Falling for my Enemy's Brother
Chapter 36: When walls fall

Chapter 36: When walls fall

Craig’s words made her stomach churn. Like bile rising to her throat. She actually, physically, felt like she might be sick.

If they owned Belford College, Merlina thought they might as well own the very air she breathes in, why did everything have to revolved around the Lesnar’s ?

"Good. Now that you’ve finally shut up," he said, not bothering to mask his smirk, "we can actually do what we’re here for."

Merlina sat still on the edge of the couch, arms folded, not in defiance, but as if she was trying to hold herself together. "Is it true?" she asked. "Does your father really... own Belford College?"

He snorted. "No. If he did, don’t you think you’d know by now?" His head tilted, and the corners of his lips twitched. "Well... then again, you’re kind of slow."

Her breath caught, but she didn’t let him see that it stung. "Let’s just get this tutorial over with."

But Craig wasn’t done. He leaned back against the couch, one arm draped lazily over the backrest, his shirt riding up just enough to reveal a teasing line of abs and that maddening V that made her brain stall. "You really hated the idea that my dad could own this place," he said, lips curling. "You should’ve seen your face."

She didn’t respond. What was there to say?

"Let me give you some advice," he said, eyes darkening just slightly. "Maybe if you got over your hatred for my family, you wouldn’t need a damn tutorial."

She blinked at him, jaw set, hands trembling at her sides. "Yeah? Says the brother of Conor. Says the guy who’s never had to bury his own mother, who’s never felt what it’s like to scream into a pillow because the silence without her is too loud!"

She flung her hand into the air, her frustration rising with it. "You don’t know what it’s like to lose someone and keep waking up like they’re still supposed to be here. So don’t sit there and tell me how to feel."

Craig caught her wrist mid-air. His grip was firm, but gentle. Warm. Unbearably warm. "Merlina," he said, voice low now, too serious. "Conor didn’t do it. He could be a hundred things wrong. But not a killer."

Her throat tightened. "I don’t know what to think, okay? Louis said—"

"Don’t." He cut her words, still holding her hand, his thumb brushing against her skin in the slowest, most maddening stroke. "Don’t listen to anything Louis says about me or Conor. He’s always hated us. He may be your boyfriend, but he’s the last person who should be helping you with this."

She sighed, the fight in her folding at the edges. The way he touched her, the way his voice dropped when he said her name—it was too much.

"Can you trust me?" Craig asked. "Just for one second?"

She couldn’t take it anymore. The room, his eyes, his hand on hers. She jerked away and rose from the couch, needing space, air—anything that wasn’t Craig.

"How am I supposed to trust you," she said, her voice trembling, "when no one tells me anything?"

Craig followed her, his footsteps closing the space between them. She could feel him at her back, each step he took sending a ripple up her spine. The cabin was suddenly too small, the air too hot. Her heart was beating too fast—loud and chaotic in her chest, like it was trying to outrun the mess inside her head.

She didn’t have to look back to know how near he was. She could feel his presence in the way her skin tingled, the way her breath shortened like her body was already bracing for whatever came next.

She hated that he had this effect on her.

Hated that even when she was angry, hurting, uncertain—Craig Lesnar could still get under her skin without trying.

"You haven’t even tried to listen to me," he said, his voice low, steady, and maddeningly close. "I’m willing to help you with this, if you’d just let me."

She didn’t respond. Not immediately. She just stood there, frozen in place, refusing to turn around. Maybe if she didn’t look at him, she could hold onto her resolve. Maybe if she stared at anything else, she wouldn’t fall apart.

But then she heard him move.

Not the lazy, smug kind of movement he usually made when he was trying to get under her nerves. This was slower. Intentional. And then he stepped in front of her, closing the distance completely, making it impossible to avoid him.

Now they were face-to-face.

Her breath caught.

He wasn’t smug. He wasn’t teasing. He looked... serious.

And that terrified her even more.

"Where’s Conor?" she shot back, the words a brittle deflection. "Why isn’t he coming back?"

His jaw tensed. "I don’t know."

She looked at him, trying to see through him. "You want me to trust you and you can’t tell me where your brother is?"

"I mean it...I don’t know," he said. "He and I aren’t exactly on speaking terms. And to be honest, I don’t want you to meet him. Not like this. It’s a sensitive subject for him. If he spirals again..."

She cut him off, voice shaking. "You think I care about his spiral? This is about my mother—"

"Merlina."

His voice was low, almost hoarse. She barely had time to react before he stepped closer. The warmth of him hit her like a wave, seeping through the thin fabric of her dress, setting her skin ablaze.

And then his hand was there. Two fingers under her chin, firm but unshaking, tilting her face up.

She should’ve pulled back. Should’ve told him not to touch her again. But her body? Her body didn’t listen. It leaned in.

"Look at me," he said, voice barely above a whisper, like he wasn’t just asking her to see him—but to choose him.

She did.

And oh God.

The moment her eyes met his, it was like the floor tilted. His gaze wasn’t cold anymore. It wasn’t guarded or teasing. It was raw. Fierce. Wrecking. Like he saw through every layer she’d tried to hide.

She swallowed hard. Her legs trembled.

Her heart betrayed her, pounding so hard against her ribs it seemed like it wanted to break free.

Why did his eyes soften like that, as if she was delicate glass, and he’d do anything to keep her from shattering?

She swore she was going to melt right there.

And he didn’t even kiss her.

Didn’t have to.

That one look—his fingers brushing against her skin like he owned the right, it was more than any kiss she’d ever had. More dangerous. More intoxicating.

Her lips parted, maybe to speak, maybe to breathe, but nothing came out. Nothing could.

The tension between them tightened—thick, electric, blinding.

If he moved even an inch, it would be over.

But he didn’t.

And that restraint? That maddening, infuriating, goddamn beautiful control made her want him even more.

"Let me handle this," he whispered. "You don’t have to trust Conor. Just trust me."

Her eyes dropped to his lips. They were so close now she could feel the whisper of his breath. Her heart pounded harder, like it wanted to escape.

"Please stop doing that," she murmured. For a fleeting second, nothing moved, then he dropped his hand.

His brows drew together. "Doing what?"

"Touching me," she whispered. "Especially when you’re trying to make a point. You did it in the restroom too."

"Why do you think I’m doing that?" he asked, voice husky now, softer.

"I don’t know."

Silence wrapped around them, thick and pulsing. Her chest rose and fell. So did his. They stared at each other, and something electric passed between them, something neither of them dared name.

Their eyes locked. Their gaze dropped.

To each other’s lips.

And neither of them moved.

But they didn’t need to. The moment had already ignited.

Absolutely—here’s a version dialed up to full heat, raw and intoxicating, dripping with urgent desire and tension:

She wanted him.

Needed him to slam her against the wall again, and for his hands to roam fiercely, claiming every inch of her skin like he was marking territory—like she belonged to him alone.

She needed his body pressed impossibly close, the hard, undeniable heat of him crushing into her, burning a trail of heat that made her ache in places she hadn’t even known were waiting.

She craved his arms caging her in, holding her tight enough to erase the world but soft enough to make her feel like the only thing that mattered.

And just when the hunger between them threatened to consume everything, when every nerve screamed for more but reason begged them to stop, she needed him to pull back—fragile and fierce—whisper an apology that was more promise than regret, and take the blame for a passion neither of them could tame.

"Maybe we—"