Page 49 of Wicked Fury

“Helping me move?” My voice rises, incredulous and sharp as shattered glass. “Are you serious? You know I’d have to put in a formal request to move and I never did that.”

“Hey, just passing on what I heard,” she replies dismissively, waving a hand as if shooing away a particularly annoying fly. “Maybe check with Lincoln. I’m sure he can tell you where your stuff is.”

“Fantastic advice. Gold star for you,” I sneer, my sarcasm dripping like acid. I storm out, already dialing Lincoln’s number. The golden boy quarterback who gets his kicks pushing my buttons, and I’m about to push every single one of his.

The phone rings one time and then goes immediately to his voicemail. His voice, smug and taunting, grazes my senses. “You’ve reached the spawn of Satan. Sorry I missed your call, angel. You know where to find me.”

“Damn you, Lincoln,” I mutter, envisioning his annoying ass smirk, that infuriating glint in his eyes. My blood boils, every cell screaming for a confrontation. He fucking changed his voicemail to irritate me.

The beep sounds like a starting pistol, and I launch into my tirade, words spilling out hot and fast. “Lincoln, you better move every single one of my things back or hell will seem like a vacation spot compared to what I’ll unleash on you.”

My thumb hovers over the ‘end call’ button before jabbing it with more force than necessary. I can almost feel the tension crackling through the air, the heat of anger settling deep within me, promising an explosion of raw emotion yet to come.

My fingers fly over the phone’s keyboard with a speed that mirrors the tumult in my chest. Each tap is a jab, each word a bullet, aiming straight for Lincoln Blackwood’s ego.

You think you're cute, stealing my stuff? I’m not moving into your room so you can feel like you got one over on your mom by fucking her husband’s daughter.

Seconds tick by, each one heavy with the brewing storm, until his reply lights up my screen, mocking in its brevity.

Lincoln

Angel don’t be mad

My lips curl into a snarl as I read his words. That smug bastard. With a few deft swipes, I edit his contact info, letting my scorn write itself out. ‘Satan’s Spawn’ now graces my contacts list—a fitting title for the thorn in my side.

“I’m going to kill him,” I mutter to myself, the scent of my own frustration filling the air around me like smoke. The sight of his nickname on my screen is a small victory, but it ignites a spark that burns hotter than my lingering desire. It’s a reminder that I won’t be played with.

I double check my backpack and I’m thankful that the textbooks I need are inside and not in a storage locker in the basement of the Blackwood mansion. Lincoln is in for the fight of his life if he thinks he’s going to keep this bullshit up. Do I feel anything for him? Yes, and I fucking hate that. But I’m not willing to be jerked around just because he has moments of protectiveness that make me feel some sort of way. I shove my rage for Lincoln aside because Nicole’s waiting, and I’m already late for our tutoring session.

I shoulder my bag. The session can’t wait, even if my life looks like a tornado swept through it thanks to Lincoln and his football goons. What does he think is going to come from this? He makes his mommy mad and then I’m left to pick up the pieces and figure out how to get all my shit back to my dorm. I know my father won’t be helping me with that when he finds out what’s been happening between Lincoln and me.

The campus air bites at my cheeks as I march toward the library, the chill mirroring the cold fury in my chest. A frustration so tangible I could spit it out, I swear. When I push through the doors to the study room, it’s empty—save for the scent of old books and lemon cleaning spray. I really fucking love the smell of this place. I drop into a chair, tapping my foot against the floor as I turn my phone on silent so I don’t get scolded by one of the older librarians who I’d venture to say think this place is more sacred than the cathedral on campus. I see that Lincoln has sent another text, probably just baiting me, trying to rile me up more than he already has. I choose peace and I don’t open it because the last thing I need is to be on the front page of the St. Charles Gazette for throwing a bookshelf out a window in sheer rage. Priorities, Iris. Lincoln can stew in his own arrogance for another hour and wonder what I’m plotting.

Nicole is late, which isn’t like her. She’s the kind of person who probably came out of the womb with an itinerary. When the door finally creaks open, it’s like a scene straight out of a horror flick.

“Jesus, Nicole…” My words trail off as I take in her haggard appearance. The Nicole I know is a walking advertisement for valley girls, but not today. Today she’s a portrait of someone who fought a demon and barely made it back.

“I’m so sorry I’m late. I got held up with a long-winded professor,” she says, voice as brittle as the chipped nail polish on her fingers. A weak excuse hanging in the air between us, pathetic and unconvincing.

The slight exposed skin on her arms peeking out from her shirt is a canvas of light blues and purples, a sickening rainbow of hurt that looks like she’s tried to cover them with makeup. I see the way she winces when she moves, the faint grimace she thinks I don’t catch.

“You look like you’ve been through hell,” I say, unable to keep the edge out of my tone. Anger simmers under my skin, not just for Lincoln now, but for whoever did this to her. “Are you okay? What happened?”

“Let’s just start the session, okay?” Nicole brushes past me, her scent a mix of floral body spray and something metallic and I imagine it’s something like fear sweating through her pores.

“Um, okay,” I relent, though every instinct screams to press her, to peel back the layers of whatever nightmare she’s trying to hide.

As we dive into the material, I can’t help but notice the way she tugs her sleeves down over her wrists, as if she’s holding herself together by threads. I’m no stranger to pain, to the need to conceal scars—but these? These are fresh, and I know she doesn’t want to talk about it, but with everything I’ve been through with my dad, I can’t stop reeling over it.

Nicole fumbles, her hands shaking, trying to get her pen out of her bag and I can’t handle it anymore. “Nicole,” I blurt out, my eyes raking over her like a detective scoping a crime scene. “Who did this?”

She winces, that slight curl of her lip betraying the pain she’s trying to mask with a thin layer of bravado. She’s a mess—her usual poise crumbled like the facade of an old building after a quake.

“Wrong place, wrong time,” she mutters, her voice threaded with an attempt at nonchalance. But the way her gaze flickers away tells me there’s a whole novel of shit she’s not spilling.

“I’m not buying that.” My tone hardens, snark laced with concern. “You can’t just show up looking like you’ve gone ten rounds with a heavyweight and expect me not to ask questions.”

Her shrug is almost imperceptible, but I catch it. “I’m fine, Iris. Really.” Her words are hollow, the facade of ‘everything’s peachy’ about as convincing as a wolf in sheep’s clothing.

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