Page 59 of Wicked Fury

“Damn you,” I breathe out, the words lost in the darkness of the room.

He chuckles, the sound resonating with a hint of genuine amusement, I concede, and the truth of it settles heavily in my chest.

“Sleep,” he commands abruptly, and I hate that part of me wants to obey, to let the exhaustion take me under.

“Only because I want to,” I say, surrendering to the inevitable, letting the darkness pull me down into its depths, where the lines between love and hate blur into nothingness.

Chapter 24

Lincoln

Iwake up with the kind of headache that feels like a marching band stomping through my skull. A disorienting fog of sleep clinging to the edges of my consciousness. The sheets are twisted around my legs, evidence of last night with my stepsister. Sunlight is already barging in uninvited, making my eyes squint against its brightness. My hand shoots out, searching for a warm body that should be there, skin soft under my calloused fingers. But the bed is cold, empty except for me, and it hits me—I untied Iris hours ago.

“Fuck,” I mutter, dragging a hand down my face. She had that damn class, the one she never shuts up about, always scribbling notes like they’re her lifeline. I can still feel the ghost of her against me, the way her body arched, the desperate sounds that filled my room.

The room is silent now, suffocatingly so, and I throw the covers off in a hurry. Sunlight slices through the blinds—too bright, too real. Why is daytime always so fucking chipper? Just like Jeremiah’s little pet, Oakley. He’s got a weird ass hero complex when it comes to her. He needs to let that shit go; besties with her brother doesn’t mean he’s gotta be her big brother since Royce fucked off and disappeared.

I stretch, feeling every damn muscle protest, a reminder of last night’s outburst. Anger coils in my stomach, still fresh, a snarling beast that refuses to be tamed.

“Son of a bitch,” I hiss, rolling my shoulders to release some of the tension. Images from yesterday flash behind my eyelids—the rage, the broken glass, the red-hot feeling of losing control. It’s all still there, simmering beneath the surface, waiting to erupt again at the slightest provocation.

I stumble to the bathroom, the chill of the tile against my bare feet grounding me back to reality. The mirror greets me with a reflection I barely recognize; eyes burning with an intensity that’s become all too familiar. There’s something raw there—a need for chaos, a desire to consume and be consumed.

“Get your shit together, Linc,” I growl at my reflection, the smirk on my lips failing to reach those eyes. I crank the shower on, steam billowing out, beckoning me into its scalding embrace, and I answer. Water cascades over me, each drop a fleeting graze, but it’s not her touch. It’s never enough.

The heat sears away the remnants of sleep. I scrub my skin, as though I could wash away the frustration, the obsession, the fucking desire that claws at my insides.

“Focus,” I command myself, even as my mind wanders back to her—those eyes that see too damn much, her full lips curved in that challenging smirk. I’m consumed by the need to possess her.

She’s mine, no matter what twisted game we’re playing, no matter how deep we spiral into this obsession.

Mine.

I dress quickly, yanking on jeans and a fitted black t-shirt that does nothing to hide the ink on my arm or the muscles from years of football and working out. The cross around my neck feels heavy today, a mockery of a faith I don’t practice. I’m not looking for salvation—I’m too far gone for that—but maybe, just maybe, I enjoy the blasphemy of it all.

“Another day in paradise,” I sneer at my reflection, grabbing my wallet and keys off the dresser. The leather feels cool against my palm, and I can’t help and think this is the only thing not burning hot in my life right now.

The house is quiet as I move through it, no doubt my brothers are either still sleeping or already gone for the day.

The garage greets me with a hollow silence as I step inside, the dim light revealing a space too fucking empty. The Range Rover, big and black and mine, isn’t squatting in its usual spot. “You’ve got to be kidding me,” I mutter, my voice bouncing off the concrete walls, mocking me.

I rake a hand through my damp dark hair, droplets cascading down my neck. The image of the car outside, just beyond the door, floods back. I can almost smell the burnt rubber, feel the steering wheel beneath my white-knuckled grip. I’d parked the damn thing right there in the driveway after coming back from the campus.

“Failed fucking drug test,” I growl into the nothingness, the memory igniting a fresh wave of anger. My pulse hammers in my ears. It’s all noise, fury, the taste of bile on my tongue.

Walking out the side door of the garage, I turn the corner, putting myself right in the driveway and my car. But then I stop dead—at the sight before me. My windshield is cracked, headlights busted, dents all along the body. I move closer, visibly shaking with anger as I notice the deep grooves carved into the paint.

“Fuck,” slips from between clenched teeth, the word as dark and heavy as I see the carnage that used to be my pristine ass vehicle. Iris. It has to be her doing—a payback that cuts deep. She fucking did this to spite me, and I know she’s gotta be looking so fucking smug right now, sitting in class picturing what she’s done. Thinking she’s got the upper hand.

“Let’s see what daddy is going to think about this,” I mutter, my mind churning with how I’m going to blow it all up for her especially with daddy dearest.

With a snarl curling my lip, I pull out my phone, thumb jabbing at the security app icon with more force than necessary. I’m determined to catch her, to see that look wiped clean off when I confront her. “Gotcha,” I breathe as the feed comes up, ready to savor her caught-in-the-act moment.

But what I see isn’t what I expect. There’s Iris, alright, but she’s just... walking away. No gloating, no triumphant stride. Just her usual march toward class, green eyes glancing at the damage before moving past, utterly indifferent to my car. Confusion mixes with my anger, an unwelcome feeling that leaves a sour taste in my mouth.

“Son of a—” The words die on my lips. If it wasn’t her, then who? My gaze snaps back to the screen, scanning for clues, for anything that might explain this. But all I’m left with is the sight of her retreating form and the nagging sensation that I’ve misjudged the situation. My hand clenches around the phone.

My thumb swipes furiously, rewinding through hours of darkness captured by the motionless eye of the security camera. The screen glows as I hunt for some sign of life in the inky time-stamped corners of the footage.

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