Page 95 of Wicked Fury

“Understood.” I end the call, the weight of future debts heavy in my chest.

Penn leans against the wall, arms crossed, the hint of a smirk dancing on his lips. “Another soul sold to dear daddy. Does he take installments, or is it a lump sum kinda deal?”

“Shut it, Penn,” I snap.

“Lighten up, Lincoln. We’re only spiraling into an endless pit of familial debt—not like our lives are becoming a Greek tragedy.”

“More like a Shakespearean farce,” Graham interjects, wiping his hands on his jeans.

“Either way,” I mutter, sliding the locket deeper into my pocket, “we play the roles we’re given. One day, it’ll be worth it. I’ll damn sure make sure of it.”

Chapter 39

Iris

The air shifts the moment Lincoln and his brothers stride into the house. Lincoln leads the pack, his athletic frame cutting a formidable silhouette against the grandeur of the entrance hall. The swagger in his step is almost tangible, a lion prowling his domain with a confidence that verges on arrogance.

His intense eyes sweep the room, missing nothing, asserting his presence without uttering a word. Those thick eyebrows of his are slightly raised, as if daring anyone to challenge him. The twist of lips that suggests he’s both trouble and temptation—all wrapped up in jeans and a fitted t-shirt that shows every sinewy inch of him.

His brothers flank him, each mirroring Lincoln’s rebellious aura. They’re a unit, bound by blood and forged in the fires of a household that’s clearly never been a stranger to conflict. Their collective demeanor speaks of solidarity. I almost feel bad that Jeremiah had to stay here with us. He looks conflicted also, as if being left out of helping end this corrodes some part of him. Hopefully, Oakley can help him get his head on right.

“Miss me, angel?” Lincoln’s voice demands my undivided attention, deep and smooth—a caress wrapped in steel.

I roll my eyes, feigning disinterest. “I don’t know, did you miss me?”

He steps closer, the scent of him teasing my senses, a mix of cedar and spice that somehow suits him perfectly. “Thought you might want this back.” His hand extends toward me, revealing my locket—the one I thought was gone forever. I never thought I’d get it back from Nicole to be honest.

For a second, I’m speechless, caught off guard by the rush of emotions that flood through me. My mother flashes in my mind, the memories clinging to that tiny piece of metal overwhelming me. My throat tightens, and I swallow hard, fighting the vulnerability clawing its way up. “How? I don’t understand.”

“Let’s just say, not all thieves cover their tracks well,” he says, a glint of something unreadable in his gaze.

I reach for the locket, the cool metal grounding me as I snap it open to see the faded photo inside.

“I can’t believe you thought to get this back for me,” I mutter, looking up at him, trying to convey how much this actually means to me. “Really, thank you so much. I—” I take a deep breath and he’s just looking at me, his thumb stroking across my cheek. “This is really important to me.”

“Careful, angel,” he warns, leaning in so close I can feel his breath against my skin. “You might start thinking I’m not such a bad guy.”

“Perish the thought,” I quip, matching his tone and smile as I snap the locket closed with a click. As our eyes lock, something unspoken passes between us.

My fingers toy with the edges of my locket, the familiar contours offering a meager shield against the onslaught of questions battering my mind. The air in the Blackwood house is heavy, thick, and I want to know what they did tonight.

“Lincoln,” I start, my voice a serrated edge cutting through the tension. “What happened with Nicole?” My eyes fix on him, demanding, hungry for the truth that he cradles like a guarded treasure.

His eyes flicker, an unreadable storm brewing within their depths. “It’s not for you to worry about, angel,” he replies, his voice low and steady—a tone meant to ward off further inquiry.

But it only serves as fuel. “I think it is.” My words are clipped. “We’ve been in this together since the beginning.”

“The less you know the better,” Lincoln insists, the protective timbre of his voice wrapping around me with an intensity that knots my stomach. He steps closer. His presence engulfs me, invading all of my senses. “You don’t want to know what we had to do.”

“Like hell I don’t,” I spit back, defying him, though his warning sends a shiver skittering down my spine.

Lincoln’s hand finds its way to my arm, grip firm but not painful—an anchor tethering us together. “Trust me,” he says, and God, I want to. “Nicole won’t be bothering either of us again. That’s all you need to know.” His voice is a smooth threat, promising safety yet hinting at what lurks beneath his surface.

I wrestle with the impulse to push him, to peel back the layers of mystery until the raw truth lies exposed.

“Okay,” I relent, the taste of defeat bitter on my tongue. “For now.”

“Good girl,” Lincoln murmurs, a wolfish grin slicing across his expression, and I bristle at the condescension.

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