Page 101 of Wicked Fury

“Perfectly fucked up,” I correct, but there’s no bite in it. Only truth.

“Exactly how I like it,” she replies.

I lay back down, staring up at the clear sky and watch as waves of shooting stars streak across the inky expanse above. “You fuel every ounce of wicked fury in my body and nothing and no one will keep me from you.”

Chapter 41

Iris

My palms are sweaty, and my heart’s doing this annoying little tap-dance against my ribcage as I push open the door to my advisor’s office. The hinges squeak—a cliché warning of my arrival—and I muster up what I hope passes for a confident smile. It probably looks more like a grimace.

“Good morning, Mrs. Haversham,” I say, my voice betraying none of the whirlwind inside me.

The woman behind the desk is the epitome of academic austerity, her glasses teetering on the brink of her nose like they’re contemplating a dive into the piles of paperwork that serve as their landing pad. She peers over them with a look that suggests she knows exactly why I’m here—like she’s got psychic powers or something, which let’s face it, would be pretty badass.

“Miss Shelby,” she greets, her tone cooler than the other side of the pillow. That eyebrow of hers arches so high it’s practically flirting with her hairline, and I can tell she’s already judged the situation before I’ve spat out a single word of my well-rehearsed spiel.

“Unexpected pleasure,” she continues, her words dripping with a skepticism that says she’d find a three-headed monkey in her chair less surprising than me wanting to chat about my academic future.

“Isn’t it?” My smirk is all teeth, no mirth. I don’t do meek, and I sure as hell don’t back down.

I lean back in the hard chair, crossing my legs at the ankle and tossing my hair over one shoulder. The air is stale with dust and dry paper. My lips part slightly as I break the silence that’s settled between us.

“Mrs. Haversham, I’m changing my classes.” The words come out laced with a certainty that makes my heart pound harder than when Lincoln is chasing me to fuck me in whatever position he desires.

“Changing your classes?” she echoes, drawing out each syllable like they’re sour on her tongue. Her fingers pause, suspended over the keyboard, as if she’s conjuring up every academic horror story to scare me straight.

“Yep,” I say, popping the ‘p’ for emphasis. “I want to explore. I mean, really explore—different subjects, other opportunities that weren’t an option for me before.” A smirk plays on my full lips, teasing the seriousness of the situation. “You know, find my true passion and all that jazz.”

“Your father has carefully selected your schedule.” Her voice is a mix of concern and a pinch of irritation, something that’s become all too familiar coming from professors and staff at St. Charles.

“Ah, yes, dear old Dad and his master plan.” I roll my eyes, my body language screaming rebellion. “But it’s time I start being an adult and making my own decisions.” I bite my lip, feeling the edge of my locket pressed against my skin.

“Structure is crucial, Iris,” Mrs. Haversham insists, leaning forward. “A rigorous curriculum prepares you for the challenges of law school and beyond. It is not something to be taken lightly.”

“Neither is my sanity.” The laugh that bubbles up is dark, flavored with years of repressed desires and the sharp tang of impending freedom. “Trust me, I’m all for challenges, but let’s make them ones I actually give a damn about.”

She sighs, the sound heavy with resignation, and I can tell she’s torn between the rulebook and the wild glint that must be in my eyes. “Exploration at the expense of your future is a perilous path.”

“Then consider me an adrenaline junkie,” I quip, the tension coiling tighter, a serpent ready to strike. “Because the only thing more dangerous than change is staying the same, right?”

Mrs. Haversham finally relents with another deep sigh, tapping away at her keyboard. I savor the moment, the sweet scent of victory mingling with the musty books lining the office walls.

“Very well, Iris,” she murmurs, doubt still shadowing her features. “But remember, this is your choice, your responsibility.”

“Wouldn’t have it any other way,” I reply, a feral grin spreading as I stand, feeling the rush of control surge through my veins. Maybe in some ways I’ve already become a Blackwood.

Another sigh and she says, “Can’t I encourage you to speak with your father?—”

“Look,” I begin, my voice slicing through the tense air like a well-honed blade, “I’m not here to ask you, I’m here to tell you what I’m doing. My father no longer has any control or access to my file. He’s not even paying my tuition anymore.”

She adjusts her glasses, peering at me over the rims with a skepticism that’s almost palpable. Her hands hover hesitantly over her keyboard. I can tell she’s weighing her own doubts against the stubborn set of my jaw.

“An easier schedule doesn’t mean I’m taking the easy way out,” I press on, leaning forward, my fingers gripping the edge of her cluttered desk. The scent of lemon polish grates on my senses, too clean, too sterile for this moment of rebellion.

“Freedom isn’t free, Iris,” Mrs. Haversham counters, her voice laced with the weary wisdom. But there’s a crack in her resolve; I can hear it, a subtle shift in tone that tells me she’s close to breaking.

“Neither is peace of mind,” I shoot back.

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