Page 66 of Wicked Fury

“Hey, Iris. You okay?” Oakley’s voice cuts through my turbulent thoughts. I spin to see Jeremiah, Oakley, and Penn clustered together like a trio of strength amid the chaos. Jeremiah’s hand rests on Oakley’s shoulder, a silent vow of protection. Penn paces too, his brow furrowed in concentration, his movements a mirror of my own restless energy.

“Thanks for letting me stay,” I say, though my voice sounds more like a challenge than gratitude. It’s my default setting—snark over softness.

Oakley meets my gaze, her crystal blue eyes offering a glimpse of solace. She smiles at me, and it’s like someone threw a blanket over me—it doesn’t fix everything, but for a second, it makes you forget the cold.

“Lincoln would murder everyone in this house if his brothers didn’t look after you,” she says softly. “We’re all in this mess together, aren’t we?”

I lean against the wall, pretending the cool, intricate wallpaper soothes the heat under my skin. It doesn’t. I look from Penn’s restless strides to Jeremiah and Oakley. Jeremiah is like a shadow to her, his presence a silent promise of safety, green eyes scanning the room as if he could ward off any threat with just a look.

Oakley, bless her heart, is the epitome of warmth in this mausoleum of a home. She moves with a subtle grace, her hand reaching for a wayward curl that falls over her eye—Jeremiah’s there before she is, tucking it gently behind her ear almost as if he’s subconsciously aware of every single aspect of the girl next to him. There’s a tenderness in the gesture that makes something twist uncomfortably inside me because it makes me think of Lincoln.

I hold Lincoln’s phone and keys in my hands and decide that I need something to keep my mind off of his absence. Spiraling right now is not going to help any of us or bring Lincoln home sooner. Observing them more closely now, the air around Jeremiah and Oakley crackles with an unspoken energy. They share glances loaded with meaning, their hands brushing in passing—a touch here, a look there—and it’s like watching a private conversation unfold without words. The subtlety of their intimacy is lost on me.

But it’s the way Oakley laughs, soft and melodic, that pulls at my attention. Her laughter kind of sounds like the old wind chimes outside of the library my mother used to take me to.

“Seems like you’ve got your own guardian angel,” I say to her, cocking an eyebrow.

“Or a very dedicated gargoyle,” Oakley replies with a playful spark in her crystal blue eyes. There’s an allure to their connection, something raw and real that stirs a longing I refuse to name.

When Oakley gets up to go over to the bar, my curiosity claws its way out despite the turmoil brewing inside me. I decide to do what I always do, shove down what’s really worrying me right now, and focus on something else. I follow her, watching as she sets out four whiskey glasses. I see the way she hesitates on the third and fourth glasses, biting her bottom lip before she looks up at me and says, “I’m used to making these for the guys.” Oakley slides those glasses away from the other two and I realize then that they’re for Lincoln and Graham who aren’t with us for obvious reasons. She pulls another one from under the bar and asks, “What do you like?”

I wave her off, “I’m okay, thanks, though.” Oakley just smiles and then she’s at work, putting tiny balls of ice in one glass and mixing liquor like it’s an order she’s been making her whole life.

“Don’t forget my umbrella,” Penn yells, which immediately results in Jeremiah looking up from his phone and smacking Penn on the back of his head like it’s something he’s done his whole life.

“I would never forget your umbrella, Penn. Or your ice,” she calls over her shoulder and Penn grins at Jeremiah who is not even trying to hide the fact that he’s trying to glare holes into his brother’s head. Presumably instead of murder, Jeremiah settles for yanking Penn’s baseball hat around to face forward and yanks it down over his brow bone roughly. Oakley giggles, but it’s a soft, demure sound as she shakes her head and adds a bright orange drink umbrella to Penn’s iced out cocktail.

“So, what’s the deal with you and Jeremiah?” I ask quietly enough that the guys won’t hear. The question is as blunt as a bat to the head because inserting myself in her messy relationship will take my mind off the fact that I’m willingly waiting in the Blackwood house for the guy I swore I hated because I’m worried about him.

Oakley flinches, like I’ve stepped on her toes during a waltz, but there’s a glint of resolve in those crystal blue eyes. “Jeremiah was my brother’s best friend. I mean, he was kind of my best friend, too. He was always looking out for me.” Her skin blushes the most pretty hue of pink when she says, “When I couldn’t sleep, he’d always come by and take me for a ride on his bike, even if it was 2 o’clock in the morning. He never cared or seemed like I was a bother. Anyway, Rem and Royce were inseparable until…” Her voice trails off, heavy with a story that’s etched into her delicate features.

“Until?” I prod, because patience isn’t a virtue I’m known for.

“Until they got into a huge fight and I defended Jeremiah,” she finishes, a shadow falling over her expression, the kind that no amount of sunshine could chase away. “And then they both left. I didn’t see Jeremiah for—” she cuts herself off, swallowing hard like she’s trying not to get emotional and now I feel like a royal bitch. I assumed she was going to tell me that she grew up with them or something.

“Shit, Oakley, I didn’t—” I start, but Penn’s voice cuts through the somber note hanging between us.

“Careful, Iris, you should see what Jeremiah did to the last person who made Oakley cry,” he quips, his smirk stretching like he’s got the punchline to an inside joke we’re all privy to.

The emotion of pure surprise etched on Oakley’s face tells me that she doesn’t know what Penn is talking about.

Jeremiah pins Penn with a glare, but Penn is just grinning like he doesn’t give one fuck. “You’re a better man than I am, Jerebear. I’d flaunt that shit, let her know everything I did for?—”

“I will kill you and put your head on a stick and give it to her if you don’t shut. The. Fuck. Up.” Jeremiah pushes his hand through his hair and then rubs his hand over the bridge of his nose. The man is stressed, and I can’t help but find the banter comforting. I could watch Penn get his brothers riled up all day. He’s the only one who doesn’t seem shakable, and I wonder why that is.

The heavy oak door groans open, slicing through the tension like a cold draft. I pivot on my heel, heart thudding against my ribcage, as Lincoln strides into the Blackwood house. Graham trails behind him, his posture rigid, eyes scanning the room with a honed precision.

My breath catches. There’s something about seeing Lincoln, free and unshackled, that sends an electric shiver down my spine. His eyes sweep the room before they find me. We lock gazes, and the world narrows to the space between us. The relief that seems to wash over him is almost palpable, like he was worried that I wouldn’t be here when he got home.

“Where have you been? You almost missed dinner, QB,” Penn’s voice slices through the tension, and I don’t know how he keeps a straight face or how his brothers haven’t had a meeting and voted on locking him in the cellar.

“Shut it, Penn,” Graham snaps, more ice than I expect. The severity in his voice yanks us back to reality. “This isn’t a joke. Lincolns in some deep shit if we don’t figure this out.”

Penn raises his hands in mock surrender, but the smirk doesn’t quite reach his eyes. He knows well enough when to play his cards and when to fold. This time, he folds.

Lincoln flicks a hand, a silent command etched in the motion. I’m striding toward him before my brain registers the movement—a magnet to him. I’m halfway across the room, grabbing his keys and phone off the couch where I left them.

“Are you okay?” I start, but the words choke off as his fingers wrap around my wrist, an unyielding vise pulling me flush against his side. The contact burns, a brand through the fabric of my sweater, and I’m acutely aware of every point where our bodies meet. Lincoln intertwines our fingers and this time it’s not a show he’s putting on for anyone’s benefit or to get a rise out of me. He’s seeking comfort, and at this moment, I want to give him whatever I can to soothe him.

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