Page 60 of Wicked Fury

And then, there he is—a shadow in the grainy glow, masked and moving with purpose. My ears pound in anger as I watch this intruder, this trespasser, defile what’s mine. Anger coils tight in my gut, hotter and more bitter than the coffee I never got to drink this morning.

“Who the hell are you?” I mutter, though the question is pointless; the guy’s face is obscured, his identity shielded by anonymity. But the way he moves—there’s something familiar in it, a memory that scratches at the back of my mind, just out of reach.

I lock my phone with a click that sounds too loud in the quiet of the driveway and stalk around the side of the car. A curse escapes me as I take in the damage—words carved viciously into the paint; a message meant to scar. “Bitch” it reads, and something primal within me snarls at the claim.

“Jesus,” I breathe out, tracing the jagged letters with a fingertip. And then my eyes catch on the paint smeared across the window, red like blood in the early morning light. Recognition slams into me with the force of a tackle on the field—I know this script, these loops and lines marred by anger.

It’s the same as the words written on Iris’ damn wall the other night.

The realization hits me like a sucker punch, leaving a bitter taste of fear laced with possession. Someone targeted her, tried to break her, mark her like she’s theirs to toy with. Rage swirls with something darker, deeper—a fierce protectiveness that surges through my veins.

“Nobody fucks with what’s mine,” I growl under my breath, the words a vow of vengeance. Iris is mine. She’s my challenge, my chaos, my craving. We’re tangled together in a way only we understand.

And some masked coward thinks he can step between us? No, this isn’t how our story goes.

“Whoever you are,” I say to the empty air, my voice barely above a whisper but laced with lethal intent, “you just made a very dangerous enemy.”

I storm back into the house, full of fury, my heart rapidly hammering like it’s trying to break free. The air feels thicker inside, laced with the scent of morning coffee and lingering cologne—at least one of my fucking brothers is here and awake.

“Jeremiah!” I shout, my voice echoing through the halls, but there’s no answer from behind his closed door. It only fuels my impatience, the urgency clawing at my insides. I don’t have time for subtlety. With one swift kick, the door gives way, splintering near the lock.

“Jesus, Lincoln!” Jeremiah bolts upright in bed, his expression a mix of anger and surprise.

“Sorry for the wake-up call,” I sneer, my eyes narrowing as they land on Oakley, wrapped in the sheets next to him. “Just friends, my ass.”

“Get out,” I bark at her, the words sharp as the shards of wood scattered across the carpet. “We’re locking down.”

“Lincoln, calm down—” Jeremiah starts, rising to meet me, the tension between us crackling like static.

“Like hell I will!” My voice is a growl, the threat of violence simmering just beneath the surface. “Someone’s messing with Iris. They fucked up the Range, Jere, with the same damn writing.” I jab a finger toward the window.

“Fuck,” he mutters, his earlier irritation melting into concern. “Alright, Oakley, you need to stay here. You can’t leave this fucking house, you hear me?”

Oakley scrambles out of bed, clutching the sheet to her chest. Her wide eyes dart between us, sensing the danger even she can’t comprehend.

“Whatever’s going on, it’s bigger than I thought,” I say, the weight of my responsibility bearing down on me. “We need to be ready for anything.”

He’s standing now, shouldering his way into my personal bubble, chest puffed out like he’s ready to take on a bull.

“Lincoln, you can’t just barge in here and?—”

“Can’t I?” My voice slashes through his protests, sharp as the chill seeping into the room. “Seems I just did.”

He matches my glare, his own eyes spitting fire. He’s usually the calm one, but not when little Miss Muffet is involved. Right now, he’s a lit fuse, and I’m the match.

“Get your hands off me,” he growls, trying to shove past.

“Make me,” I sneer, and that’s all it takes. We’re a tangle of limbs and grunts, two brothers turned gladiators over a threat neither of us fully understand.

Our fight is a whirlwind of pent-up aggression, fists flying and connecting with soft thuds against flesh. The sound echoes, a dull rhythm in the early morning silence.

“Seriously?” Penn’s voice cuts through the chaos, ice-cold and dripping with sarcasm. “This is what I wake up to? Should’ve grabbed popcorn for the show.”

“Break it up, you idiots!” Graham’s voice booms, his hands gripping my shoulders and jerking me back. His strength is enough to pull mountains down, and suddenly I’m stumbling backward, gasping for air.

“Easy, big guy,” I rasp, trying to catch my breath, my chest heaving. “Just some brotherly love.”

“Brotherly stupidity, you mean,” Penn retorts, eyeing us like we’re unruly kids rather than grown men.

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