Page 102 of Wicked Fury

The clacking of keys fades to the background, a dullness to the racing thoughts in my head. I lean back, the chair creaking under me—a sound that should annoy but somehow soothes. My gaze drifts past Mrs. Haversham, through the window where autumn plays out in all her gorgeous hues. The leaves fall without fear, liberated from their branches, and I find myself envying them.

I’m doing it. Really doing it. The thought tiptoes across my mind, a whisper at first, growing louder with each passing second. I’ve always tried to be daddy’s little girl—academically brilliant, socially poised, and perpetually under his thumb. But not anymore. A surge of relief washes over me, so intense it’s almost a physical caress.

“Your father will hear about this,” Mrs. Haversham intones, her voice a mixture of disapproval and reluctant acceptance.

“Oh, I’ll see that he does,” I retort, my words clipped with a feisty edge. “I’m not his puppet.”

Her eyes flick up to mine, and there’s an unspoken understanding between us.

I shove open the heavy door, the feeling of victory on my heels. I almost trip over my own feet as I catch sight of Lincoln propped against the sleek body of my car like he’s part of the paintwork. His bike, that beast of metal and rebellion, lurks close by, gleaming under the autumn sun. The sight of him sends an illicit thrill down my spine.

“Hey, quarterback,” I breathe, half-laugh, half-gasp, already closing the distance between us.

“Angel.” His voice is a low hum, a thread of amusement weaving through the words.

My pet name on his lips feels like a dare, and I can’t resist. My steps quicken into a run and when I’m finally within reach, I throw myself at him, and damn if he doesn’t catch me with those arms, pulling me into the solid wall of his chest. His scent—musky mixed with the crisp outdoors—wraps around me, a blanket of familiarity and heat.

“Missed you,” I mumble against his shirt, the cotton soft and warm from his body heat.

“Missed class, you mean?” Lincoln’s chuckle vibrates through me, and I swear it strokes every nerve ending awake. He holds me tight, as if he might absorb my wildness into his own storm. “Fuck, I missed you.”

“Smartass,” I retort, pulling back just enough to meet his eyes, my grin a mirror to his. The sunlight catches the ink on his skin, and I’m momentarily distracted by the urge to trace the lines with my fingers, or better yet, my tongue.

“Always.” He raises an eyebrow, his grin wicked. “So, why aren’t you playing the dutiful student today?”

“Because life called for a little rebellion,” I shoot back, rolling my eyes at his feigned shock. “And besides, I know you’ve got my timetable memorized, down to the minute. Which is why you’re here…spying on me.”

“Guilty,” he admits, the corners of his eyes crinkling with genuine delight. “Gotta keep tabs on my favorite angel.”

“Favorite, huh?” The word sends a zing straight to my core. “That’s a dangerous title to hand out, Blackwood.”

“Only the best for you,” His hands roam to my waist, fingertips inching beneath the hem of my shirt, grazing skin in a promise of more.

I press closer, craving the contact. Lincoln’s presence is a drug, intoxicating and potent, and I’m hooked on the high.

“Careful, Linc,” I whisper, tilting my head up to his, our breaths mingling. “Keep this up, and you might actually make me believe you.”

“Believe it, Iris,” he murmurs, and his lips hover over mine, teasing the line we’ve drawn a thousand times but never crossed. “You’re the only game I play for keeps.”

The wind tangles my hair as I lean back against the cool metal of my car, Lincoln’s heat radiating like a furnace beside me. “I did it,” I say, a smirk playing on my lips. “I dropped my major. No more puppeteering from dear old dad. From now on, I’m coasting until I figure out what I want to do.”

“Is that so?” His eyebrow arches, and there’s an approving glint in his eyes.

“Yep.” I give him a defiant tilt of my head. “I’m going to explore, find what sets my soul on fire. Who knows? I might just discover I’m meant for something wild, untamed... maybe a little scandalous.”

“Scandalous, huh?” His voice drops to a growl, and it sends shivers dancing down my spine. “Like being my kept woman?”

The suggestion is ludicrous, outlandish, but it leaps from my mouth before I can stop it. “What, like I’d be lounging around your house wearing nothing but one of your team jerseys, waiting for you to come home from practice?”

A laugh is what I expect—a sharp, barking sound that would cut through the sexual tension with its sheer absurdity. But Lincoln doesn’t laugh. Instead, he takes a step closer. The air between us crackles.

“Actually,” he says, the playful seriousness in his tone making my heart hammer, “that sounds damn fucking good to me. When can you start?”

All he’s doing is looking at me, and the whole world tilts. The thought of being his, truly his, in every way imaginable thrills me more than it should. The forbidden fruit always tastes the sweetest, after all.

“Lincoln Blackwood,” I breathe out, the words laced with equal parts temptation and warning, “you play too much.”

“Look around, ain’t no one playing right now, Iris.” His fingers brush against mine, a touch so fleeting. My body aches to close the distance, to feel the full force of him. “I hate that you don’t have my last name yet. We need to remedy that.”

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