Page 18 of Wicked Fury

“Shut up, Lincoln,” he grunts without turning back. “And help me get her out of here before she pukes on my shoes.”

“Your knight in shining armor,” I quip to Oakley’s upside-down face, which is now a shade of red that clashes horribly with her outfit.

“Fuck you too, Lincoln Blackwood,” she hisses, her words muffled by Jeremiah’s hoodie.

“Not my type, sweetheart,” I shoot back, watching them disappear into the throng. I shake my head and turn back to the party, ready for the next round of madness to hit me.

Tonight’s just getting started.

The bass thuds against my chest, a relentless heartbeat mirroring the rush of blood in my veins. I scan the writhing mass of bodies, each one an obstacle in my hunt. It’s like searching for a shadow in a pool of ink, but then—a flash of chestnut waves cuts through the haze.

“Found you,” I mutter under my breath as Iris’ laugh trickles into my ears, discordant to the rhythm I’m tuned to.

I slide through the crowd, a predator parting the sea of prey. She’s leaning against a wall, her striking green eyes locked on some basketball player who’s probably spouting stats like he’s the next fucking Kobe.

“Hey!” I bark, and it’s satisfying how quick they both snap to attention. “Take a fucking walk, hoops.”

His hands fly up, defensive. “We’re just friends, man. Same major, that’s all.” He backs away, leaving her exposed—just Iris and me and nothing else between us.

“Go practice your jump shot, Air Mike,” I sneer, not giving him a second glance. My focus is all on my pretty poisonous stepsister.

“Blackwood,” she spits out, the edge in her voice trying to cut me, but I don’t give a fuck.

“I want you at the game against St. James,” I demand, low and hard.

Her laugh is bitter, jagged edges hidden behind full lips. “I want nothing to do with you, Satan’s spawn. And fuck all to do with football.”

“Is that right?” I step closer, our bodies almost touching, the heat from her skin calling to mine. “We’ll see about that.”

“Maybe you forgot,” I lean in, my voice a low growl that vibrates between us, “but we’ve got unfinished business, Iris. Consider yourself my new favorite person.”

She stiffens, the line of her body a taut string I’m itching to pluck. “What do you want, Lincoln?”

“Obedience would be nice,” I say, smirking as I watch the muscle in her jaw twitch. “But for starters, how about you stop playing bitchy barbie and show up at my game?”

She scoffs, but her eyes betray a flicker of uncertainty. It’s like a beam to me; I can see the cracks where I can wedge myself in and break her wide open.

“Or maybe,” I continue, my words dropping like stones in still water, “I should have a chat with dear old daddy. About what his little angel gets up to when the lights go down. Especially on nights before family weddings.”

Her breath catches, and I know I’ve struck the right chord. Her eyes darken, storm clouds rolling in fast.

“Go to hell,” she hisses, but there’s an edge of desperation now, one I savor like the finest whiskey.

“Been there,” I shoot back. “Daddy dearest kicked me out for bad behavior.” My smirk widens as I step closer, trapping her against the wall with the cage of my arms. “And you love every sinful bit of the hell I bring.”

Her chest rises and falls rapidly, and I’m tuned into every shallow breath. She’s a live wire under my touch, all coiled energy and fire. I’m ready to strike the match, watch the blaze.

“Keep pushing me, and everyone will know just how dirty you can get, angel.”

The music pounds in my ears, a chaotic fucking melody to this little tit for tat we have going. She’s glaring at me now, stubbornness etched into every beautiful feature. But beneath it all, there’s that unmistakable glint of panic. Fear of exposure, fear of losing control—fear of me.

“Fuck you,” she spits out, but her voice quivers, and it’s the most exquisite sound.

“Later,” I promise, my voice dripping with each and every monstrous intent I have. “For now, just remember who holds the leash.”

I let my gaze roam over her, taking in every inch. I commit the sight to memory—the way her chest heaves; the anxiety coming off her in waves, the vibration of her anger mixed with a hint of something more animalistic.

“See you soon,” I say, pulling back. I’ve laid my cards on the table, and now it’s her move. But no matter what she does, I’ve already won this round.

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