have a clue who his daughter really is or the men she enjoys fucking in her free time." His words make my heart clench. "You're just like every other girl, aren't you?"

"Every other girl?" The term stings, festers under my skin. I'm not just some girl. I'm different.

"Desperate." He steps back, arms folded across his chest. His abs tense under the damp towel, taunting me with what I've tried so hard to ignore. "Just another joke, looking for trouble where you don't belong."

I bristle. "I am not desperate."

"Sure," Levi drawls, a cruel smile playing on his lips. "Keep telling yourself that, sweetheart." His eyes rake over me, leaving a trail of heat in their wake. "But we both know the truth, don't we?"

Levi's steps are a countdown, each thud against the hardwood floor a tick on the clock of my shame. He doesn't glance back, doesn't see the way my shoulders slump, my armor crumbling.

"Levi, wait—" My voice is a whisper lost in the vast space between us.

But he doesn't wait. The door to his room closes with a soft click, a definitive period at the end of our fiery exchange. Isolation wraps around me like a thick, suffocating blanket. I'm alone in a kitchen that suddenly feels as cold as the ice in my veins.

I'm raw, exposed nerve endings and a pulsing heart laid out on the countertop. The silence is deafening, louder than any words Levi has thrown my way.

I should move, should march after him, demand he see me for who I am. But my feet betray me, rooted to the spot, as if they too have absorbed the chill from the tiles beneath them.

The air in the kitchen hums with the echo of his words. Desperate…joke… They bounce off the walls, invisible specters haunting me. I close my eyes, try to steady my breathing. I'm not desperate. I'm not.

The scent of coffee still lingers, mixing with the acute sting of rejection that fills the room.