Page 74 of Wicked Fury

“Someone had to be the brains of this operation, unless you wanted to let Penn be in charge,” I retort, forcing nonchalance. Inside, I’m all coiled up, ready to spring into action.

“I would rather eat rusty nails than let Penn be in charge of anything. His idea was to set her on fire,” he murmurs absently, his hand pausing on a photo of Nicole, looking rather cozy with Nick. “He definitely knows something.”

I start to tell him what I found out about Nick, but Lincoln grabs me by the jaw with such gentleness that my words are nowhere to be found. “To be clear, I love how smart you are, actually.” The corner of his lips tilts up in that familiar half-smirk, his dark stare is fixed on me, intense and unyielding. The air in the room thickens.

“Seeing you blush,” he says, voice low and husky, “it’s…irresistible,” he says, tracing the line of my jaw as if he’s memorizing the shape of me. It’s intimate, too intimate for just a moment of admiration over a folder crammed with secrets.

Before I can concoct a sharp retort, his lips find mine. It’s soft at first, a whisper of a kiss that contradicts the heat in his eyes. I’m caught off guard by the tenderness, the way it seeps through my defenses like a slow, relentless tide.

Suddenly, his other hand finds my throat, not squeezing but holding with a possessive firmness that sends a jolt straight through me. My pulse thrums beneath his touch, a silent acknowledgment of the power he wields without even trying.

“Lincoln…” I manage, breathless and annoyed at myself for it. His thumb strokes my neck, and I have to bite back a moan.

“Focus, Satan’s spawn,” I tease, the nickname rolling off my tongue playfully that it’s lost all meaning. “We’ve got a psycho to take down.”

Lincoln kisses me again before his lips pull away with a soft pop, leaving the taste of him lingering on my tongue. Lincoln’s eyes lock onto mine, dark and fathomless, and for a moment we’re suspended in the tenderness of our kiss—before he disrupts the stillness with a playful pinch to my shirt-covered nipple. A sharp gasp escapes me, a mix of pain and pleasure that zings straight to my core.

“We’ll finish this later,” he promises with a hint of devilry in his touch.

“Asshole,” I mutter, but there’s no real malice in it. It’s hard to stay mad when every touch from him feels like a promise of more delicious torment.

“Come on,” he says, all business now. “We’ve got work to do.”

We round up his brothers and Oakley so we can all cram into the fancy living room, which reeks of old money and secrets, just like the rest of the house.

“Listen to what Iris found out about Nicole,” Lincoln commands, standing at the head of the table like some kind of brooding king addressing his court. His presence is magnetic, filling the room with a silent authority.

“Nicole’s playing dirty, but she’s not as smart as she thinks,” I interject, my voice slicing through the tension. “She’s left a trail, and we’re going to use it to clear Lincoln’s name.”

“She’s not going away without a fight,” Graham says, his tone rough, as he sits back, arms crossed over his chest like a statue.

“Let’s hear the plan then,” Jeremiah adds, the strategist among us, his mind already racing ahead, calculating our moves.

“Take a look,” I say, hanging him the folder.

The leather of the couch creaks under me as Jeremiah’s fingers rifle through the folder I put together. His brow furrows, that mind of his dissecting every word, every implication held within those pages. I can almost see the gears turning in his head, the calculations made with each new piece of intel against Nicole.

“Damn, Linc. Your girl is... thorough.”

Oakley, on her tiptoes, cranes her neck like some delicate bird trying to catch a glimpse of the pages. She’s looking frustratingly adorable in her efforts to peek over Jeremiah’s shoulder. It’s a contrast to the brooding bulk of him, dark hair casting a shadow over his intense focus.

Jeremiah scoops Oakley up, tucking her into his side with an ease that speaks of long-practiced familiarity. He sets her on his lap without missing a beat, their heads close together, sharing the space as naturally as breathing.

“Thanks,” she breathes out, a smile flickering over her lips as they both dive back into the pages. Her tiny frame fits against his like she’s made for that spot, right there, shielded by his strength as they pore over my work.

“She’s definitely done this before when she doesn’t get her way.” Jeremiah taps a particularly damning piece of evidence, a photo that could be the nail in Nicole’s coffin.

Jeremiah’s focus is lasered on the article about Nicole’s ex-boyfriend, his brow furrowed like he’s decrypting nuclear codes instead of reading social posts.

“What a fucking wackjob—” Penn starts, his voice laced with that signature drawl that makes panties drop faster than his GPA.

Graham cuts him off with a glare that could freeze hell over, and Penn’s lips twist into a devilish grin, the words dying on his tongue. He loves poking the bear, especially when the bear is a six-foot-two wall of muscle and intensity. I stifle a laugh because Graham’s ‘shut it’ expression is a masterpiece.

“Boys,” I interject, the word dripping with mock sweetness, “if you’re finished measuring dicks, we have a witch hunt to plot.”

Jeremiah’s head snaps up, green eyes meeting mine before shifting to Lincoln. “I’ve got something,” he says, and the room stills, hanging on his every word.

“It’s Brandon,” Jeremiah announces, the name hanging heavy between us.

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