Dark romance + African Mythology? It's coming.

Read the first chapter of my upcoming novel, Between Passion and Revenge: Part One!

Eight months ago, I got the wild idea of writing a series based on African mythology and folklore. It wouldn’t be Paranormal or Romantasy, but instead, it’d be a dark contemporary romance.

Also, it’d be Black AF.

It took me under a year to finish the first two books—a duet—and I can’t believe Between Passion and Revenge: Part One will hit shelves in 10 days on Juneteenth 2025.

It’s so damn surreal.

As a gift, I wanted you to be able to read the first chapter of my upcoming book. You’ll find the chapter below, so keep scrolling.

Be sure to pre-order Between Passion and Revenge: Part One, and submit your receipts here to participate in the pre-order incentives!

Without further ado, read the chapter below!

XO,
Angel

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Chapter One: Shae

“Shae, answer the damn question! Yes or no?”

Yennifer’s voice bursts through the phone speaker, making my face vibrate as she shouts in that too-quick, loud cadence she’s known for. There’s no way to save my hearing with the phone wedged between my ear and my shoulder, and both of my hands are full of the textbooks I’d snagged at the campus bookstore.

The entirely too expensive campus bookstore.

“Listen, it’s the first day of class, and I have work this afternoon. You’ll just have to go out without me. Or take Ezra!” I say, referring to our other best friend and roommate. “He’ll love going to a movie premiere.”

Yenn gets to live the life of the rich and famous because she is rich and famous. Well, maybe not super famous, but she most certainly is rich. Still, brands love to give her things—like the latest iPhone or tickets to the hottest movie premiere—hoping she’ll post them on her Instagram. Being the daughter of the so-called Black Bill Gates and having 1.3 million followers has its perks.

The economics building comes into sight as I sprint around the architecture lecture hall and cut across the quad. Thankfully, I’m not lost like the dozens of freshmen milling around and checking their printed campus maps.

Four years at Asheford University and I feel like I’ve finally got the hang of things.

Well. Mostly.

My messenger bag slaps against my thigh, tangling in my long flounce skirt, and I try not to trip over myself when she speaks again.

“Ugh, fine,” she says, “but you are going out with me. You need to live sometime, bestie!”

She’s right, of course. I spent every waking hour not mentoring the women at mPOWER holed up in the library or hunched over my small desk in our shared three-bedroom apartment—the apartment her father owns and doesn’t charge us rent for in the way too expensive neighborhood.

In the end, my sacrifice was for good reason…and way less than what my parents gave up to get me to this point.

You’re already twice as good as any of these fools. Don’t let them tell you how far you can go.

My father’s voice ping-pongs around in my head, reminding me of my singular mission: Get the hell out of Chicago, go to an Ivy League economics program, and make a shit-ton of money so I can make a name for myself.

My MBA application to Harvard Business School sits in processing, and I’m not sure what I’ll do if I don’t get in.

Or if I do get in.

“Don’t you have classes too?” I say, pausing to re-adjust my bag as it slips off my shoulder.

“Yeah,” Zara says, “But I’m not worried about that right now. I’m worried about you and your anti-social tendencies. Didn’t you ever hear about the experiments on monkeys who lived in solitary confinement?”

My brows furrow as I pick up speed again.

“Girl, what? Listen, never mind. This weekend,” I huff once I reach the glass doors. “I’ll carve out my Saturday. We can do brunch and mimosas on the Loop.”

A drop of sweat rolls down my spine beneath my tank top, settling at the waist beads locked at the top of my skirt, as I try to heft the three massive textbooks into one arm and pull on the too-heavy door with my other.

RIP to my blowout. At least I had the wherewithal to pull my hair up in a bun on top of my head, securing my naturally curly bangs back with a patterned scarf.

“Gotta go, Yennifer,” I say, panting. Why won’t this damn door open?

“Later, boo. Kick ass today,” she says, and I pull the phone from my face and blindly press buttons to end the call while shoving it into my bag on the opposite side of my body.

My phone drops to the ground with a click-clack, and a frustrated groan escapes me when I bend over to pick it up from where it lands in front of the door….

…and it knocks me in the head in the process.

Books scatter everywhere, and my foot slides from beneath me as I slip on my receipt from the bookstore.

Ass, meet ground.

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 says, 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,” 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.

I’m going to be his favorite student by the time the semester’s over.

Professor Hansen looks up from the lectern right as I slide into the room. His salt-and-pepper hair falls too far over his dark eyebrows and pale skin, but even though he looks disheveled, he’s all seriousness. His gaze holds no warmth, and he looks unimpressed from the instant his eyes land on me.

“Class begins promptly at nine a.m. If you arrive after that time, my door will be closed, and you will not be allowed to enter. Are we clear, Miss…” He looks down at a stapled stack of paper, likely searching for my name.

“Shae Rivers, sir,” I say, straightening my back as I stand at the doorway. “And it won’t happen again, Professor.” He doesn’t look at me the entire time I speak, and I’m unsure if I should move to a seat or wait for him to dismiss me or—

“And you?” Professor Hansen says. “What’s your name?”

Determining I’m not the subject of his query, I look over my shoulder to see my helper right behind me.

“Sandoval,” he says, the bass of his voice echoing around the cavernous hall. “Storm Sandoval.”

Professor Hansen’s eyebrows shoot up, and I realize he can, in fact, portray another expression besides a scowl.

“Storm Sandoval. Any relation to Chuck Sandoval?”

Storm grins. “Yep, that’s my pops.”

Professor Hansen’s eyebrow flicks up before settling into a neutral position.

“I don’t have you on my roster for this class.” The professor takes off his wire-rimmed glasses and leans a hip against the lectern.

“Yeah,” Storm says with a shrug. “Just jumped in yesterday.”

He says this as if it were normal—as if the class had not been full fifteen minutes after registration opened last spring.

Looking back at him, I deduce why he’s able to pry his way into full classes. It’s clear he knows people.

Well, this’ll be fun.

Professor Hansen hums for a beat before sliding his pinched gaze in my direction, examining me.

“Sit. Let’s begin,” he commands.

I rush to the open seat at the front of the class, and I ignore Storm as he moves up a few steps to slide into a row near the top. This is an advanced course, a prerequisite for the graduate-level programs Asheford offers for its MBA, but it’s a surprisingly large class size.

About forty people fill the rows of tiered seats.

And not a brown face among them. Well, besides me and Storm Sandoval.

Shaking myself, I spin in my chair to focus on the digital whiteboard.

Professor Hansen stands at the lectern, tapping at the flat screen in front of him with the stylus to present to the class. In all caps, he writes:

ECONOMICS AND ETHICS

Professor Hansen underlines the phrase before looking up, his gaze sweeping over each student with a look that makes it clear he’s assessing us all.

“Economics is a field often viewed as numbers, statistics, and data points. But at its heart, it’s about people. And where there are people, there are ethics.”

He pauses, letting the weight of his words sink in.

“Today, we’re going to start by discussing the intersection of economics and social responsibility. Some argue that pure market forces should dictate economic decisions, while others believe that government intervention is necessary to address social inequalities. What’s your opinion on public versus private on issues like clean water, housing, or healthcare access without intervention?”

Professor Hansen goes quiet, looking from student to student.

“Mr. Sandoval?” Professor Hansen acknowledges, and I stifle an eyeroll at the familiarity in his tone.

“Market-driven solutions drive efficiency,” Storm says smoothly, his voice carrying across the hall. “When left to compete, companies innovate. They find ways to cut costs and serve customers better. When the needs of the people are left to the government, bureaucracy causes meeting those needs to languish. Too much government intervention or sole governmental responsibility stifles innovation and raises costs for everyone. Look at tech, pharmaceuticals—”

I can’t keep quiet. “Pharmaceuticals?” I cut in, twisting in my seat to look back at him. “Are you really saying the private sector has done a great job at making drugs accessible to people who actually need them?”

A few of our classmates murmur, and I catch Professor Hansen in time to see his eyebrow raise slightly as he observes the exchange.

Storm tilts his head to the side, and I feel the piercing gaze down to my toes.

“I’m not suggesting that. In fact, there’s plenty of room for companies to do better—to get people in places of leadership who add ‘meeting the needs of the end consumer’ to their bottom lines. What I am saying is the market responds to demand. Innovation thrives when there’s competition, and competition doesn’t happen if the government’s there doing what it does best: Standing as a roadblock to progress. Private companies have a better shot at solving problems than some bureaucratic institution ever will.”

I sit up straighter, refusing to back down. “It’s a lovely thought, but completely impractical. If we follow your line of thinking, you’re fine with leaving issues like clean water and healthcare up to whichever corporation can pay for the biggest piece of the pie? Who’s going to regulate that? Have you heard of PB, Hexagon, or EP&G?”

All three private companies ran on similar slogans claiming to be “for all humans,” but actively poisoned our water instead. “You think the oil and gas and pharmaceutical companies are really out there for people’s health? Because last I checked, entirely too many marginalized communities in major metro areas still don’t have clean water and access to healthcare. These things are only getting harder for those who need it most.”

Storm smirks and damn him for it making him look even more attractive.

There is seriously something wrong with me.

“Look, if the goal is to find the best, most efficient solutions, then yes, I think private companies are better equipped. It’s not charity work—it’s the business world, and that’s the nature of competition.”

“Which does absolutely nothing for those who can’t afford it,” I snap back. “My tax dollars, our tax dollars, are supposed to support infrastructure. They’re supposed to create some kind of basic equity. Without oversight, those ‘innovations’ you’re so proud of are just another way to push people out, to keep them marginalized and struggling.”

Storm raises an eyebrow, leaning forward in his seat. “And here I thought we were in an economics class, not a political science debate.”

Professor Hansen clears his throat, his eyes sparkling with the tiniest hint of amusement. “Actually, Ms. Rivers, Mr. Sandoval, you’re both right where you should be. Economics is indeed about these questions. It’s not just about profits and losses. It’s about who gets to profit, and who suffers those losses.” He looks around at the rest of the class. “And I expect each of you to have an answer to those questions before the semester is over.”

Professor Hansen gives all of us a stare-down, but when he gets to me, I finally see a spark of something that might not be indifference.

“All right,” the professor says, “now that you’re all warmed up, pull out a sheet of paper. It’s quiz time.”

A low rumble goes through the class, and Professor Hansen raises an eyebrow, which silences us all.

“You are all upperclassmen. You all have done the required summer reading, correct?”

The silence is deafening.

“Exactly. I’ll read the questions aloud. I recommend you transcribe them or take notes, as I won’t be repeating myself.”

We all begin flipping through our notebooks and backpacks, and I hear the classroom door at the rear of the lecture hall creak open and slam closed.

Looking up, I count and there are four fewer classmates than when class started.

You’ve got this.

I turn in my seat to face the front when my eyes catch Storm Sandoval’s.

And I get stuck there. Because he may be an ass, but he really is a good-looking ass.

Focus, bitch!

I’m about to complete my turn when he ruins everything by spinning his index finger in the air, telling me to turn around, and letting me know he’s caught me staring.

Heat creeps up my face, and I’m grateful for my rich complexion. If I were any fairer, I’m sure I would look like a strawberry right now.

Shae Olivya Rivers. You did not come here to get swept up in pretty rich boys. Get. It. The fuck. Together.

Angry at his audacity, I tighten my lips and continue to spin…but not before covertly flipping him off.

His loud guffaw makes Professor Hansen look up from his lectern, and for once, he looks displeased with Storm.

But before I can gloat for any moment, the professor claps once, loudly, and says, “Question one….”

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Enjoyed this read? Don’t forget to pre-order Between Passion and Revenge: Part One now! It’s out this Juneteenth 2025.