Page 7 of Wicked Fury

A clinking sound slices through the murmur of conversations, like a scalpel through skin. The room falls into a hush, and I instinctively straighten in my chair, bracing for another round of saccharine toasts to my father’s nuptials. But as Lincoln’s mother rises from her seat, the expected script crumbles away.

“Today isn’t just about joining two families,” she begins, her voice carrying a warmth that feels alien in this cold, glittering ballroom. “It’s also about celebrating remarkable individuals who are part of this union.”

She’s a vision of elegance, her flowing gown fitting her effortlessly. Her hair is flawlessly styled, not a strand out of place, and her makeup accentuates her sharp features—Lincoln definitely gets his jawline from her. She stands with a poise that commands attention without begging for it, and her eyes sparkle with genuine pride.

“Specifically, I want to acknowledge our beautiful Iris,” she continues, and I swear the air gets thinner. My name on her lips feels like a spotlight snapping on, and I’m caught off-guard, underdressed for my own interrogation.

“Smart, beautiful, and the most academically successful young woman I’ve ever met.” Each word she utters tugs at the seams of my composure. I’m an imposter in a world where perfection is currency, and I’m bankrupt.

“Having Iris as a stepdaughter is a privilege,” she beams, and the applause that follows is a screech of nails on a chalkboard. I force a smile, the muscles in my face twitching like they’re allergic to the sentiment.

I see heads nodding, eyes fixed on me in admiration, but I can’t shake the feeling that there’s something missing in her speech, like a shadow lurking behind the light. Her omission of Lincoln’s name is a silent scream in the symphony of praise, and it echoes louder than any applause could.

There’s a twisted part of me that thrives on their approval, but right now, I feel like I’m choking on it. If only they knew the chaos beneath this polished surface or the darkness that flirts with my bones, the fire that licks at my insides.

I sip my champagne, a lifeline presented in crystal, hoping it’ll wash down the discomfort lodged in my throat. Meanwhile, Lincoln’s absence in his own mother’s words hangs between us, an invisible barrier we both choose to ignore—for now.

My attention is on Lincoln, his silhouette rigid against the backdrop of jubilant faces. His jaw is tight, teeth grinding like tectonic plates in silent fury. There’s a storm brewing in those intense eyes, a squall that could tear the roof off this place if he let it. His fists ball up at his sides, the knuckles white as if he’s trying to squeeze the anger out of his own skin.

“Dear Iris,” his mother continues, her voice dripping with a faux adulation that doesn’t seem to extend to her own blood. I’m not stupid. I know that she’s putting on this show for my father’s benefit. By the look on his face, I’d venture to say that it’s working.

I shift in my seat, feeling every thread of my designer dress pricking against my skin. My cheeks burn hotter than the centerpieces’ candles flickering around us. The air thickens, suffused with the scent of too many flowers and too much expectation. I can feel the guests all looking at me, their attention like weights I’m not strong enough to shoulder.

“Such a remarkable young woman,” she croons, and there’s a collective sigh around me, a sound that makes my stomach clench.

It’s all too much—the applause, the admiration, the glaring absence of any recognition for Lincoln. It wraps around my chest, a constrictor made of silk and satin, squeezing tighter with every platitude.

Is she trying to piss Lincoln off? Or is she just this daft? I want to scream, but I’m trapped in this web of niceties, each thread wrapping around my throat. The room spins a little, and I wonder what would happen if I just stood up and told them all the truth. But no, that’s not the Iris they know. That’s not the Iris they love.

“Thank you,” I manage to mouth the words to my new stepmother, and they taste like ash on my tongue. I raise my empty glass, a pathetic shield against the barrage of expectations, and for a fleeting moment, our eyes meet—Lincoln’s and mine. There’s no love lost in that glare, only a shared understanding of being outsiders in our own lives.

The moment Lincoln’s mother drops back into her seat, I bolt. My hand snatches a flute of champagne from a passing tray, the cold glass an anchor to reality. I weave through the tables, my movements more escape artist than wedding guest. The clinking of cutlery and the murmur of conversations fade behind me as I fixate on the exit sign’s red glow.

I slip through the doors, and the hallway greets me with its silence—a contrast sharp enough to slice. Dim lights cast long shadows between abandoned food carts, their once-overstuffed trays picked clean by the ravenous wedding crowd. The smell of wilted garnishes mingles with the stale air, and I can almost taste the remnants of celebration they’re too eager to discard.

The bubbles tickle my throat as I toss back the champagne, swallowing the effervescence in one quick, desperate gulp. The glass clinks against the stainless steel of the cart—a toast to my solitary escape. My back meets the wall with a dull thud, the cool paint grounding me from the anxiety swirling inside my chest.

Eyes shut, I try to steady my breath—it’s like trying to calm a hurricane with a whisper. Every inhale is heavy with unease, every exhale a silent plea for some semblance of peace.

Just when the chaos in my lungs begins to settle into something manageable, a new storm brews—an electric shock courses down my spine. Lincoln’s fingers, warm and unyielding, wrap around the nape of my neck. My moment of calm doesn’t just shatter; it erupts into a wildfire of panic and heat that consumes me whole in a way that I know he would love.

The world spins, a dizzying whirl of colors, as Lincoln whips me around to face him. His fingers are iron on my neck, and the touch that once sparked fire now ignites a blaze of fear mixed with an unwanted longing. I’m staring into the abyss of his eyes, those pools that seem to swallow the light whole. They’re intense, almost feral, and they pin me just as effectively as his body does.

“Lincoln,” is all I manage, my voice a rasp. Every nerve ending is alive, crackling with electricity, my skin hyper-aware of his proximity.

The memory of last night’s recklessness burns through me—the press of his hips, the urgency in our movements. A forbidden dance in the shadows where we thought no one could see us. My pulse races, remembering how he made me feel alive in the most dangerous way. It’s a craving I should suppress, but it clings to me like a second skin.

“Angel,” he spits the pet name he’s bestowed upon me because he thinks it’ll hurt my feelings. I’m not perfect, and we both know it. “You just gave me the keys to the kingdom.”

His breath fans hot across my cheek, and I can’t help the shiver that follows. He’s too close, and yet not close enough. The room’s air is thick with the musk of his cologne, mingled with the faint scent of sweat from the tension coiled between us.

“Look at you making a spectacle of yourself,” he growls, a low rumble that vibrates against my chest. “You didn’t impress me as the type to crack under pressure, sis. But I guess that’s the point,” he hums like he’s pleased with his findings.

I’m trapped again, a butterfly specifically hunted by Lincoln Blackwood just for him to pin me for his collection. The heat from his body sears through the fabric of my dress, the hardness of his thick cock undeniable against my stomach. The raw intensity of this moment is a razor’s edge that is not only cutting but also oddly intimate. Desire wars with my instinct to fight, leaving me a tangled mess of emotions I have neither the time nor the luxury to unravel.

“Still think you can walk away from me, Iris?” His words are a taunt, his grip a promise of something more—something dangerous. Lincoln Blackwood might hate me, think I’m a fraud and whatever else he’s decided during that horrendous speech his mother gave, but he can’t deny that he wants me.

I swallow hard, tasting the bitter tang of fear and something far more intoxicating—power. Because even now, with his hand on my neck and his body forcing mine to yield, I know that what we have is a game of control. And I’m not ready to lose.

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