Page 1 of Wicked Fury

Prologue

LINCOLN

The bass beats against my chest like a drum as I push through the swarm of bodies, their heated glances searing into me. My brothers flank me, a smug Penn elbowing me with a shit-eating grin plastered across his face. “Cheer up, Linc. Your mom’s just collecting husbands like you collect trophies,” he says with a devilish grin, earning an eye roll from Jeremiah and a snort from Graham.

“Fuck off,” I mutter, but there’s no heat in it. It’s our own twisted form of affection. The musk of sweat clings to the air, cloying and thick. As we step inside the throng of St. Charles’ elite, the crowd parts—some drawn in, others repelled by us.

“Let’s just get this night over with,” I say.

As soon as we’re fully in view, the crowd parts like some sort of messed-up Red Sea, eyes hungry on us—the Blackwood brothers, campus royalty by virtue of our sports stats and the allure that clings to our name. It’s almost laughable, in the darkest sense of humor, how our father, Robert Blackwood, crafted his legacy. Four sons, four different mothers, all knocked up simultaneously as if he was trying to spawn his own twisted version of the four horsemen of the apocalypse. And here I am, the firstborn by mere months, bearing the brunt, the de facto leader of this reluctant cavalry. They buzz around us like flies to rotting fruit, each one wanting a piece, any piece, of the action.

“Looks like the sharks are circling already,” Graham scoffs, his gaze locking on a guy across the room, a silent challenge already sparking between them.

“Can’t blame them,” Penn says, eyes scanning the room before landing on a giggling group nearby. He runs his fingers along the brim of his black baseball hat and flips it around backward before he says, “We are the hottest ticket in this sad excuse for a carnival.”

“More like a circus with you as the clown,” Jeremiah chimes in, and I can’t help but crack a grin. These assholes are my blood, and as messed up as it is, I wouldn’t have it any other way.

“God, I need a drink,” I grumble, eyeing the makeshift bar set up in the corner.

“Already ahead of you,” Penn quips, handing me a red solo cup filled with something that smells like paint thinner. How the fuck did he already get his hands on drinks, and he hasn’t even left our side? He raises his own in a mock-toast. “To our dear brother’s new stepdaddy—may he toss the ball with you in the backyard, sport.”

“Asshole,” I shoot back, but the corner of my mouth lifts despite myself. The liquid burns all the way down, offering a momentary distraction from the chaos brewing inside my head.

Laughter erupts from my other brothers at Penn’s antics, their voices blending into the chaos of the party. I take another swig; the alcohol stoking the fire in my veins, sharpening my edges. Tonight, I’m anything but my golden boy quarterback facade—I’m just a guy looking for an escape, even if it’s at the bottom of a cup or between someone else’s thighs.

“Let’s find a wall to prop up before your egos collapse the place,” I say, steering us away from the fawning crowd that’s inching closer, hoping for a brush with campus royalty. We’re not really here for them; we’re here to forget, even if just for tonight.

Leaning against the wall, the world around me throbs with the beat of some bass-heavy track that shakes the cups in our hands. Neon lights flicker like the pulse of this party’s heart, casting shadows over faces eager to indulge in tonight’s escape. The air is heavy with the tang of spilled beer and the sharp sweetness of cheap liquor.

“Can’t believe these kids think they’re invincible,” Penn snickers into his cup, his eyes roaming.

“Invincible and invisible are two different things,” Jeremiah counters, a smirk playing on his lips as he watches a couple stumble past us, lost in their own boozy bubble.

“Score,” Graham says under his breath, not bothering to hide his appreciative glance at the baseball player across the room. His voice carries that edge of hunger, a predator eyeing his prey.

“Easy, tiger.” I chuckle, clapping him on the shoulder. “Don’t scare him off before you’ve even pounced.”

“Who says I haven’t already?” Graham shoots back, the corner of his mouth lifting in a smirk that’s all challenge.

“Boys, boys,” Jeremiah drawls, shaking his head with feigned disapproval. “Let’s not pretend we’re here to play nice.”

“Speak for yourself,” Penn retorts, throwing Jere a sly grin that doesn’t quite reach his hazel eyes. “I’m always nice.”

“Right,” I scoff, taking another swig from my cup. “And I’m the goddamn Pope.”

I sip my drink, letting the now tepid liquid slide down my throat as I scan the sea of bodies gyrating and grinding to the rhythm. They’re all here to forget something, to get lost in someone else’s skin. Maybe that’s what I need too—a distraction to dull the edge of tomorrow’s wedding.

That’s when I catch her gaze. A pair of eyes locked onto mine from a shadowed corner—wide, almost feral. Blonde hair cascades around her face, framing those crazy eyes that seem to bore into my soul. For a second, I’m intrigued by her unwavering stare. It’s like she knows me. I hold her gaze, the corner of my mouth twitching upward involuntarily. She doesn’t flinch, doesn’t break. Something about her doesn’t sit right in my gut.

“Got yourself an admirer?” Penn elbows me, following my line of sight. But before he can comment further, I’ve already dismissed her. There’s a hunger in her look that’s too raw, too unguarded. Not tonight. Not ever.

My gaze slides away, restless, hungry for something less…jersey chaser trying to trap you with a baby or two. And there she is. A contrast to the blonde’s manic energy, the brunette sits apart from the melee, an island of calm in the storm. Beautiful. Almost effortlessly. Unaware of the effect she has as she laughs at something her friend says. My mind rifles through classes, campus parties, trying to figure out why I’m not recalling who the hell she is.

“Damn.” Penn whistles lowly. “Who knew they came packaged like that?”

“Keep it in your pants, Casanova,” I mutter, already feeling the pull of a challenge tugging at the corners of my mind.

“Who?” Graham leans in, finally joining the conversation.

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