Page 56 of Wicked Fury

“Really, angel? That’s mature,” Lincoln’s voice drips with disdain, but there’s an undercurrent of something else—surprise, maybe even intrigue—as he watches the destruction unfold. He’s never seen me lose control, especially not with rage being my outlet.

“Shut up!” The words explode from my mouth as I sweep his framed photos off the dresser, glass shattering on impact with the hardwood floor. “You want to blame me for something? I might as well do something to be blamed for!”

His smirk falters for a moment, replaced by a look I can’t quite decipher. He’s not used to seeing me like this, unhinged and unapologetic. Good. Let him see all of it—the anger, the pain, the real me that I keep buried beneath layers of perfection that are all a farce.

“Your little performance doesn’t change anything,” he says coolly, but his gaze is locked onto mine, searching.

“Performance?” I scoff, my breath coming in ragged gasps. “This isn’t a show, Lincoln. This is me being sick to death of everything!” My voice breaks, and suddenly I’m not just angry; I’m drowning in a sea of hurt.

I’m unraveling, the threads of composure I hold on to so tightly fraying before both of our eyes. I swipe at the hot tears that betray me, hating their warmth on my cheeks.

He’s silent now, watching me. There’s no satisfaction in the way he’s looking at me, no smug superiority—just a flicker of something like understanding. He sees me, really sees me, not just the facade I put up to push people like him away. The storm inside me rages on, but for a moment, amidst the ruin and the revelations, there’s a twisted sort of peace between us.

I don’t even see it coming. One second, the air is heavy with my confessions, and the next, Lincoln’s hand is vise-like around my throat, his anger a tangible force as he hauls me up and throws me onto the bed. The world tilts, a blur of motion and flaring temper. His weight pins me down, and I’m suddenly aware of every line of his athletic form pressing against mine.

“Lincoln!” My voice comes out strangled, but there’s no fear in it, just fury. The bed shifts, molding beneath us, a soft counterpoint to the hard lines of his body caging me in.

His hand releases my throat for just a moment before he draws his knife from nowhere, silver glinting ominously in the dim light. My heart doesn’t skip a beat, doesn’t falter. It pounds with a dark, wild rhythm that feels more like anticipation than dread.

He restrains my hands above my head, the blade’s edge cool and threatening against the vulnerable skin of my throat. “Is this the monster you wanted to play with, angel?” His smirk is a challenge, his eyes two dark pools of malice.

“Cut me if you want,” I spit back, my tone dripping with scorn. “I’m already scarred, Lincoln. A little more pain won’t change anything.” I fix him with a glare that dares him to do his worst, my eyes fixed on the only person who has ever pushed me to break this way. I’m unflinching and I see that he’s surprised by that.

The way he’s looking at me could be laughable if we weren’t drenched in tension thick enough to slice through. He didn’t expect this—my resistance, my unwillingness to cower or beg. This isn’t the reaction he wanted, and I can tell by the way his grip falters, just for a fraction of a second, that I’ve gotten under his skin.

“Come on then, stepbrother,” I taunt, feeling the edge of the blade press just a hint more insistent against my flesh, a silent promise of what could come. “Do it.”

The air between us crackles with something fierce and dangerous, a folly of power where neither of us is willing to back down. His breath fans hot against my cheeks, smelling faintly of mint and the dark scent of his fury. I can hear the ragged edge in his breathing, a testament to his own inner turmoil.

And still, I stare him down, daring him to cross a line I’m not sure either of us can come back from.

Chapter 23

Iris

The rope—a snake of twisted fiber—slithers across my wrists, tightening as Lincoln secures each knot with precision. “Bought these just for you,” he murmurs, his voice a smug caress against my entire body. The ropes chafe gently; they’re soft, meant not to bruise. I can’t help thinking that this detail is deliberate, a paradoxical gesture of care in a situation devoid of any.

“Should I be flattered?” My voice trembles with anger and anticipation, the taste of defiance thick on my tongue. I watch as he steps back, his stare flicking over my bound form with a pride that’s both infuriating and intoxicating.

“Flattered? You should be honored.” His smirk widens as he observes the aftermath of his handiwork, like an artist admiring a particularly challenging piece. I don’t think he’s exaggerating. Lincoln Blackwood is not the type of man to consider anyone except for himself, so I don’t doubt that choosing something for my comfort was a major milestone for him.

His fingers flit back into view, gripping the knife with an ease that sends a fresh shiver down my spine. He slices through fabric like it’s nothing. The whisper of clothing parting under the blade a stark contrast to the heavy thud of my heartbeat in my ears. My breath hitches; heat races across my exposed skin, chased by the cool touch of metal trailing down my collarbone, over my stomach, circling around my navel.

“Lincoln,” I gasp, not entirely sure if I’m pleading or daring him to continue. The handle of the knife teases along the sensitive flesh of my thighs, edging closer to territory that betrays my body’s treacherous response. My hips betray me, tilting up involuntarily toward the cold, hard promise of more.

“Shhh...” he whispers, almost tenderly, his breath a hot contrast to the chilled steel. It’s a battle within me, a storm of need clashing with the fierce urge to fight back, to not give him the satisfaction of seeing how his touch unravels me.

“You made your point, Lincoln.” The words come out strangled, half-lost in a moan as the metal glides beneath the lace of my underwear, teasing the edge before cutting through the last barrier between us.

“I don’t think I have. Not yet.” He chuckles darkly, leaning close enough that I can feel the vibration of his laughter against my skin. “You’re still speaking coherently, and you haven’t even cum all over my cock yet.”

My heart slams against my ribs, fighting for escape. But it’s not fear—it’s something far more dangerous, something that teeters on the precipice of desire and sets my blood aflame. And even as I lie here, exposed and at his mercy, there’s a power within me that refuses to be quenched.

Each involuntary shiver and arch speaks of a desire I’m loath to admit. Sweat slicks my skin, the air heavy with the musky scent of lust and defiance. The dim light catches on Lincoln’s smirk, that infuriating, smug twist of his lips that’s been etched into every heated moment we’ve shared.

“Even tied up, you think you can deny me?” I taunt him, the words sharp as shattered glass. My heart pounds an erratic rhythm, betraying the conflict raging within me.

His eyes lock onto mine, a predator captivated by the challenge in its prey’s gaze. “You think this is about what you want?” His voice lowers to a growl, the sound scratching along my nerves like sandpaper. It’s raw, it’s primal, and damn it all, it stirs something deep inside me.

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