Page 21 of Wicked Fury

It feels like my blood is pounding in my ears as Lincoln rummages through my drawer, his fingers brushing against the delicate fabric of my lingerie. He pulls out a pair of black satin panties, holding them up between his thumb and forefinger. The smug wiggle of his eyebrows sends a shiver down my spine—anger or something more dangerous, I can’t quite tell.

“Surprising,” he drawls, those thick brows arching even higher. “Never took you for the black satin type, Iris.”

I clench my fists, fighting the urge to snatch the underwear from his grasp. “Put those down,” I hiss, my voice razor-sharp, but he’s already moving on to his next piece of ammunition.

He holds up a bottle of Adderall, one that sure as hell doesn’t belong to me. His eyes lock onto mine, intense and knowing, as he utters, “Not surprising.” It’s like he’s piecing together a puzzle I didn’t know I was part of, slotting me into a narrative that reeks of scandal and secrets.

“Those aren’t mine,” I snap, but the words sound feeble even to my own ears. Clearly, I bought them, and my father has no idea.

Lincoln just smirks, that damn expression of his that says he knows exactly what kind of power he has over me—and he’s not afraid to use it. With an almost lazy flick of his wrist, he tosses the panties and the bottle back onto the bed, their landing soft but the implication heavy as bricks.

Then he’s whipping out his phone, the screen glowing like some sort of modern-day weapon. A click shatters the tension, and I know he’s captured it—the damning evidence of my apparent debauchery, laid out for all to see.

“Delete that,” I demand, my heart racing, but there’s a twinge of desperation in my voice that I despise.

“Insurance,” he replies simply, pocketing his phone with a finality that feels like a vise tightening around me. His eyes gleam with triumph, but there’s a heat there too, something that speaks of forbidden desires and the thrill of the chase. “Unless you want me to send it to your daddy?”

I swallow hard, trying to ignore the way my body is traitorously aware of his proximity, the scent of his cologne mingling with the musk of exertion. This twisted game of cat and mouse we’re playing has rules I don’t understand, stakes that seem to climb higher with every breath I take.

“I’m not going anywhere with you. You’re going to leave, and I’m going to shower and pass out like I intended before you barged in here,” the words slash through the thick silence, my voice as sharp as shattered glass. I square my shoulders and plant my feet firmly on the hardwood of my dorm room, trying to channel all the authority of a queen in her court rather than a student on the brink of losing it.

Lincoln doesn’t even flinch. He zips up the duffle bag with a slow, deliberate motion, the sound grating against my frayed nerves. “You can shower at the hotel,” he says, hoisting the bag over his shoulder like he’s claiming victory—a warrior seizing spoils of war. His gaze locks onto mine, simmering with a challenge. “I can throw you over my other shoulder, and you know I’d fucking enjoy making a scene.”

His presence is an unyielding force, like gravity, something you can’t fight because it’s just there, always. I imagine steam peeling away the grim residue of today, the scent of soap replacing the stink of my sour mood. Denied.

“I’m sure you’d love that,” I spit back, the fire in my belly flaring despite the exhaustion that clings to my limbs. My stomach growls, a traitorous reminder that I’m running on empty, but I won’t let him see that weakness.

“Come on, Iris,” Lincoln coaxes, his voice dropping to that low, gravelly sound that I know he uses when he wants to be persuasive. It’s like hearing the purr of a lion—sleek, powerful, dangerous. “Don’t make this harder than it has to be.”

“Harder?” I throw my hands up, a wild laugh bubbling from my throat. “You barge into my space, mess with my stuff, and have the audacity to talk about hard?” My heart pounds out a rhythm of its own, each beat echoing my frustration, the raw edge of need I refuse to acknowledge.

“Exactly,” he says, a smirk twisting his lips. He steps closer, and I’m acutely aware of how the air between us crackles, charged with something far more volatile than anger. “You get it.”

I don’t want to get it, whatever ‘it’ is. His nearness unsettles me, the heat of his body seeping into the cool resolve I’m clinging to. The scent of his cologne wraps around me, a sensory invasion that’s part citrus, part spice and all Lincoln. It’s intoxicating and maddening all at once.

“Stop playing games,” I hiss, despising the way my pulse races, not just with ire but with something much more primal.

“Who says I’m playing?” The question is a murmur against my skin, his breath warm on my cheek.

I shiver, caught in the web of the way he’s looking at me. The intensity is absolutely scorching. There’s a promise there, a silent vow that this is far from over. Every nerve ending is alight, a testament to the unwanted truth—he affects me. Deeply. Dangerously.

“Fine,” I concede through gritted teeth, the word tasting like defeat. “But this isn’t over.”

“Never said it was,” he replies, a flash of triumph in his eyes as he turns toward the door.

I’m left standing amongst the chaos of my violated space, feeling both conquered and combustible. But as he strides out, confident and unrepentant, I realize one thing—I don’t play to lose. I just need to figure out where his weak spots are since he’s so clearly found mine.

The parking lot’s asphalt is a dull, unforgiving black under the harsh glow of the overhead lights. My arm burns where Lincoln’s grip tightens, his fingers branding my skin through the fabric of my jacket as he steers me toward the idling sleek black bus. The low rumble of the engine vibrates through the soles of my boots, a foreboding soundtrack to this little escapade.

“Easy, Satan’s spawn,” I spit out, trying to yank free. “You’re going to leave a bruise.”

“Can’t have you running off,” he retorts, and there’s that goddamn smirk again. It’s like he enjoys seeing me ruffled.

Teammates loiter around the bus, tossing bags into the storage compartment, their banter slicing through the cool night air. They pause as we approach, eyes flicking between Lincoln’s iron hold on me and my scowl that could curdle milk.

“Got yourself a shadow, Blackwood?” one of them calls out, catching Lincoln’s bag as he throws it without warning and then chucks it in with the others before straightening up to get a better look at us.

“Something like that,” Lincoln answers, dragging me up the steps into the bus’s belly.

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