Page 71 of Wicked Fury

Suddenly, I stumble upon a thread—a post that sends a shiver down my spine. A news article linked from years ago, the headline stark: “St. James baseball player Paralyzed in Car Wreck.” There’s a photo of him before the accident with his then girlfriend Nicole.

“Gotcha,” escapes my lips, a whisper that cuts through the silence. The details spill out before me, a story of tragedy that I can’t help but devour. I quickly do a search for her previous boyfriend on socials to see what people are saying about him and the accident.

My heart pounds, not with desire, but with dread. Could Lincoln be speeding toward a similar fate with Nicole in his rearview mirror? The thought sends a jolt of fear through my veins, a warning siren that I can’t ignore.

I breathe out roughly, glancing at his peaceful form beside me. He’s oblivious to the storm brewing in my mind.

I’m hunched over the soft glow of my phone, taking screenshots, and saving the links to everything that we could possibly use to make Nicole admit what she did to Lincoln and to me as well.

I find a post about the accident and start combing through the comments. My eyes dart across the text, pulse quickening as the insinuations leap forth. “Can’t believe no one is looking into her. No one thinks it’s odd that he broke up with her right before the accident? Everyone knows she’s a psycho, yet no one calls her on it.” one comment reads.

“Sounds like someone couldn’t handle being rejected,” another chimes in and even adds a laughing crying emoji.

“Everyone’s afraid of her. She latches on like a fucking leech. She dated my cousin in high school, and he got jumped going to meet her. We know she was behind it.”

Every word is a knife twisting deeper into my resolve. Was she the cause of both of her ex’s grim fates? The thought sears through me, igniting a firestorm of protective instinct.

Lincoln stirs beside me, his breath a steady rhythm against the silence. My heart is fierce as I compile the evidence. Each screenshot, each veiled implication, I tuck them away like a dossier.

When I’m satisfied that I have enough information, I set my phone over on the nightstand next to the bed. My eyes linger on Lincoln, his chest rising and falling with the tide of slumber. Lincoln’s breath is a soft cadence against the quiet of the room, each exhale a whisper of peace that I can’t seem to claim for myself. As if he’s aware of me even in his sleep, Lincoln’s arm slips around me, a subconscious seeking of closeness that tugs at something vulnerable inside me. He pulls me to his chest, and I’m cocooned by him. The warmth from his skin seeps into mine, but it does little to quell the storm brewing in my thoughts.

I’m teetering on the brink of consciousness, the exhaustion of the orgasms Lincoln pulled out of me and my tangled thoughts dragging me under. Lincoln’s breath is a warm whisper against my neck.

I trace a fingertip along the sinewy lines of his forearm, feeling the contours of muscle honed by relentless training, the raw power of being an elite athlete wrapped up in the gentleness of a man who worships me with fervent hands. The contrast sends a shiver down my spine.

His chest rises and falls against my body, a rhythmic lullaby that coaxes my eyelids heavier with each passing second. And finally, despite the feelings brewing within me, despite the nagging fear that Nicole could shatter our world, I succumb to the pull of sleep.

Chapter 30

Lincoln

The pavement pounds beneath my sneakers and sweat courses down my temple. The burn in my thighs is a sweet ache as I round the final corner of St. Charles University’s perimeter. My lungs pull at the humid air as I try and force my body to finish. The campus is still quiet in the early morning mist, the ancient oaks standing over my solitary ritual. I need to be back on the field, feeling the turf beneath my feet, the ball and its ridges under my fingers, and the pressure to complete the pass. Nicole fucking Sullivan isn’t going to rob me of this. She’s going to fucking recant her bullshit lies and I’m going to drag the fuck out of her and her entire family if I have to.

By the time I finally reach the street that my house is on, my skin is covered in sweat and my breath is heavy, each exhale a fog in the chilly morning air, and I walk the last stretch, cooling down my exerted muscles until the gravel of our driveway crunches underfoot. I’m a machine, built on routine and raw determination, the kind that doesn’t just aim for the top but claws its way there, bloody and unbowed.

As I stride into the living room, the scent of coffee mingles with the tang of my sweat-soaked shirt. Iris is there, perched on the edge of the couch, her body tight with nerves. Her sweet lavender and lemon scent greet me as I breathe in heavily. Her fingers assault her nails, and her lip is caught between her teeth—a sure sign she’s riding her anxiety.

“Lincoln,” she starts, her voice a mix of excitement and trepidation, “I found something about Nicole—you need to see this.”

She’s clutching at her phone like it’s a lifeline, eyes wide. I can’t help but admire the way her brain works, always whirring, piecing together puzzles I sometimes don’t even see.

“Slow down, baby,” I tell her, the endearment rolling off my tongue naturally, laced with a possessive warmth.

I’m still catching my breath, sweat trickling down my back, when I cut her off. “Hold up, I gotta meet Coach. You’ll fill me in later?”

A pout tugs at the corners of her full lips, and she scowls, her eyes sharpening with a familiar challenge. “Oh, sure,” she says with a voice dripping with sarcasm, “because groping Coach is definitely top priority over clearing your name, right?”

Her words hit me like a punch to the gut. The water I’m guzzling goes down the wrong pipe. I cough, sputtering, but damn if she doesn’t draw out a chuckle from me. She always knows how to hit where it hurts, or in this case, make me choke on my own spit.

“Watch it,” I growl, but there’s no malice—the fire, the fight—is what makes us feel fucking alive…together.

“Keep it classy, Shelby,” I retort, setting the empty bottle on the counter with a thud.

In two strides, I’m towering over her hands braced on either side of her head on the back of the couch. I lift one and find the nape of her neck. I pull her into a harsh kiss, fueled by the frustration and desire that always simmers just beneath our skin.

“Fine,” Iris snaps, her tone sharp enough to cut glass. “Just go, then.”

“Stay your pretty little ass in the fucking house while I’m gone,” I command, my voice low and laced with an edge. “It’s the safest place for you.”

---