Page 13 of Wicked Fury

There’s a tug at the corner of my lips, an instinct to smile at his barbed wit. I quash it mercilessly. “Oh, you get the VIP treatment.”

“Break a leg, sis,” he says, and his voice sends a shiver down my spine. “Or better yet, your perfect little neck.”

I whip my head toward him, our eyes locking in a silent clash of wills. “Thanks, bro,” I shoot back, my words dripping with enough sarcasm to corrode steel. “But if anyone’s going to choke tonight, it’ll be you—on your ego.”

His smirk flickers, and for a moment, I see something akin to respect flash across his features. It’s gone as quickly as it appeared, but it’s enough to tell me he knows I won’t be cowed by his intimidation tactics.

The amphitheater looms before us, a coliseum where I’ll either triumph or tumble. But I am gladiator and lion both, and I will not be bested—not by my fears, not by Lincoln Blackwood, not by anyone.

Chapter 5

Lincoln

I’m locked in place as the last of Iris’s words linger in the stifling air of the auditorium. Though her speech on criminal psychology slices through the room with razor-sharp acumen, I find myself oblivious to the applause that follows. My mother sits beside me, clapping with a fervor reserved for saints and martyrs, but all I can do is burn holes into the side of Iris’ face with my stare.

“Remarkable, isn’t she?” My mother’s voice is a feather against my consciousness, barely registering.

I don’t bother with a response. Words are useless currency between us. As soon as the crowd begins to dissipate, I push away from the table, leaving my mother to bask in the glow of someone else’s achievements. The taste of bile rises in my throat.

The backstage area is a dimly lit corridor, draped shadows clinging to its walls like desperation. It’s empty, save for my bitch of a sister, who’s attempting to regain her composure, chest heaving slightly, cheeks flushed from her oratory exertion. I lurk in the doorway, watching the way she presses a hand to her neck, thumb rubbing over the pulse point—a subconscious tell of her vulnerability.

The applause still echoes in my ears, a stark contrast to the silent fury tightening my fists.

“Quite the performance,” I snarl as I stalk closer, my voice dripping with malevolence I don’t even fully understand myself. “Such a darling of the academic elite.”

Iris looks up, her striking eyes wide, but missing their usual fiery spark. It pisses me off more. Is she really that unfazed by my presence?

“Lincoln,” she starts, voice unsteady, “what are you?—”

“Thought I’d give you a personal congratulations,” I cut her off, muscles tensing as I recall how my mother was enraptured by Iris throughout her entire goddamn speech. She never gave me that kind of attention, not once at any of my games, where I bleed and sweat for recognition that never comes.

“Your little jokes must’ve hit close to home, huh?” The sarcastic jab slips out, a barbed hook aimed to catch her, to see that familiar defiance flare up in her eyes. I want to watch her squirm, tangle her in this twisted web until she can’t tell whether she wants to hit me or?—

“Are you done?” Her voice cuts through my thoughts, a low murmur that does nothing to douse the fire in my veins.

“Far from it,” I shoot back, closing the distance between us until I can feel the heat radiating off her body. “You get them all smiling, hanging onto every word. Does it make you feel good, Iris? Being the golden girl?”

Her lips part, a retort teetering on the brink of escape, but it never comes. Instead, a shiver runs down her spine, and I swear I can almost taste the tautness—an intoxicating blend of fear and something darker, something that beckons me closer.

“You’ve definitely got a knack for getting under my skin, Iris. But then again, we both know that’s not the only thing you’re good at, is it?” I murmur, my voice low and taunting.

“Lincoln, I don’t know what game you’re playing, but I don’t have time for this,” Iris tries to sidestep me, but I’m faster.

“Game?” I echo, cornering her against the wall, my body caging hers. “This isn’t a game. This is me making sure you understand the rules.”

“Rules?” she bites out, defiance sparking in her stare, even as her chest rises and falls more rapidly.

“Rule number one,” I lean in, voice dropping to a sinful whisper, “never mistake my silence for ignorance, my calmness for acceptance. And most importantly, never think for a second that I haven’t noticed every single move you make.”

I can’t control the tremor in my hand as it snakes up Iris’s neck, the weight of my anger finding a precarious perch on her delicate skin. She gasps—a tiny, choked sound, almost lost in the thick air between us—and I feel a fierce satisfaction at the tremble that courses through her body.

“Lincoln, what the hell?” she sputters, but her voice is muffled under the pressure of my grip. Not enough to hurt her, just enough to let her know how easily I could if I wanted to. The power crackles in my fingertips, a living thing, and I savor the fear flickering in those striking eyes of hers.

“Scared, Iris?” My voice is low, a growl that vibrates against her throat. “You should be.”

Her back hits the wall with a dull thud as I shove her, pinning her with the force of my body. There’s something heady about the way she squirms beneath me, her breath coming in short, desperate bursts. It’s intoxicating, watching her fight the instinct to push me away or pull me closer.

“Lincoln,” she tries again, this time her voice steadier, but still tinged with an underlying panic. “Stop it.”

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