15. Levi

"Ihope you all did your homework." I start charting strategies on the whiteboard with swift, purposeful strokes.

"Market penetration requires—" My words hitch, the marker squeaking to a halt mid-graph when the door opens, and she slips in, trying to scurry in like a mouse.

Brielle Rose. Late. Uninvited.

Heat creeps up my neck, a mix of anger and something far more dangerous. Didn't I make myself clear? The memory of our last encounter burns through my mind.

"Miss Rose." My voice cuts through the quiet hum of the classroom. "So glad you could join us."

She pauses at the door, not a hint of remorse in those stormy eyes. Defiance personified. She knows she's late. She knows what I said.

"Sorry, Professor Griffin," she apologizes.

"I get the feeling that this class is nothing but a joke to you," I snap, louder than intended. The rest of the class shrinks back, but not her. Brielle just glides to an empty seat, all curves and confidence.

"I apologize if you see it that way." She swallows. "I take this class very seriously."

"Your tardiness is unacceptable." The words are ice. "Care to explain yourself?"

"Traffic was a nightmare," she says, settling into her chair.

"Traffic." I echo the word, letting it hang heavy in the room.

You're lying. I saw her this morning.

"Next time, leave earlier. This is your final warning."

The message isn't just for her—it's for everyone. But it's Brielle who holds my gaze, challenging me, pushing me. And God help me, part of me wants to push right back.

I swallow the urge to toss her out on those infuriatingly perfect curves. "Make sure you apologize to the class as well for wasting their time."

Brielle stands, and I almost regret my harshness. Almost. She's a portrait of contrition, her eyes downcast. "Sorry, everyone, won't happen again." The words are soft, but they don't match the steel in her spine.

"Let's move on," I grunt, dismissing the whole affair with a wave of my hand. "Thoughts on The Art of War and its application in modern business?" I pace before them like a general before his troops. Hands shoot up, eager minds ready to impress. But it's her silent defiance that draws me in.

"Brielle," I call, ignoring the others. "Your insights? I'm sure you had plenty of time while you were making yourself late to class."

Her head snaps up, surprise flickering across her features before her mouth sets in a line of determination. "It's outdated," she says boldly. "Sun Tzu couldn't possibly fathom the complexities of today's market."

"Outdated?" The word is a spark on my tongue. "Explain."

She rises to the bait, standing. "The book ignores the human element—emotions, unpredictability. It's all just…chess pieces to Sun Tzu."

"Chess pieces can topple kings and queens," I counter, feeling the heat rise in the room. Or is it just between us?

"Only if they're predictable," she shoots back. "People aren't pawns, Professor. They're wild cards."

"Wild cards can be played," I retort, stepping closer. Our gazes lock, a silent clash of wills. "And they can win games."

"Or they can change the game entirely," she quips, undeterred. "Ultimately not something you need or want in business."

"Miss Rose," I say, my voice low, simmering with something that isn't just irritation, "are you suggesting we throw out centuries of strategy over a few feelings?"

"Feelings drive action, Professor Griffin. Ignoring them is playing half the game." Her voice is steady, but her chest rises and falls more rapidly now.

"Interesting theory," I murmur, the air crackling with our shared defiance.

"More than just a theory," she insists, her lips parting slightly.

The class is silent, a collective breath held. Eyes dart from me to her, back and forth like we're the only two players in a high-stakes tennis match. A hand shoots up, not Brielle's—someone eager to jump into the fray.

"Isn't there merit to both arguments?" The interruption comes from the back row, a voice trying to slice through the tension.

"Merit?" I scoff, barely acknowledging the interjection. My focus narrows back on Brielle, her pulse visible at her throat. "This isn't about merit. It's about understanding the fundamentals of business warfare."

She bristles, ready to pounce on my every word. "Warfare? So we're reducing human interactions to battlefields now?"

"Business is a battlefield," I shoot back, my words clipped and certain.

The rest of the class fades away. It's just her fire and mine, clashing in a blaze that could burn this whole lecture hall down.

"Then what's your strategy, Professor?" Her eyes challenge me, smoldering coals. "Because it looks like you're losing soldiers left and right."

"My strategy," I repeat, a smirk tugging at my lips despite myself, "is knowing when to fight and when to regroup."

"Maybe you should start thinking about a peace treaty then," she retorts with a sly tilt of her head.

"Enough!" The word is a whipcrack, reverberating off the walls. My heart hammers against my ribs, undeniably alive. The debate dies, but the air is thick, heavy with unsaid things and unspent storms.

The bell rings, a shrill reminder that the world is still turning. Chairs scrape, students murmur, but my gaze doesn't leave hers as they file out. She gathers her books, her movements all smooth grace and defiance.

"Miss Rose." My voice anchors her in place, low and commanding. She turns, an eyebrow raised in silent question. "You stay behind."

The room empties, the door clicking shut with a sense of finality. Only the echo of our earlier words remains, a ghost between us.

"Trying to sneak away?" I step toward her, feeling the magnetic pull. Her scent is intoxicating, a mix of lavender and something wilder.

"Levi…" she starts, but I'm already there, towering over her.

"I told you to drop my class." My words are a growl, rough around the edges.

"I know," she whispers, her defiance a palpable force.

"Are you deaf or just stubborn?" I ask, my body betraying me, leaning closer to hers.

"Neither," she answers, her breath fanning across my skin. "I'm just not afraid of you."

"Should be," I mutter, my resolve melting, my desire climbing.

"Maybe." Her lips twitch, almost a smile, almost a dare.

And God help me, I want to take it.

Heat coils in the pit of my stomach, a knot of frustration and something darker, as I watch Brielle square her shoulders.

"I make my own choices, Levi," she says, her voice steady even as it sends shivers down my spine. "You don't get to bully me out of this class, or anywhere else."

I can feel a muscle in my jaw twitch as I lean down, my hands planted firmly on her desk. The wood creaks under the pressure. "Bullying?" I scoff, letting out a bitter chuckle. "Sweetheart, if you think this is bullying, you really are as naive as you look."

"Naive?" Her laugh is sharp, almost manic. "That's rich, coming from you. Mr. High-and-Mighty Professor who can't handle a bit of a challenge."

"Challenge?" I spit out the word like it's poison. "You're not a challenge, Brielle. You're a joke."

Her eyes narrow, and I swear I see lightning flash in their depths. "A joke?" she repeats, her voice rising. "Tell me, Levi, what exactly have I done wrong?"

"Where should I start?" My words come fast and hard. "Tardiness, disrespect, undermining authority?—"

"Undermining your fragile ego, you mean," she cuts in, and I can see the flush creeping up her neck, a rosy tint that does nothing to douse my anger—or the heat that seems to be building with it.

"Watch it," I warn, my voice low and dangerous. But she doesn't flinch. Instead, she rises, standing so close now that I can feel the heat of her body against mine.

"Or what?" Her voice is a whisper, but it hits like a slap. "You'll give me detention?"

"Wouldn't dream of it," I bite back. "Detention with you sounds like a special kind of hell."

"Feeling's mutual," she retorts instantly, standing her ground, unyielding.

"Then why are you still here?" I demand, every word a hammer driving home my point. "Why do you insist on staying where you're clearly not wanted?"

"Maybe because I want to be here." Her gaze locks onto mine, a challenge laid bare. "And maybe because someone needs to teach you that you don't always get what you want."

"Is that so?" I can't stop the growl that rumbles from my chest, a primal sound I barely recognize as my own.

"Very much so," she says, her lips parting ever so slightly.

Our faces are inches apart, our breath mingling, her defiance the perfect match for my rage. And beneath it all, desire simmers, forbidden and all-consuming.

Heat flares in my veins, igniting something reckless. I grab her arm and spin her around. She's up against the desk before she can blink. My mouth crashes onto hers, a storm of pent-up frustration and raw need.

"Levi…" Her protest drowns under the tide of my kiss. Urgent. Demanding. I'm losing myself in the taste of her defiance, the sweet rebellion that lingers on her lips. This is madness, but I can't stop. Won't stop.

Her hands claw at my back, nails dragging through the fabric of my shirt as if she wants to tear it away. I press closer, leaving no space for regrets, for second thoughts. Her soft moan fans the embers of my desire into an inferno.

I'm consumed, every ounce of self-control melting away. I've gone years without this—without anyone making me feel so alive, so desperate. Brielle's the spark in a room full of gas, and I'm the fool who lit the match.

Our breaths mingle, ragged and hot. The kiss deepens, tongues tangling, a dance as old as time yet new with each fervid touch. She tastes like promise, like the forbidden fruit I've denied myself for far too long.

Brielle clings to me, her passion matching mine. And for this moment, nothing else exists—just her, just me, just this.