Page 14 of Wicked Fury

“Stop? Oh, angel, we’re just getting started.” The words drip from my lips, each one laced with ire. I lean closer, relishing the rapid rise and fall of her chest against mine. Her scent envelops me—something floral mixed with the tang of fear. It’s fucking delicious.

“Lincoln, please,” she pleads, but the plea only stokes the flames. My heart pounds against my ribcage, a wild hammer urging me on. This game, this dangerous game we’re tangled in—it’s the only thing that’s making me feel alive right now.

“Please what?” I taunt, watching her struggle for control. “Please keep going? Or please stop before you realize how much you like it?”

“Fuck you,” she hisses, and there it is—the spark I’ve been looking for. It ignites something primitive within me, a craving I hadn’t even known was there until now.

“Maybe later,” I whisper against her ear, my words a promise, a threat, a temptation all at once. Her shiver tells me everything I need to know.

This. This right here is where I thrive—in the chaos, the control, the sweet surrender of power. And Iris, with her high cheekbones and sharp tongue, she’s the perfect storm I’m all too willing to chase.

Her body trembles against the cold wall, but there’s a defiance in her eyes finally—a challenge. I expect fear, submission, tears maybe. I get those and so much more as Iris surges against my hand, pressing into the chokehold like she’s daring me to squeeze tighter. A jolt of arousal hits me, hard and unexpected. My breath hitches as I feel my cock harden, the fabric of my joggers suddenly too constricting.

“Enjoying this, Iris?” I growl, close enough to feel the warmth of her breath. Her lips part, but it’s not surrender that flashes in her eyes. It’s something wilder, something that says she’s playing with me too.

I lean in closer; my voice is ice as it slices through the oppressive tension between us. “I can make your life hell,” I whisper, each word a drop of poison aimed at her soul. “Don’t think for a second I won’t enjoy breaking you.”

Her pulse flutters under my fingers, a pretty poison-filled bird trapped in a cage of my making. My breath fans her neck, and I can almost taste the salt of her skin from the anxious sweat that gathered from her ‘breathtaking’ speech.

“Understand this,” I continue, the tone of my threat hard like steel, “cross me, and you’ll regret it.” The promise hangs heavy, a silhouette that clings to her, to us, enveloping the moment in its chilling embrace.

My grip remains firm—the only sign of my control in this twisted play we are caught in. She’s not fighting back, not like she usually does with those sharp-tongued retorts that get under my skin. I lean in, the heat from her body mixing with mine.

“Where’s the fire, Shelby?” My voice is low and mocking, serrated edges hidden beneath the silk. “No mommy jokes today? Or have you finally run out of uppers to keep you on the edge?”

Her breath hitches, and for a moment, the mask slips—a glimpse of the real Iris, raw and vulnerable. The scent of her mingles with the residual adrenaline from her speech, and it’s intoxicating. It takes everything not to draw in deeper, to savor the chaos I’ve stirred within her.

“Go to hell, Lincoln.” Her words are barely a whisper, but they’re tinged with an icy rebellion that only serves to ignite me further.

That’s when the interruption comes—footsteps, invasive and unwelcome. The door swings open, and there stands the embodiment of Iris’ deepest ache. A mother, or rather, her stepmother. In a heartbeat, I switch gears; the predator receding into shadows as I release Iris, stepping back with a practiced ease.

“Brilliant work up there, sis,” I say loud enough for my mom to hear, my voice a masterful blend of sincerity and charm. “Truly captivating.”

Iris straightens, her eyes darting between me and my approaching mother, confusion and relief warring in those depths. She’s trembling, but she’s trying to hide it, trying to regain her composure before she’s forced into another role—the dutiful daughter.

“Thank you, Lincoln.” Iris manages a smile, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. It never does.

My mother sweeps in, all concern and maternal affection, pulling Iris into an embrace that looks more like a lifeline than a gesture of love. I stand back, watching the scene unfold, a grimace tugging at the corner of my mouth. They’re both oblivious to the rage that’s brewing just beneath the surface. In this moment, I can honestly say that I hate them both.

“Mom, I gotta jet,” I say, my voice heavy with a forced lightness as the facade of the conscientious son stretches thin over my simmering anger. “Big game coming up, you understand?”

She gives me this nod, the kind that’s more reflex than recognition, her eyes already drifting back to Iris like she’s the one who threw touchdowns and not just academic jargon into the air. The dismissal stings, a familiar burn in my chest that fuels the fire in my veins.

“Of course, Lincoln,” she murmurs, her words absent, like they’re being pulled from some deep, distracted part of her that can’t spare a damn moment to see me for who I am or what I do.

I watch her, this woman who’s supposed to be my biggest fan, fawn over Iris like she’s the prodigal child returned. It’s like I’m invisible, a ghost on the sidelines of their little admiration show. The anger bubbles, hot and dangerous, threatening to spill over.

“Gotta make sure I rest well,” I continue, the sarcasm rolling off my tongue, a serpent hidden in the grass. “Wouldn’t want the star player running on fumes.”

Her lack of response is almost comical, the way it fans the flames, making my blood sing with a visceral need for retribution, for something to quench this thirst for acknowledgment. My eyes lock onto Iris, catching the tail end of her startled look, and it’s enough to slap a chilling smirk across my face.

As they turn away, I can’t resist one last parting shot, one last assertion of the power I hold. I catch Iris looking at me, holding me there with an intense stare that says more than words ever could. “I’ll be seeing you soon,” I mouth silently, and the promise in my eyes sends a shiver down her spine.

Turning on my heel, I exit the backstage area, the echo of my footsteps a taunt in the silence I leave behind. The darkness welcomes me back, an old friend that hides me. I feel alive, electric, every nerve ending screaming for release.

Blackwood house calls to me—the sanctuary where my brothers and I reside. There, I can indulge in thoughts of Iris, at the memory of her pressed against my palm fueling my need.

I’m going to enjoy this.

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