Page 4 of Wicked Fury

“Modesty isn’t your strong suit, is it?” I tease, the sarcasm in my voice sharp.

“Neither is yours,” she shoots back, the remnants of her smirk growing into a grin that tells me she’s enjoyed more than just the physical aspect of our meeting.

“Touché.” I chuckle, tossing the tied-off condom into the trashcan by the nightstand. Fuck, I don’t know whose room this even is. Glancing around, I relax when I notice it’s one of the guys in my Spanish class, Cannon Fairchild. At least I don’t have to worry about any diseases from his room.

She’s gathering herself, muscles tensing as she pushes up to a stand, a living sculpture of flushed satisfaction. She looks around, searching for her panties in the darkened room. It’s then that the question comes, tossed over her shoulder with casual indifference. “Where’d you throw them?”

“I didn’t,” I reply, the corner of my mouth twitching upward in an unbidden smirk. My hand pats the pocket of my jeans, where the delicate fabric is now stashed. “Consider it a trophy.”

Iris spins, her incredulity painted across those high cheekbones. She scoffs, the sound slicing through the lingering haze of sex. “Whatever,” she bites out, sarcasm sharpening every syllable. “Thanks for the quick fuck. You’re pretty and can hand out an orgasm, but let’s not pretend this was anything more than what it was.”

Her dismissal, as she strides past me, is nothing short of theatrical—so much so that I have to suppress the urge to applaud. Instead, I shake my head, a chuckle rumbling deep in my throat.

As the door swings open in front of her, the party sounds flood back in—voices, laughter, the thumping bass of some indie-electronic mashup. But none of that touches me. Not now. Not when I’ve just exorcized the demons of tomorrow’s matrimonial facade with a woman whose fire matches my own.

“Fuck the wedding,” I mutter under my breath, my pulse finally slowing.

Yeah, Iris Shelby, you were exactly what I needed.

Chapter 1

Lincoln

“Look at you, big bro,” he smirks, leaning against the doorframe with that irritating ease of his. “All dressed up and ready to play loving son for a day.”

“Shut up, Penn,” I snap without heat, my focus zeroed in on the rebellious tie that refuses to knot right. “It’s not funny.”

“Come on, man,” he chuckles, pushing away from the woodwork and striding over. “You know you’ll have all those bridesmaids swooning. Just watch yourself, eh? Wouldn’t want your tinkle tassel to get caught in anyone’s IUD.” He winks, obscene and unrepentant, before fixing my tie and walking away. Leaving me alone once again.

I’m standing in front of the mirror glaring at the picture staring back at me, adjusting my tie with more force than necessary. The silk resists, suffocating around my neck like the very idea of this wedding. It’s all a show, a farce dressed in white and pastels, and I can’t stomach it—the hypocrisy of vows that mean nothing. I don’t know why people put themselves through this shit all the time. How exhausting. My reprieve from stress last night was short.

I grab my jacket before throwing it to the side. I need a little ‘fuck you’ to my mother, so no penguin jacket. For an extra point in the terrible son column, I roll up the sleeves of my starched dress shirt until just below my elbow. I am thriving on being a fucking degenerate today.

“Pathetic,” I mutter, thinking of Iris. The way she shrugged off my touch, as if I hadn’t just unraveled her with my hands, my mouth. Her dismissive little smile is etched behind my eyelids—a brand on my ego. How dare she walk away from me, Lincoln Blackwood, as if I were some mere forgettable fuck?

The memory festers, bitter as old coffee grounds. She’s got nerve, treating me like I’m ordinary. A smirk twists my lips; nobody dismisses me, especially not a girl like her. With her sharp tongue and those piercing verdant eyes that could cut glass, she’s a challenge. And I live for challenges. They fuel me when everything else feels bland, like potatoes with nothing added. Screw the rules. I’ll have her again. This time, it won’t just be her body under my control—I want her every thought consumed by me.

The ancient clock tower strikes as I swagger into the church, each gong a testament to my deliberate tardiness. The heavy oak doors groan their protest, and all eyes—a sea of decorated hats and somber suits—snap toward me. I drink in the attention like a shot of bourbon, letting it burn.

“Typical,” I mutter under my breath.

A wedding in a church, with its stained-glass windows casting judgmental glances and the incense clinging to the air like a desperate lover, is not my scene. But here I am, dressed to the nines—jeans traded for slacks, jersey for a tailored shirt—out of sheer obligation. I find an unoccupied pew at the back and slump into it, arms stretched out, claiming territory.

“Lincoln Blackwood!” Margo’s voice is shrill in the hushed space. She’s upon me, her scent suffocating, like roses left to die in stagnant water. “What do you think you’re doing?”

“Getting a good view,” I answer my mother’s sister. Calling her the title of aunt would designate that she means something to me. She doesn’t. She’s another cog in a wheel of desperate people eager to get their hands on whatever they perceive the Blackwood’s have.

“Your mother is getting married,” she hisses, her face pinched in disapproval, “and you’re acting like a petulant child!”

“Guilty as charged,” I smirk, but her glare hardens.

“Move to the front. Now.” She delivers the command with the force of an executioner.

“Wouldn’t want to ruin mommy dearest’s big day,” I sigh theatrically, rising to my feet.

“Stop being so damn flippant,” she snaps, grabbing my arm with surprising strength.

“Fine,” I concede, shaking off her grip. “Lead the way, Margo.”

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