Page 12 of Wicked Fury

“Maybe she’s trying to prove she can play mommy dearest to the Ivy League hopeful,” I sneer internally, the words sharp enough to draw blood.

The suspicion coils in my stomach, a serpent ready to strike. Every forced smile, each syrupy word that slips from her lips, might as well be laced with toxin. The bitterness isn’t enough to mask the growing resentment. It festers, a silent scream against the walls I’ve built to keep out people exactly like her.

I steel my spine, a soldier bracing for battle. The acidic taste of apprehension fills my mouth, but I swallow it down with practiced ease. “You’ve faced worse,” I mutter under my breath, remembering every scathing remark that’s ever been flung my way. My heart hammers against my chest like a caged bird desperate to escape, but I shove the panic into a box and lock it tight.

“Charm and disarm,” I coach myself, recalling every insincere smile I’ve ever had to plaster on my face to placate my father. Breathing in deep, I let the scent of fresh-cut grass and distant flowers from the courtyard wash over me, a brief respite before I step into the lioness’ den. I force my legs to move, each step down the stone staircase deliberate, measured—like descending from my own personal purgatory into an inferno of awkward social niceties.

With each downward step, I channel my inner witch, too; if she’s going to play this game, I’ll match her move for move. The air carries the faint strains of conversation and laughter, a discordant soundtrack to the scene playing out before me. I plaster on a smile so warm it could melt glaciers, or at least thaw the icy regard of a would-be step monster. My lips curve upward, the muscles straining against the weight of my disdain.

I hold Lincoln’s mom’s attention with a confidence I’m far from feeling. Her eyes are sharp, assessing, but I don’t blink, don’t waver. She’s a panther clad in crimson, sleek and powerful, but I’ll be damned if I show even an ounce of fear.

“Darling Iris,” she responds, her voice honeyed, but I can hear the razor edge beneath the sweetness. It’s a dance we perform, steps learned and memorized, with no room for mistakes.

“What a lovely surprise,” I lie through my teeth, the words dripping with a saccharine malice we both understand perfectly.

I lock my jaw, keep the smile fixed like it’s wired to my cheeks. Her scent wafts toward me—a mix of roses and something cloyingly sweet, like desperation dressed in floral notes. It’s overpowering, almost enough to mask the stench of hypocrisy. Who the hell is still wearing rose perfume?

“Your speech is going to be the highlight of the day, I’m sure,” Lincoln’s mom trills, voice rising in pitch with each syllable. It grates on my ears, a sound I imagine could summon bats from hell.

“Thank you,” my words are ice, wrapped in velvet. “It’s unfortunate my father couldn’t make it.”

Her lips stretch wider, too wide, unnatural. “Oh, he wanted to be here, but you know how busy he is. Always working so hard for us.”

“Us,” I echo, letting the word hang between us—a hitch we’re both pretending not to see. The muscles in my face twitch with the effort of maintaining the facade.

“Absolutely, darling.” She pats my arm, nails grazing my skin through the fabric, leaving a trail that feels like tiny flames licking at me.

“Can’t wait.” The lie tastes bitter on my tongue. But I swallow it down, let it burn on its way, because I know the game we’re playing. Every word, every gesture, it’s all a performance—one wrong move, and the curtain falls.

The air vibrates with a tension you could cut through with a knife. It’s a pulsating, living thing that coils around me, and I’m trying my damnedest not to let it strangle me. Then, like a storm rolling in out of nowhere, he appears. Lincoln Blackwood in the flesh. His presence hits me like a sucker punch to the gut—unexpected and leaving me winded.

“Mom? What are you doing here?” Lincoln’s voice is a low growl, his face a perfect canvas of confusion painted with streaks of irritation. He stands tall and imposing, casting a long shadow that feels like a threatening promise. His intense eyes narrow, drilling into her as if he’s trying to pry open her mind and reveal its secrets.

“Supporting Iris, of course,” she replies, her tone all sugar and spice with an undercurrent of shaky. Her smile doesn’t quite reach her eyes, which hold a glint sharp enough to slice through the warm afternoon air. She puts on this show for him, but I see right through it; we both do.

“Right,” he says, the word heavy with skepticism. He crosses his arms over his chest—an imposing barrier of sinew and inked skin—and levels a glare at her that could make lesser mortals cower. He doesn’t have to say what he’s thinking. I can read it all over his stoically handsome face. She’s never shown up on campus for him. I’d be willing to bet on that.

Tension crackles between them like a downed power line just waiting to spark and burn everything in its path. Lincoln’s eyes, as tumultuous as a storm-tossed sea, brood with that smoldering intensity I’ve come to both dread and crave. He’s all sharp jawline and clenched fists, a silent testament to the barely restrained ire within him. The muscles along his arms twitch, his tattoos seeming to shift with his simmering rage. His mother, meanwhile, is a frozen sculpture of poise, her smile plastered, but her eyes—sharp and calculating—betray the chill of her feigned affection.

“Run along dear, Iris and I need to get going if I’m going to get a good seat,” she coos, each word wrapped in velour yet edged with steel.

My pulse hammers in my throat, the fluttering sensation in my chest now full-blown ripplings of panic. I’m caught in their crossfire, a pawn in whatever twisted game they’re playing. It’s like watching a dance where every step is choreographed to inflict the maximum amount of damage. I can’t tear my eyes away from Lincoln’s tight expression, the way his nostrils flare ever so slightly, signaling his effort to keep control.

“Actually, I think I’ll join you, Mother,” he grinds out, and his words feel like a boulder, heavy with unspoken threats. His glare pivots to me, and I have to remind myself to breathe. To not give in to the knee-jerk reaction to either flee or confront. I’m a badass, not some damsel in distress, but damn if this situation isn’t unraveling me faster than a spool of thread being batted around between two cats. “I wouldn’t want to miss anything that Iris does. She’s perfect, after all.”

I manage a nod, my face a mask of neutral politeness that fools no one. The air is thick with unsaid things, desires and resentments mingling like some kind of perverse aromatic. I can smell the faint scent of his cologne, a woodsy musk that does annoyingly delightful things to my senses, mingling with the sterile smell of bleach that permeates the amphitheater.

“Shall we?” His mother’s voice cuts through the silence, as jarring as knife scraping along an empty plate.

“Yes, it is just about time.” My own voice surprises me, steady and calm despite the roiling emotions inside me. I lead the way, my steps slow and measured, aware of every move I make, every breath I take. They follow, and I can almost feel the heat of Lincoln’s glare on my back, branding me with a mark I’m not sure I want to wear but am powerless to resist.

The closer we get to the amphitheater, the more my anxiety ratchets up, a symphony of tension building to a crescendo. This is it. Showtime. And the audience? A mother-son duo straight out of a Greek tragedy and a crowd of unsuspecting academics. No pressure.

I stride ahead, the click of my heels on concrete a fragmented beat against the silence trailing behind me. Lincoln’s glare burns into my spine, a seething energy that prickles my skin. Normally, his smoldering intensity might quicken my pulse in a less hostile way. But now? Now it’s like staring down a predator.

“Got something to say, or are you just practicing your death stare for Halloween?” I toss over my shoulder, my voice laced with a bravado I’m far from feeling.

His low chuckle chases away the chill his look gives me. “Do I make you nervous? Is your attitude just for me? Or did you wake up planning to be a wretched bitch?”

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