Page 68 of Wicked Fury

“Handle it fast,” he snaps. “Our name’s on the line.”

“Always about the damn name,” I mutter under my breath.

“Speak up, boy!” His voice echoes off the high ceilings, and the girls shrink back.

“Nothing,” I say louder, locking eyes with him. “It’s nothing.”

Leaning back against the mantel, I watch him stalk around the room, his anger a palpable force. I can smell the whiskey on his breath from here, mingled with the scent of expensive cologne and a day’s worth of fury.

“Well, the hefty fucking bill from Rex and the list of charges against you says it’s fucking something, son. Goddamn rape.” Dad growls and shakes his head.

“Resorting to rape?” I scoff, the words leaving a bitter taste in my mouth as they cut through the tension-ridden air. “Please, as if I’d need to.” My gaze slides over the faces of my brothers, all clad in their usual indifference.

“Embarrassed her is what I did,” I continue, my clipped tone sharp enough to draw blood. The memory of that party flickers in my mind’s eye—the girl’s flushed cheeks, the way she tried too hard, laughed too loud. “She was after something that night, sure, but I didn’t want any part of what she was offering.”

A shuffle of movement, and suddenly Iris is there, stepping into the fray with that cool confidence that always sets my blood on fire. Her green eyes lock with mine for a split second before she turns to face my dad.

“Actually,” Iris interjects, her voice slicing through the bullshit like a knife, “he was with me.”

The room falls deathly silent, every pair of eyes darting between us. There’s a heavy pause where even the air seems to hold its breath, waiting for the fallout.

Iris’s lips curve into a smirk that doesn’t quite reach her eyes, but the challenge in them is unmistakable. “Right, Lincoln?”

“Right,” I reply, letting the word hang between us.

Her alibi wraps around us, and the truth is I probably fucking was with her. And if not with her, then with my brothers. I don’t see anything past Iris. I’m so goddamn wrapped up in her.

“Jeremiah, Graham, Penn—you’re with him on this. No son of mine is going down because some girl’s got an itch for revenge.”

“Yes sir,” they chorus, nodding vigorously, but none of them seem to want to look at me. Penn’s jaw clenches, Graham looks away, Jeremiah’s fists tighten. We’re all soldiers under the general’s command, but it’s my battle that’s put us on the front lines.

“Good.” Dad’s glare sweeps the room one final time.

“This isn’t a damn request, Lincoln,” he barks, his eyes flaring with the same ferocity that’s been known to make grown men cower. “It’s an order. You fix this mess.” before he storms back out, leaving me in silence.

My eyes find Iris again, her posture rigid, her expression unreadable. I can feel the weight of her stare; it’s almost intimate, like she sees straight into the disorder of my thoughts. There’s a connection there, something raw and unspoken, teetering on the edge of dangerous.

“Thanks for the support,” I say, voice dripping with irony as I look at my brothers, who are staring at where Dad left, each one of them glad to see him gone. We all have our own fucking issues with the prick.

“Anytime,” Iris retorts, the corner of her mouth quirking up in that smug way that drives me crazy—in more ways than one.

I scoop her up and throw her over my shoulder, calling out to my brothers, that let’s take the night and get some sleep and tomorrow we figure out this bitch’s shit and end this.

I close the door behind us, the click of the latch like a gunshot in the quiet. My room is my sanctuary, and that’s what I need more than anything right now.

“Why did you do it?” The question comes out more abrasive than I intend, my voice scratching against the silence. “Stand up for me.”

“Because,” Iris starts, her eyes reflecting a resolve that doesn’t quite match the quiver in her voice, “I know you, Lincoln. You’re many things, but what she’s accusing you of…” She trails off, the implications hanging unspoken between us.

“Is that all?” I probe, leaning back against the mahogany dresser, arms folded over my chest, each muscle tensed with suspicion and something far more dangerous—curiosity.

“Isn’t that enough?” she retorts, her green eyes sparking with that familiar defiance.

“Maybe.” I push off from the armoire, closing the distance between us. “Or maybe there’s more that you want to say to me.”

“When you stood up to my father…” She trails off, and I can sense a storm brewing.

“Right.” My throat tightens. “The white knight act.”

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