Page 53 of Wicked Fury

“Ready?” Graham’s standing over me, hands poised under the steel. I give him a tight-lipped smirk, because ready isn’t even a question; it’s my default setting.

“Always.”

The weight descends, a gravitational pull proving that I’m defying it with every fiber of muscle. One rep, two, then three. My arms push against the force, my thoughts locked on Iris and her twisted games.

“Come on, Linc, push!” Penn yells from somewhere to my right.

I grunt in response, my body obeying the primal call to exertion. But as the reps climb, so does the anger, transforming each lift into an act of contempt. Iris thinks she can corner me? I’ll show her what it means to be trapped.

“Easy, Lincoln,” Jeremiah chides from somewhere to my left. “You’re gonna bust a vein.”

“Or bust someone else’s face,” Penn mutters under his breath. I can hear the smirk in his voice without having to look.

“Wouldn’t be the first time,” I shoot back between grunts, forcing out another rep.

Graham’s hands hover near the bar, ready to catch it if my strength gives. But it doesn’t. It won’t. Not until I’ve exacted some semblance of revenge.

“Enough!” Jeremiah’s voice cuts through the grunts of the gym. He’s at my side now, prying the bar from my determined grip and racking it with a clang that resonates through my bones.

“Like hell it is,” I growl, but the bar is already racked. I sit up, chest heaving, eyes blazing.

Jeremiah steps forward, a bottle of some post-workout recovery concoction in hand. “Drink,” he orders, thrusting it at me.

My lips part, but before I can speak?—

“Nah, not here bro,” Penn cuts in, eyes scanning the space. His gaze lingers on a cluster of underclassmen nearby. “Walls have fucking ears, and some of these boys are more loyal to their gossip than to their girlfriends.”

I snatch the drink, downing it in one go. It’s sour, stings on the way down—like swallowing my pride. We need privacy for this conversation. A plan forms, and I stand, raged barely contained, and energy just waiting to be expelled. The heavy weights weren’t enough. I need to make someone crumble.

“Let’s bounce,” I say, voice low, a command more than a suggestion. My brothers gather their gear, understanding unspoken. We move as one unit—tight, impenetrable, ready for war.

“Yo, where’s Ramsey?” I snap, scanning the gym for my cousin’s familiar lean figure, but he’s nowhere to be found.

“Kid bailed right after your ‘call to arms’ text,” Graham says, his voice dry as he towels off his neck. He throws the towel into his own bag, a smirk playing on his lips. “Guess your hacker task was more appealing than leg day.”

“Good,” I mutter. At least one of the Blackwood brood doesn’t challenge every damn word out of my mouth.

“Probably halfway to hacking the Pentagon by now.” Jeremiah chuckles, slinging his bag over his shoulder, while Penn’s laughter is a low rumble.

“You sure you didn’t doctor your birth certificate? Because I’m pretty sure I should be the eldest here,” Penn teases, grinning at me with brotherly insolence.

“Keep dreamin’, little brother.” My retort comes quick, sharp, but there’s no heat behind it.

“Let’s get this done,” I say, jaw clenched, the taste of revenge bitter on my tongue as we stride out of the gym doors.

I can almost taste the retribution, a flavor that curls around my tongue like moonshine. My phone buzzes—a text from Ramsey, no doubt. It’s got to be the dirt I need, the sweet evidence that’ll bury her lies six feet under.

I swipe the screen with a flick of my thumb, eyes scanning the message that’s supposed to be my lifeline. But instead of salvation, all I find is a goddamn punch to the gut.

Rams

Linc, she’s clean. Nothing. No evidence linking Iris to the test. When she’s not with you she’s in class. Sorry man.

My vision blurs red. Clean? That can't be right. Ramsey must've missed something; he has to have.

What the fuck do you mean nothing?!

I snap back, fingers pounding the screen.

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