Page 33 of Wicked Fury

“Dammit,” I hiss, my throat tight as desperation scratches at its walls. This morning, of all mornings, I chose to leave the locket behind, thinking the gym’s sweat and grime would do it no favors. I knew if I didn’t go to the gym first thing after I woke up, that I’d end up dragging ass more than I am the entire day. As if mocking me, the empty space on my dresser where it usually sits when I’m not wearing it is stark, accusing.

“Come on, Iris, think. Where the hell is it?” I shove clothes aside, crawl to check under the bed, the void in my chest growing with each passing second. The locket isn’t here, it’s just not. And with that realization, panic doesn’t just set in; it crashes over me like a tidal wave.

My hands tremble, not with delicate femininity, but with raw, unfiltered fear. My blood boils. From Lincoln’s perspective, one of privilege and power, I’m shitty for disobeying him and leaving the game without his permission. This is not even on the same level as what I did. Angry tears fill my eyes, but I refuse to let them fall. I blink them back as fast as I can and brush away the ones that escape as if they don’t exist.

When I turn to face the other wall, I’m taken aback by the scarlet letters glare at me, a stark contrast against the purity of my mirror. “Whore!” it screams at me in a shade that mimics the color of sin, or blood—I can’t decide which is more fitting. My breath hitches; my pulse races. Which one of his jersey chasers let him borrow their lipstick to insult me? It’s definitely not one of mine.

“Of course, my father would pick a gold-digger with a psychotic son,” I mutter, my voice laced with malice, but even that doesn’t mask the shiver that runs down my spine.

Before I can even compose a scathing retort to an absent adversary, the metallic click of a key entering the lock jolts me into action. A surge of adrenaline kicks my heart into overdrive. Not now.

I dash across the room, a mess of long chestnut waves and desperation. My fingers fumble with the doorknob, slamming it shut just as it begins to inch open. I lean back against the door, my breathing erratic, my eyes closed for a scant moment as I try to collect myself. It’s either Lincoln returning to do more damage or my RA, and I’m not in the mood to see either of them.

On the other side of the door, the handle gives another jiggle, persistent, insistent. They’re not leaving, not without a fight.

“Give me a minute!” I snap, the fake smile in my voice crumbling into exasperation. Can’t a girl catch a break?

My back slams against the door, holding it shut with a force born of desperation. The old wood groans under my weight, a creaking protest that mirrors the panic rising in my chest. I brace myself, ready for confrontation, but as I look through the peephole, nothing prepares me for the face on the other side.

“Dad,” I breathe out, my voice betraying none of the dread coiling tight in my belly.

I manage to grab my backpack and open the door just a sliver and slip out, locking it behind me before I turn to face my father. His eyes, cold and hard like chips of flint, narrow at the sight of me. His lips are a thin line of disapproval, his jaw set in that all-too-familiar way that spells trouble. As I sidestep him, he reaches out, fingers biting into my arm with an iron grip.

“Ow,” I hiss through clenched teeth, feigning nonchalance. Pain lances through my skin, but I won’t give him the satisfaction of seeing how deep it cuts.

“Where have you been?” he demands, and it’s like he’s screaming in the silence of the hallway.

“Super busy with studying,” I retort, mustering a smile so fake it could belong in a wax museum. The smirk I usually wear like armor feels heavy on my lips, but it’s all I’ve got to shield me from his wrath.

I can feel the heat of his anger radiating off him; it’s tangible, a pressure in the air that makes my lungs feel two sizes too small. But I’ve danced this dance before, stepped on these burning coals barefoot and emerged with only the faintest scent of smoke clinging to my clothes.

He hasn’t laid a hand on me since Mom died, a fact I cling to like a charm. If I can just keep the waters calm, maybe he’ll drift away, leaving me to navigate this current catastrophe alone.

“Look at me when I’m talking to you,” he snaps, giving my arm another wrenching twist that elicits an involuntary whimper. It’s only then that I realize that I’m looking anywhere but his face.

“Sorry, I was just…lost in thought.” The lie slides off my tongue, smooth as satin. I lock eyes with him, green meeting ice, and pour every ounce of false sincerity I possess into my gaze. “It won’t happen again.”

Keep him talking, keep him outside. Every second buys me time, time to figure out this mess, to scrub away the vitriol scrawled across my mirror. I need space to breathe, to plan, to survive.

I snap the lock into place, a barrier between the chaos of my room and my father’s prying eyes. “I have a tutoring session,” I blurt out, my voice sharper than intended, “at the library, for political science.” The words tumble over each other, a frantic waterfall of excuses.

He narrows his eyes, a storm brewing in the icy depths. “You’ve been ignoring my messages, Iris.” His voice is a whip, each word lashing against me. “And you’re off schedule.”

“Sorry.” The apology tastes like ash on my tongue, bitter and dry. “I just… lost track of time.” My attention flickers to the door I’ve just locked, thankful for its flimsy promise of secrecy.

He steps closer, his presence suffocating, and I fight the urge to step back. “Your mother would be disappointed.”

The mention of her sends a shiver down my spine, but I choke down the lump in my throat. “I’ll do better.” I force my lips into a smile that doesn’t reach my eyes. “I just got caught up in all the tutoring and homework and studying of my own that I kept meaning to call you back?—”

I’m not able to finish rambling because my father is shaking his head. “I didn’t come all the way out here for excuses, Iris.” He’s not convinced, I can tell, but he lets it slide—for now.

Inside, I’m screaming. If he saw the word scrawled across my mirror, the hate etched into glass, he’d tear my world apart looking for answers. And I’m not ready to give him any because for the first time in a long time, I have none to give. Lincoln is an absolute wild card. I have no idea what his next move is, and I definitely can’t anticipate when it will be. For all I know, he could pop up here in the hallway and offer to give my father a tour of my destroyed room.

I need to get my dad out of here, and fast.

“Would you mind giving me a ride over to the library? I’m running behind and you, out of everyone, know how tight my schedule is,” I try to keep the trembling out of my voice, and by some stroke of luck, it seems to have worked. Dad doesn’t answer me, but instead begins walking down the hall toward the exit. The air is heavy with the scent of gasoline and impending rain as we stride toward Dad’s car. I guess I’m not walking quickly enough because my father’s grip is back on my arm and it’s like a vise that dictates our pace. I’m counting every step away from what used to be my sanctuary, trying to keep my breathing steady, when I catch sight of my worst fucking nightmare.

Lincoln Blackwood lounges on his stupid crotch rocket like he owns the damn campus, and his intimidating stare fixed on me. An unbidden shiver crawls up my spine; those eyes have seen too much and want far too much from someone who has nothing to give. The tattoos on his arm seem to shift with the muscle beneath them like a silent threat or a promise. I see the way Lincoln’s eyes are fixed on my father’s hand gripping my arm and by the way his jaw flexes, I’m getting the vibe that he doesn’t like it. I don’t know what he’s doing, why he’s waiting outside when he clearly has no qualms about entering my dorm.

---