Page 45 of Wicked Fury

Her words are like a bucket of ice water, dousing the flames just enough for me to breathe. But they also snag my curiosity, the way she talks about the Blackwood brothers with the familiarity of shared history. I side-eye her, trying to piece together the puzzle without asking outright.

Oakley catches my attention; a hint of guilt flickering in those bright blue eyes. “Sorry for the jersey chaser crack,” she confesses, tucking a strand of blonde hair behind her ear. “I figured you were just another one of Lincoln’s conquests.”

“Conquests?” I arch an eyebrow, my lips curling into a smirk despite myself. “Please. If anyone’s conquering anything around here, it’s me.”

“Touché,” she concedes with a wry grin, and for a moment, the tension between us seems to lift.

A hush hangs for a split second, like the calm before a storm. Then Graham’s voice slices through it, sharp as a knife. “You know what your problem is, Oakley? You stir up shit without thinking about the consequences. It’s not just Jeremiah’s life you’re complicating—it’s all of ours and it’s been that way since he—” Graham either runs out of steam or it’s Jeremiah’s glare that steals the words threatening to pour out.

Oakley’s face crumples, eyes glossing over with an unspoken hurt. The vulnerability in the way she’s looking at me clashes with the bright blue I’ve pegged as mischievous, and it hits me hard in the chest. I’m no stranger to masking pain with defiance, but watching her struggle is like catching my reflection in a cracked mirror.

“Do you want to finish that sentence?” Jeremiah explodes, crossing the room in two predatory strides to yank his brother up by the collar. His muscles bulge under his shirt, each fiber tight with barely restrained violence. My breath catches—there’s something raw and untamed about Jeremiah when he’s defending someone he cares about. If any of the Blackwood brothers could be considered sweet or wholesome looking, it would be him. He has a more innocent face than the other three, but clearly he inherited a good portion of the Blackwood temper.

Chaos unfurls around us, the kitchen transforming into a battlefield of egos and emotions. And there’s Penn, leaning back against the counter with that knowing smirk, drinking in the drama like it’s his morning coffee. He’s clearly getting a kick out of this domestic implosion, the bastard.

I can’t help but notice the way Jeremiah positions himself between Oakley and Graham, a human shield ready to take on whatever comes their way. A pang of… something flutters in my stomach. Envy? Concern? Hell, if I know. What I do know is there’s a depth to their connection, a story there waiting to be told.

“Should’ve sold tickets to this show,” Penn says loudly, tossing more bacon in his mouth and cackling when both Graham and Jeremiah snap their heads in his direction almost in unison to glare at him. But really, he’s not wrong. Who needs reality TV when you’ve got a front-row seat to the Blackwood family circus?

“Talk to her again like that, and I’ll fuck you up!” Jeremiah’s voice slashes through the tension-thick air, his words a raw, jagged edge. He’s all but shaking with fury, face contorted in a snarl that would give any sane person pause.

“I fucking wish you would try.” Graham tries to shake off his brother’s iron grip, his own anger flaring up like a match to gasoline.

Jeremiah pushes Graham against the wall with a thud that rattles the pots hanging above us. There’s a fire in his eyes, a blaze that could burn the whole damn house down if it escapes.

I lean against the cool fridge, arms crossed, watching the Blackwood brothers’ drama unfold, and it doesn’t escape me that Lincoln shadows me, moving to stand in front of me so that if his brother’s tumble my way, he’s a brick wall of a barrier. Part of me, the darker, twisted part, is glad that Oakley’s drama has jerked the spotlight away from my own tangled mess.

Graham’s hands ball into fists, knuckles whitening as he stares down Jeremiah. “She’s had you whipped since high school,” he spits out, the accusation sharp enough to cut.

“Shut your mouth about things you don’t understand,” Jeremiah growls, towering over Graham, every line of his body screaming protectiveness and possession.

The clench and release of their jaws, the low, guttural sounds of male aggression is wild to witness up close.

“Boys, please.” Oakley’s voice quivers, barely audible over the testosterone-charged standoff, but it’s enough to make Jeremiah’s head snap toward her, his expression softening just a fraction.

“Stay out of it, Oak,” Graham warns, speaking to her the way I’d expect an older brother to chide a younger sibling.

And just like that, the momentary ceasefire shatters. Jeremiah lunges at Graham, hand cocked back, ready to defend Oakley’s honor with more than just heated words. But before a punch can be thrown, Penn’s chuckle cuts through the chaos like a knife through butter.

“If you guys played football like you fight over absolutely nothing, St. Charles would be undefeated,” he drawls, clearly entertained.

“Don’t!” Lincoln snaps, backing up, so he’s pressing me against the firm steel appliance, shielding me from whatever’s about to happen.

“Get over here, I’ll give you something to laugh about,” Graham grunts out, and before I realize what’s going on, both Graham and Jeremiah stop fighting each other and turn to Penn who’s still cackling as he races around the counter in the center of the kitchen, heading for the door with his brothers in tow.

Lincoln turns to glower down at me, the protectiveness gone from his eyes and replaced with exasperation. “You couldn’t just wait in my room, could you?”

I pat him on the arm in the most condescending way when I say, “I wouldn’t be in your kitchen if you would have let me stay in my dorm last night. This is your fault.” I skitter away from him before he can snatch me up and drag me back to his room and I take a seat at the counter where Oakley is trying to hide a snicker while she plates food.

“She’s easily amused. You’re not funny,” Lincoln says to me, taking a seat next to me. He picks up a pancake and bites half of it off with no syrup, like a complete psychopath.

“She’s a little funny,” Oakley says with a bright smile, and offers him the plate of bacon, which he begrudgingly snatches out of her hand.

Chapter 19

Lincoln

“Blackwood, my office. Now.” Coach’s voice booms from the doorway, his head poking out like a battle-hardened general. I’m up on my feet before the last syllable dies in the air, the heavy thud of my cleats against the locker room floor resonating with a rhythm.

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