Page 11 of Wicked Fury

“Fuck off, Penn,” I growl, not even bothering to hide the annoyance in my voice. The smirk on his face doesn’t waver; if anything, it grows wider, more irritating.

“Come on, man,” he prods further, pushing off the locker with a casualness that belies the sharp glint in his hazel eyes. “Don’t leave me hanging.”

“Trust me, there’s nothing you need to know,” I say, pulling the jersey over my head with a force that’s a hair shy of tearing fabric. The air is thick, charged with something combustible, and Penn’s playing with matches.

“Really? ‘Cause from where I’m standing, there’s everything to know,” he says, the words edged with a provocation that’s designed to cut deep.

“Consider it a fucking mystery, then.” My response is clipped, brusque, but inside I’m reeling. Every part of me screams to launch across the room and wipe that smug expression off his face. But I don’t—I can’t. Instead, I pivot on my heel, stalking toward the showers, leaving my brother and his damn questions in my wake.

As water cascades down, pounding against my skin, I try to drown out everything—the taunts, the memories, the illicit thrill that runs through me when I think of her. Iris, with her maddening defiance and that intoxicating scent, somehow both forbidden and deeply desired. It’s a craving I never asked for, a hunger that refuses to be sated.

Chapter 4

Iris

The backstage is a hive of barely contained chaos, professors in their drab robes muttering about misplaced notes, and my fellow high-GPA drones fidgeting with their note cards like they’re trying to unravel some academic mystery. I stand there amidst it all, my heart thumping a relentless beat that’s more suited to the throes of a rave than this temple of intellectual achievement.

“Keep it together, Iris,” I whisper under my breath, but my hands are traitors, slick with anxiety as if they’ve been dipped in oil. Every intake of air feels like I’m trying to breathe through a straw, short and unsatisfying. My chest tightens, squeezing around my lungs like a vise.

“Looking pale, angel. Nervous to give your little speech?” I hear my stepbrother’s voice snarl the words, but he’s nowhere in sight. I know that I’m just looking for a release because I’m teetering on the edge of a full-blown panic attack. Lincoln Blackwood is the perfect way to take the edge off, make all my anxiety disappear for a little while. I’m craving the high he gave me the night before the wedding, the way I felt boneless without a care in the world. It feels like it just happened and also that a month has passed by when in reality it’s only been a few days.

“Get out of my head, Lincoln,” I retort to the fake Lincoln in my head. I’m sure that psychopath would love to know just how inside my mind he really is.

I press my fingertips into my palms, feeling the clamminess as if it’s an omen of the impending doom waiting for me on that stage. It’s not the accolade that unnerves me; it’s the sea of eyes that will be watching, judging, waiting for me to stumble over a syllable. Academic excellence I can handle; it’s the public display of it that chokes me.

Instead, I plaster on a smile that I’m certain doesn’t reach my eyes because they’re always too shadowed by doubt. “It’ll be fine. It’ll be perfect. It’ll go by quick,” I lie through my teeth to myself, the words almost getting lost in the dry desert my mouth has become.

“Remember, deep breaths,” some well-meaning drone advises, and I fight the instinct to roll my eyes so hard they might dislodge from their sockets. It’s not her fault that I don’t want this. Any of this. It’s not her fault that she’s here because she wants to be top of her class and I’m here so I don’t upset my father.

“Revolutionary advice,” I quip anyway, biting my lip until I taste the faint tang of iron. This is what it comes down to - me, backstage, grappling with the suffocating dread of articulation when all I want is to articulate nothing at all.

My heart’s a jackhammer in my chest, threatening to break through my ribcage as if it’s seeking an escape from this madness. I can almost hear my father’s voice, that ice-cold sneer slicing through me, “Iris Marie, always the disappointment.” A shiver runs down my spine, and it’s not from the draft in this godforsaken place. Only my father’s voice could push me to wish Lincoln’s condescending snicker was back in my head, taunting me.

“Imagine walking away now,” I mutter under my breath, the thought alone enough to conjure images of my father’s furrowed brow, the way he’d loom over me like some heavy cloud ready to burst. The memory of his hand gripping my arm too tightly at last year’s charity event burns in my mind, as real as the scars hidden beneath my gown.

“Pathetic,” I can hear him say because I froze up during that speech, and even now, the accusation stings worse than any slap. My fingers twitch, longing to tear off the vintage watch that weighs on my wrist like a shackle. That same wrist he once grabbed, hissing about family pride when all I did was stumble over a few words.

I clench my jaw, trying to ground myself in the present, but the panic is a living thing inside me, writhing and clawing its way up my throat. I’ve fought battles before—against my own demons, against the gaping hole my mother left behind when she died—but this feels like a war I’m destined to lose.

With one last glance at the velvet curtains that stand between me and public humiliation, I bolt. My heels click-clack against the concrete floor with a rhythm that matches the frantic beat of my pulse. I dodge a cluster of professors oblivious to my crisis.

“Excuse me,” I gasp out as I squeeze past a gaggle of students who probably don’t have to worry about having a breakdown in front of an audience today.

The cool evening air slaps me in the face as I shove the stage door open, and I savor it for a moment, letting it fill my lungs and clear my head. But freedom is short-lived; it only takes a few strides before I reach the massive stone staircase, each step a monument to the history of St. Charles University—a history that now seems to mock me.

“Great, Iris, really nailing the whole poised future valedictorian vibe,” I chide myself, sarcasm dripping from every word as if it could shield me from my embarrassment. My hand reaches for the locket hanging around my neck, and I clutch it like a lifeline. Inside, my mother smiles back at me, her image a stark contrast to the chaos of my current state.

“Sorry, Mom,” I whisper, guilt gnawing at me for this spectacular failure. But I can’t go back. I won’t.

“Academic excellence, my ass,” I scoff, descending the stairs as if each one leads further away from the disappointment that coats my name. But it’s just a staircase, not a portal to another world where I don’t have to live up to the Shelby legacy. Still, it’s the only refuge I’ve got right now.

Stiletto clicks echo like a metronome for the damned, drawing my attention across the courtyard. In a red pantsuit so vivid it could ignite the night itself is Lincoln’s mom…well, my stepmother, I suppose. Tailored to accentuate every curve that money can buy, it’s a loud statement in a sea of academic gray. Her blonde hair cascades perfectly over her shoulders, and that signature smugness paints her face like she’s the one slated for valedictorian of my senior class next year.

“Of course, you’re here,” I mutter under my breath, the taste of resentment more bitter than black coffee on my tongue. My father told me he couldn’t make it tonight, but he hadn’t mentioned that he’d be sending his new wife to ensure I don’t fuck up.

Her laughter cuts through the distance, the sound as genuine as a forged diploma. She doesn’t walk; she prowls, aware of every eye she commands. She wears confidence and arrogance like it’s her second skin, and she wears it with more ease than that screaming ensemble.

I press my back against the cold stone wall, feeling its chill seep into my bones. Why would she agree to come here tonight? This is surely not her vibe and she’ll be bored out of her mind. My mind races, unbidden thoughts tearing through the fog of panic. Dad’s wallet is open wide enough to land a plane in, and her presence screams of another withdrawal.

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