Page 103 of Wicked Fury

The edges of his smirk cut through my defenses. “You’re not just dropping your major, Iris,” Lincoln says, his voice a low rumble that vibrates in my chest. “You’re signing up to be my wife.”

“Your wife?” The words stumble out, tripping over a laugh I can’t contain. It’s ridiculous, this idea of being kept, and yet, the way he stands there, all dark intensity and inked promises, it doesn’t sound half bad.

“That’s all I want.” He steps into my space. “I want to take care of you.”

“Going to take care of me, huh?” I quip, trying to keep the tremor out of my voice as his thumb traces the chain at my throat. “And what exactly does that entail?”

“Everything you need,” he murmurs, and his lips graze my earlobe, sending a shiver down to my toes. “And everything you want.” My breath hitches.

“Careful, Lincoln Blackwood,” I warn, but it’s a whisper lost to the pounding of my heart. “I’m not exactly the domestic type.”

“Who said anything about domestic?” His grin flashes white against the stubble on his jaw, and then his mouth is on mine, claiming, insistent. There’s nothing gentle about the kiss; it’s all hunger and need, a conversation laced with every unsaid word between us.

I melt into him, my fingers tangling in his hair, tugging him closer. His body responds with a roughness that matches what’s inside me. We’re perfect together. I don’t know exactly when things flipped for us, turned us on our side and showed us that we’re two puzzle pieces matched for one another, but I’m so thankful for the outcome and most importantly, for Lincoln.

“Tell me you want to be my wife. Tell me you’re mine.” Lincoln’s hands roam, igniting wherever they touch. My skin feels too tight, every nerve ending screaming for release that I know he’s just as eager to give me. The taste of him—sin and salvation all rolled into one—is addictive, and I dive deeper, drowning willingly in the depths of him.

“I want to be your wife,” I breathe against his lips, a plea, and a prayer. He’s a key unlocking parts of me I keep hidden from the world. But here, with him, I don’t need to hide.

“Say it again. My wife,” he growls, his teeth grazing my lower lip in a delicious pain that has me arching into him.

“Your wife. I want to be with you, Lincoln. I want to have your last name,” I repeat.

“I’ll always take care of you, and you’ll always be mine,” Lincoln promises, his hands skirting down my back to grip my ass in a claiming gesture. “I love you, angel,” and it feels like our own quiet oath, one I never planned to make but can’t imagine living without.

Epilogue

LINCOLN

JANUARY

The world shrinks to nothing but the pounding of my heart and the slick, dewy grass beneath my cleats. I’m a lit fuse, all raw nerves and rebellion as the clock bleeds out seconds like it’s got a personal vendetta. The scoreboard’s glare is a taunt, the air thick with tension you could chew on.

Time’s a bitch, ticking down like she’s got a personal vendetta against me. The field’s a blur of colors, bodies slamming into each other with the subtlety of a sledgehammer. My guys are marked tighter than the lid on Pandora’s damn box. Sweat stings my eyes, but I wipe it away with a jerk of my head, sharp and quick.

“Blackwood!” Coach’s voice is a distant roar in my ears. It’s now or never. He doesn’t need to say more; his eyes scream it clear enough—make it happen or we’re done.

I roll my shoulders, feeling the familiar weight of expectation pressing down. It’s a pressure I’m born to shoulder, my determination an unyielding force that not even gravity would dare defy. I scan the chaos before me, looking for any sign of opportunity, any glimmer of green against the blue expanse that signals an opening.

“Lincoln, move your ass!” Penn’s shout cuts through the noise, and I spot him.

I drop back, scanning, searching for salvation in a sea of jerseys that swarm like flies to a carcass. Penn’s locked down by a fucking mountain of a man. My jaw sets. Screw hopelessness. I’m not wired to surrender. Not in this game, not with Iris watching.

“Four-four-four! Your move!” I bark, our code for ‘do the impossible’.

I take a step back, feel the world slow as decision locks in. With a grunt that comes from somewhere deep, past muscle and bone, I hurl the ball toward the end zone. It’s reckless, sure, but then again, so am I.

The pigskin spirals through the air, a bullet with Penn’s name etched into it. Wind whistles past me, carrying whispers of doubt and second-guesses. But there’s no room for that shit here. Not now.

Penn’s eyes lock onto the incoming missile, and time’s heart skips a beat. He’s free from his blocker, a wild animal breaking from the gates. There’s no stopping him; he’s power incarnate, every fiber of his being strung tight with the need to seize victory from the jaws of defeat.

“Fly, you bastard,” I mutter under my breath.

His legs pump, adrenaline his fuel, desire is his compass. The blocker is an obstacle, a mere footnote. Penn’s smirk flickers as he jukes left—a trickster’s dance, a feint that sends his shadow sprawling.

He leaps—a gravity-defying, heart-stopping moment where all that exists is the flight. His arm stretches, the line between success and failure measured by mere inches. Fingertips brush against leather, a tease that threatens to shatter my resolve.

“Come on, you son of a bitch,” I murmur, more prayer than anything else.

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