Page 6 of Wicked Fury

Iris’s fingers dance along the satin ribbon, her movements stealthy, almost delicate. I zero in on her, slicing through the monotony of the ceremony like a blade. The priest drones on, but the real sermon is in Iris’ hands. She plucks something small and white from the folds, hidden until now.

“Interesting,” I mutter under my breath, my voice lost in the hymns and hollow amens.

She glances around, ensuring no prying eyes catch her little act. But she doesn’t see me—I’m a master at this game, invisible when I choose to be. Her fingers tremble ever so slightly, betraying her cool facade.

“Got secrets, little sis?” I muse internally, leaning forward, the curiosity gnawing at me, chasing away the boredom.

A silk pocket square appears next, pristine, and white against her flushed skin. She dabs at her eyes, the epitome of an elated bridesmaid. The priest’s words melt into nothingness as I tune everything but her out.

Then, with a grace that contradicts her shaky hands, Iris slips the pill onto her tongue, swallowing down her secret with practiced ease. My interest, already piqued, skyrockets. What kind of demons are you keeping at bay?

The church falls silent for a moment, and all I can hear is the sound of my own heart racing with anticipation.

The final chords of the wedding music bleed into applause, signaling the end of this farcical ceremony. I should be striding out of here, back to my reality where I’m in control. But no, I stay seated, an anchor in a sea of standing bodies. My eyes narrow, focus sharpens on my new stepsister as she smiles her way back up the aisle—her face a serene mask.

“Let’s see what else today has in store for you,” I murmur under my breath, a predatory grin curling at the edge of my lips.

She doesn’t glance my way, and it’s just as well. The vision of her unraveled self is imprinted on my mind, and I want to watch it play out firsthand. The thought of witnessing any ensuing chaos tickles something eerie within me, the thrill of it all about to unfold.

“Lincoln, the reception?” Margo’s voice cuts in, but I wave her off with a dismissive flick of my hand, my gaze never leaving the retreating figure of Iris.

“Wouldn’t miss it for the world,” I reply, the words laced with a sarcasm only I can appreciate.

As the crowd filters out, murmurs and the clink of heels on marble, I replay that night with Iris. She was fierce, and now is reduced to smoldering embers. Yet here she stands, woven into the fabric of my life without warning or consent.

“From fling to family,” I chuckle lowly, the sound lost in the commotion. “Has a nice ring to it, doesn’t it?”

I rise, taking my time to saunter out, relishing the anticipation of the reception. What will it be like to uncover the layers, to peel back the facade of the perfect bridesmaid? It’s a challenge I welcome—a chance to assert my control over her, to reignite the spark and fan it into an inferno under my terms.

“Careful, Iris,” I whisper as I exit the church doors, my voice blending with the breeze. “Your new stepbrother loves to play with fire.”

Chapter 2

Iris

Iperch on the edge of a gilded chair, every muscle in my body wound tight. My father’s wedding reception unfolds around me like some opulent fever dream—flowers and silk draping on every surface, fairy lights twinkling above like captive stars. The scent of peonies assaults my nostrils, sickly sweet, mingling with the rich aroma of haute cuisine that makes my stomach churn.

My fingers tap an anxious rhythm against the chilled champagne flute, its contents untouched. I can’t afford to dull my senses anymore that I already have, especially not with Lincoln here, and not with so much at stake. His presence is a live wire under my skin, igniting sparks every time our eyes meet across the room.

My brand-new stepbrother is all smirks and intensity, dressed in a tailored suit that looks like it’s been poured onto his athletic frame. It’s the kind of look that screams ‘bad boy cleans up nice’, and I hate how it sends a thrill down my spine. A contrast to my carefully chosen dress—a vintage chiffon and lace number, demure and perfect on the outside, just like Daddy dearest expects. But underneath? The scars, the nipple piercings, the locket heavy with memories—I’m a walking contradiction. A damn caricature of the perfect daughter.

And Lincoln knows some of my secrets. He knows the real me, the one who lost control last night, who let him see the raw, unchecked desire. Who snorted lines off mirrored surfaces and fucked him like he was oxygen, and I was suffocating.

The memory alone sets my blood on fire, but fear douses it just as quickly. If he spills our secrets, if he lets slip the taste of rebellion that lingers on my lips, it’s game over. My father would never forgive the tarnish on his perfect little girl, his future lawyer, his legacy.

So here I sit, forced to play statue while my insides riot, pretending not to notice the way Lincoln looks through the crowd, sharp and predatory. Every cell in my body screams to bolt, to escape before he decides to shatter this delicate illusion. But I stay rooted, because running is not what perfect girls do. They smile, they nod, and they damn well keep their skeletons locked up tight.

The clinking of fine china and the low hum of classical music can’t drown out the erratic thrumming of my heart. A sea of black tuxes and shimmering gowns swirls around me, a representation of high society in full swing.

My father stands at the head of the room, his laughter booming over the string quartet. He’s in his element, surrounded by admirers hanging onto his every word. A quick glance in his direction sends a wave of nausea washing over me. His pristine image of me, his academic protégé—what a joke. If he only knew about the white lines that kept me company last night, or the secret desires unleashed in dark corners, he’d disintegrate. I swallow down the bile rising in my throat. His fury would be biblical.

Sharp breath in, hold it, let it out slow. Who am I kidding? I’m teetering on the edge of a razor blade, trying to balance his expectations with the weight of my own needs. The pressure churns inside me, a relentless storm threatening to break through my carefully constructed facade. I blink away the sting in my eyes; perfect girls don’t cry, not in public.

I can’t help it; my gaze flicks back to Lincoln, hunting for some clue as to what he’s thinking. But he’s a damn fortress, all hard lines and cold stares. His glare pins me to my seat like a butterfly in a display case. For a moment, we’re the only two people in this gilded cage, connected by an invisible thread spun from secrets and skin.

“Control yourself,” I mutter under my breath, tasting the anger in my words. My hand ghosts over the locket at my neck, the one piece of my mother I carry with me always. It grounds me, reminds me of who I’m doing this for—her dream, her sacrifice. Not just for the man who expects the world and gives nothing back but disappointment.

Lincoln’s smirk is a silent challenge, daring me to look away first. But I won’t give him the satisfaction. I’m a Shelby, and I don’t back down—not from him, not from anyone.

---