Page 50 of Wicked Fury

I bite back a retort, my own problems clawing at the edges of my mind. The empty room, my vanished life—it all fades to static as I stare at the girl in front of me. She’s fine my ass. But if she wants to play it close to the chest, who am I to pry it open? When I was younger, I was questioned before about bruises, scars that were accidentally exposed and I never told anyone. It was embarrassing, and I was afraid of the fallout if anyone confronted my father.

I concede, letting the subject drop—for now. We settle into the books spread before us, but my thoughts stray, dancing around the bruises that mar her skin and the secrets she’s so desperate to keep locked away. I’m here for Nicole. Even if she’s not ready to let me in, I’ll be damned if I let her take on her demons alone.

The silence between us stretches, taut like a wire ready to snap. “Stop looking at me like you’re disappointed in me. He’s really powerful on this campus and I can’t risk the wrath that would rain down on me,” Nicole finally says.

My voice is steady, but there’s an edge of urgency I can’t quite mask when I tell her, “We should go to the cops?—”

Her laughter cuts through the air, bitter and sharp as a shattered bottle. “To the police? And say what, exactly? That I got some bruises?” Nicole’s eyes flash; there’s steel beneath that frail exterior.

“Or someone could—” I start, then clamp my mouth shut. Offering to have my psychotic stepbrother and his friends kick ass on her behalf seems ridiculous when not that long ago I was ready to set fire to Lincoln’s world. I hate the fact that my knee-jerk reaction when I feel lost is to call on him.

“Look, Iris.” Her tone brooks no argument, yet it’s the tremble in her hands that screams louder than words. “I don’t need a savior. I’ve got this.”

“Nicole—” The name feels heavy on my tongue, weighted with all the things I want to say, all the fears I want to soothe.

“Stop,” she snaps, and suddenly the room feels colder, smaller. “Just…stop.” She wraps her arms around herself, a fortress of flesh and bone.

I lean back, my mind a whirlwind of frustration and concern. “Alright, Nicole.” I keep my voice light, injecting a bit of my usual snark. “You’re the boss, but remember—I’m just one text away.”

I shuffle the flashcards, my fingers brushing the coarse edges, the scrape of paper against skin grounding me in the here and now. Nicole’s voice, usually as clear as a bell, wavers today, notes of discord humming beneath each word.

“Supply and demand,” she mumbles, staring down at her own set of cards, the purple crescents under her eyes betraying nights stolen by something other than studying.

“Okay, but can demand ever really be satisfied?” I quip, but my heart’s not in it. The smirk that usually tugs at my lips feels heavy, out of place. I lean forward, elbows braced on the tabletop, the wood cool under my forearms. My attention slips past the dog-eared index cards to Nicole’s throat.

“Jesus,” I breathe out, the word slipping like a sinner in church. There they are, angry red welts peeking above her collar, makeup smeared and failing to cover evidence of hands that had no right. My stomach clenches, bile burning the back of my throat.

“Nicole…” It starts as a whisper, a ghost of sound barely shuffling through the space between us.

“Stop looking at me like that,” she snaps, her hand flying up to shield her neck, but it’s too late. I’ve seen the marks that scream of violence, of a story she’s not telling.

“Like what? Like I’m worried about you?” The bite in my words is a shield against the horror twisting inside me.

“Like you’re about to do something stupid,” she retorts, her entire vibe challenging, daring me to push further. She rolls her eyes, the bruise on her cheekbone shifting with the motion. “Can we get back to economics, or do you want to keep playing detective?”

“Detective sounds very thrilling, but sure, let’s talk about the exhilarating world of fiscal policy,” I grumble, but my mind isn’t on the words. It’s on the shadows lurking behind her strained smile, the secrets etched into her skin.

“Or let’s focus on acing this exam,” she deflects.

“Right. Super easy,” I roll my eyes, but I file away the image of her bruised neck, the marks hidden and yet so blatantly there.

The session drags on; the clock ticking away seconds, minutes, hours of pretense. But I can’t shake the sight, the smell of fear clinging to her like a second skin, the silence screaming louder than any cry for help.

“Let’s call it,” I say finally, standing abruptly, my chair screeching against the hardwood floor—a sound of protest, an echo of the frustration boiling within me.

“Finally,” she mutters, gathering her things, but her hands are shaking, betraying the nonchalance she aims for.

“Text me when you get home,” I command, more than suggest, my voice brooking no argument.

“Will do, boss,” she says, but there’s gratitude in her eyes, a flicker of relief that I’m still here, still fighting for her even when she pushes me away.

“Good.” I watch her leave, the door closing with a soft click behind her, leaving me alone with the ghosts of our conversation.

I’ll find out what happened to her, but until then I’m going to deal with Satan’s spawn himself.

Chapter 21

Lincoln

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