Page 20 of Wicked Fury

“Hey, Lincoln,” she purrs, her fingers skating over the ink that snakes up my arm, as if she can tease out my secrets with a touch.

“Back off,” I snap, voice low, laced with the kind of danger that should send her scurrying.

But blondie doesn’t take the hint. Her giggle cuts through the bass thumping against my skull, and she leans closer, booze on her breath like a promise she can’t keep. “Come on, don’t be like that. I’ve seen you watching me.”

Every word out of her mouth is grating, and I can’t suppress the growl rumbling in my throat. I shake her off, my movements sharp, brutal honesty in every jerk of my muscles. “You’ve seen wrong. Get lost.”

Her face crumples, shock, and embarrassment warring for dominance—she’s a spectacle now, a sideshow attraction surrounded by a halo of onlookers hungry for drama.

“Asshole!” she spits out, but I’m already turning away, leaving her to puzzle together her dignity from the dirt.

With a last glance toward the same door Iris disappeared through, I shove past writhing bodies and out into the night. The air is cooler here, but it does nothing to extinguish the fury inside me. I want her beneath me, above me, against me. I want to consume her until there’s nothing left but ash.

But not tonight. Tonight, I walk away.

For now.

The air is thick as I shove through the crowd. It’s intoxicating, maddening. The need to dismantle her piece by piece consumes me.

She thinks she can stand against me? I want to rip her poise to shreds, leave her exposed, vulnerable. I want to strip down her pride until there’s nothing left but the raw, quivering truth of her need for me.

I want her, in every way a man can want a woman—a craving beyond flesh, a hunger to possess her soul.

Tonight, though, I retreat because even predators know when to bide their time. But make no mistake, Iris Shelby is mine for the taking—and I never lose.

Chapter 8

Iris

The key scrapes the lock, and then a click signaling my return to the cramped dorm that passes for home. It’s still better than living in a spacious house with my dad, and I won’t be elaborating on that. I heave the door open, muscles screaming from the weight of my backpack—a portable library of textbooks and notes. My feet drag across the threshold, each step a testament to the grueling day’s academic gauntlet. The scent of stale pizza clashes with the sharp tang of lemon cleaner that seeps in from the hallway, courtesy of the overzealous janitorial staff.

“Shower, food, bed,” I chant under my breath, a mantra for the weary. I’m starving—the gnawing in my stomach a cruel reminder of my skipped lunch—and bone-tired, craving nothing more than hot water to wash away the calculus equations and Shakespearean prose branded into my brain.

With a flick of my wrist, I summon light to my domain. And freeze.

“Lincoln?” It slips out, a half-gasp, half-whisper. There Satan’s spawn is, lounging on my twin bed like it’s his throne, shrouded in shadows save for the smug curve of his lips catching the light. My pulse kicks up a notch, hammering against my ribs as if trying to escape the sudden tightness of my chest.

“Surprise, angel,” he drawls, voice smooth as sin. The sight of him here, in this space so distinctly mine, sends my mind spinning. His eyes are fixed on me, so sharp they could slice through all my carefully constructed defenses. His casual intrusion, an unspoken challenge, sets my nerves alight, sparking with irritation and… something else.

“Got bored waiting.” He stretches, tattoos on his arm shifting with the movement, a living canvas of ink and skin. With every breath, his T-shirt clings to the muscles beneath, and I can’t help but notice the way it accentuates his athletic build. Damn him. I don’t bother asking how he got in my room because he’s a damn Blackwood and nothing is off limits for him. Except for maybe me.

“Out,” I manage, my tone sharp, but apparently not cutting enough because instead of obeying, Lincoln just smirks, that customary tilt of his mouth suggesting he knows exactly what kind of effect he’s having on me. And he’s reveling in it.

My eyes are still wide, my brain short-circuiting as Lincoln stands, sweeping up a duffle bag with the ease of someone claiming their own. He tosses it onto my bed—my haven of solitude—and suddenly it’s an open suitcase of chaos. A random selection of my clothes are being shoved into that abyss of fabric with his reckless hands, each movement screaming ownership.

“Hey!” The word is sharp, a blade thrown in the dark. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

Lincoln looks up, his smirk a silent mockery of my outrage. “Packing for you,” he says, as if he’s doing me a favor. “You didn’t really think you could miss my big game, did you?”

“Your game?” I sputter, incredulous. “Since when does your football schedule dictate my life?”

“Since now.” There’s a challenge in his voice, a taunt that dances in the air between us, waiting for me to lunge and fall into his trap. His nonchalance is infuriating; he invades my space like it’s just another end zone to conquer.

“Get out,” I demand again through gritted teeth, but he merely chuckles, unfazed by my fury.

“I told you last weekend you were coming with me to St. James, and so here we are. Since you don’t seem like you want to cooperate, I will help you out and pack for you.” If I could wrap my hands around his stupid jock neck and throttle him, I would be committing murder right now.

“Oh, angel.” Lincoln’s expression is one of condescension. “You will come to my game, and you will wear my number on your back like a fucking sold sign. You’re mine.”

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