Page 15 of Wicked Fury

I stride away, the clash of my boots against the echoing corridor the only sound in the tense silence. Turning back, I catch her looking at me.

She stands motionless, the locket at her throat catching the dim light as if it pulses with her quickened heartbeat. I savor the sight of her, the way her chest rises and falls, more rapid now, her lips parted ever so slightly. I can almost taste her anticipation—it’s intoxicating.

Backing away, I keep our connection taut like a wire stretched to snapping. I don’t waver until the corner looms up, and with one last smirk, I slip around it, leaving her alone in the quiet aftermath.

The cool night air hits me as I exit the building, and the world comes alive again—a sensory overload. The distant sounds of campus life are a dull roar in my ears, the faint smell of autumn decay lingering on the breeze. But it’s what’s roiling inside me that pulls into sharp focus.

I feel charged, every nerve ending alight with a forbidden energy. The power I wield over Iris. How easy it is to get under her skin, to make her tremble—it’s a fucking rush. A primal hunger twists in my gut, an urge to fuck, to claim, to dominate.

“Jersey chasers…” The thought flickers, tempting. I could have any of them, their bodies willing and pliable under mine. Yet, it’s not enough—not tonight. No, tonight I crave something different, something illicit.

My house beckons me, a sanctuary where I can indulge this gnawing need without prying eyes. The thought of dipping into that well of pleasure using the silk of Iris’ panties, the memory of stealing them from her in Cannon’s room, sends a jolt straight to my groin. That thin fabric, a barrier she’d worn, was now going to be part of my release.

“Fuck,” I growl into the silence, my breath hitching as I surrender to the sensation, the memory of her fueling my desire. It’s raw, it’s real—it’s fucking alive.

Chapter 6

Iris

I’m taking in the droning sounds of today’s political science lecture, but my brain’s doing that annoying thing where it wanders off—straight to Lincoln. I imagine his smirking lips, the way his eyes flash with cockiness, and how that intense gaze of his can make every nerve ending in my body feel like it’s on fire. It’s infuriating how he invades my thoughts, uninvited.

The creak of shoes on the polished floor snaps me back to reality. The professor is beelining toward me, a new girl in tow. She’s got this short blonde hair that bounces with each step, brown eyes scanning the room like she’s already sizing up her competition—or conquests.

“Miss Shelby,” Professor Hastings begins, that knowing look in his eye suggesting he’s about to dump some extra workload on me. “This is Nicole Sullivan. You’ll be helping her catch up; she’s missed quite a bit.”

Great. Just what I need. But I paste on my best fake smile—the one that fools everyone into thinking I’ve got it all together—and nod. “Of course, happy to help,” I lie.

Nicole extends her hand, and I take it, feeling a surprising firmness in her grip. “Thanks, Iris. I really appreciate it.” There’s something in her tone, a smoothness that makes me wary. She’s too put-together for someone who’s just fallen into the madhouse mid-semester. St. Charles is a place where the wealthy can pay for whatever it is they desire, so I’m not surprised that a student would be allowed to pick up a class this far into the curriculum.

“Sure, no problem,” I say, keeping my voice light, my inner sarcasm securely locked away. For now. I’ll have to pull out all the stops later, maybe even break out the whiskey or something stronger to dull the edge off tonight. Another tutoring session to fit in my already jammed packed schedule isn’t going to do anything for my nerves that are already shot.

But I’ve got a reputation to maintain, and if there’s one thing I’m not, it’s a quitter. Besides, it gives me an excuse to avoid thinking about Lincoln. It’s not like I’m daft enough to think I’m on his mind. He’s definitely out charming every girl that falls into his orbit and only locks in on me when he needs someone to take his rage out on. I feel my nipples tighten at the thought of just how he likes to treat his new stepsister. To my surprise, Lincoln stayed for my entire speech, which oddly spurred me on to not make any mistakes. I expected him to leave without speaking to me, but like most things with Lincoln Blackwood, I was very wrong. He met me backstage, fully prepared to intimidate me, but the curtain was pulled back, exposing us, and forcing him to keep some space between us. I don’t know if his mother saw that we were arguing, but I really don’t give a fuck if she did.

I lean back in my seat; the wood creaking under me like a tired sigh as Nicole claims an empty seat to my left. Professor Hastings adjusts his glasses and gestures toward Nicole with a flourish that feels more theatrical than necessary. “Nicole here comes to us under rather unique circumstances, so please show her some care and compassion,” he says low enough that I know it’s meant just for me. His voice tinged with a mix of sympathy and intrigue.

Unique circumstances, huh? I glance at Nicole, sizing her up. There’s a story there, one that’s probably juicier than the stale textbook drama we’ve been dissecting in class. I wonder if she’s got enough spine to survive the social piranha tank this school can be. But hey, I’m nothing if not a gracious host—queen of the damned welcoming committee.

“Welcome to St. Charles,” I quip with a smirk, hoping to break the ice or at least chip away at it because I can’t be my true self in situations like this. “We’ve got fun and games, and by that, I mean late-night cramming and existential dread.”

Nicole chuckles, a sound that’s surprisingly genuine. “I’ll take your word for it,” she replies, her eyes scanning the room like she’s memorizing escape routes.

“Stick with me,” I say with a laugh and a tilt of my head. “I’ll show you where they hide the good coffee in the cafeteria.”

Our professor moves on, oblivious to our exchange, droning about some policy change that’ll no doubt add another layer of hell to finals week. Not that he really cares about workload or setting us up for success. If that were the case, he would have asked if I was cool with this tutoring thing. He just threw Nicole my way like I’m some kind of academic life raft.

The familiar sting of resentment needles at me, a reminder of all the times Dad decided my path without so much as a ‘by your leave.’ His shadow looms over my thoughts, that stern look in his eyes when he’d lay down the law, expecting me to follow it without question.

“Expectations are the pillars of success, Iris,” he’d say, his voice as cold and unyielding as iron. And there I’d be, nodding along, because disappointing him was like inviting the apocalypse over for dinner.

“Hey, Iris?” Nicole’s voice pulls me from the memory, her brown eyes holding a hint of concern. “You ok?”

“Fantastic,” I lie smoothly, plastering on a smile that can’t possibly reach my tired eyes. “Just thinking about the mountain of joyous reading I get to share with you.”

“Sounds… thrilling,” she deadpans, picking up on my sarcasm with ease.

“I’m definitely not a fan,” I reply, biting back the bitterness. “But hey, my misery loves company, so let’s dive into the glamorous world of political theory together.”

Suppressing a sigh, I remind myself that this isn’t Nicole’s fault. She’s just the unsuspecting newbie caught in the crossfire. And if I’m going to play the part of the dutiful daughter, might as well extend that performance to the role of helpful peer.

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