Page 32 of Wicked Fury

“Sometimes, you need to be cut to realize you’re bleeding, Lincoln,” Graham says quietly, his eyes steady on mine. “Let’s go.”

“Yes, this is how we help, because we cleared it with Coach for us to not ride back with the team to campus. So say thank you and quit trying to pick fights with us,” Jeremiah says, always trying to be the problem-solving brother.

“Fine,” I spit the word like it’s poison, turning back into the room. As they file out, I toss clothes into my duffle with reckless abandon. Iris’ scent lingers on her sweater, a taunting reminder of her. I shove it down, deeper into the bag, as if I could bury my desire along with it.

“Remember who you are, Lincoln,” Graham calls over his shoulder, his voice oddly solemn. “Don’t lose yourself over someone else.”

“Too fucking late,” I mutter. My reflection in the mirror doesn’t flinch; it never does. But beneath the tattoos and the smirks, something trembles—something desperate and hungry for retribution.

“Linc,” Penn’s voice slices through the tension. “Come on, man. This isn’t you.”

“Isn’t it?” I challenge, meeting his eyes in the mirror. “Maybe you don’t know me at all.”

“Maybe,” he concedes, and there’s a hint of something there, a crack in his usual bravado. “But I know enough to say this—don’t fuck up your life for one chick. You’ll regret this.”

“Regrets are for people who feel guilt, Penn,” I say, slinging the bag over my shoulder, the weight grounding me. “And right now, all I feel is pissed.”

Iris’ bag is next, and I snatch it up, my fingers curling around the strap like a vise. “At least you assholes manage to do something right,” I growl, the words as bitter as the taste of defeat that still clings to my tongue.

Graham’s voice cuts through the tension, low and even. “I’ll handle the front desk, cover for the wall.” His eyes flicker to the damage, the unsaid ‘before Dad finds out’ hanging heavy in the air.

“Thanks,” I grunt, barely audible. In my head, scenarios play out like scenes from a movie. Iris, her smirk wiped clean by fear when she realizes I’m not playing nice anymore. And make no mistake, I’ve been nice for me.

“Seriously, man, chill before you do something stupid,” Jeremiah intones, but his words are just ripples in the storm raging inside me.

“Stupid left the station the moment she did.” I snatch up our bags and head for the door, letting it slam behind me with a satisfying crack. If these walls could talk, they’d be screaming bloody murder.

Chapter 12

Iris

The relentless throb behind my temples is a not-so-gentle reminder of last night’s reckless choices. It’s the day after Lincoln accosted me to that stupid away game, and the hollow echo of cheering still rings in my ears. I’m running on fumes—a toxic blend of adrenaline and caffeine—and the only thing I crave is a slice of solitude. A chance to peel off the mask and just breathe. I was lucky that the pills that Nicole thought were Xanax actually were and not some sort of roofie. I made it home in one piece and left my phone off until this morning. I still haven’t responded to Dad, which has been gnawing at me all day. I should have held it together, made something up last night, and it would have been over.

Dragging myself across campus, the air bites at my cheeks, sharp and unforgiving. My heeled boots click-clack against the concrete with an urgency that mirrors the racing of my heart. The library looms in the near future, where I’m supposed to meet Nicole for our political science cram session. But even my inner scholar needs to play hooky sometimes.

“Get it together,” I mutter under my breath, biting down on my lip hard enough to taste blood. I sidestep a cluster of freshmen, too bright-eyed and bushy-tailed for this time of day. I’m hyper-aware of everyone I come into contact with because I haven’t seen or talked to Lincoln since I bailed midway through his game. I might not have known my stepbrother for very long, but I know him well enough to venture that this little spat of ours isn’t over.

My dorm building emerges from the collage of collegiate Gothic architecture and seeing it makes me feel just a tiny bit better. I push through the entrance, the scent of stale coffee and desperation greeting me like an old friend. Feet pounding up the stairs, I spare a quick glance at my watch. Every tick mocks me; time is a luxury I can’t afford.

I freeze, my hand hovering inches from the brass knob. The door, once again, isn’t how I left it. It’s partially ajar, a sliver of my private world exposed to anyone who walks by. A cold dread snakes up my spine as Lincoln’s face flashes across my mind. His eyes seem to be hiding secrets and forbidden desires. He’s been here before, uninvited, cloaked in that smug smirk that says he knows exactly how to get under my skin. Of course he’d do this. I knew he would be mad that I left his game, but I’ve been so wrapped up in my head about how I’m going to handle Dad that I hadn’t really given Lincoln much thought.

“Seriously?” I mutter under my breath, my heart pumping a rapid beat against my ribcage. I nudge the door with the tip of my boot, sending an echo of trepidation down the deserted hallway. A tightness squeezes at my chest, half expecting to see Lincoln brooding on my bed again.

As the door swings wide, I’m assaulted by the chaos that used to be my neatly kept room, and it’s a visual dissonance that screams violation. My sanctuary is turned upside down. Drawers vomit their contents onto the carpet, clothes tangled with papers in an unkempt pile. Every instinct screams run, but I’m rooted to the spot, anger boiling over.

“That fucking asshole,” my voice comes out choked, the edges tinged with hysteria. I underestimated him. I really did. I know he likes to play games, but this was just malicious.

The room reeks of desperation, like someone clawed through my belongings, searching, searching for a piece of me to claim. My attention flicks to the bed, the sheets twisted in a torrid mess, as if echoing the turmoil inside me. I can almost hear Lincoln’s husky chuckle, the sound dripping with innuendo, taunting me.

A bitter laugh escapes me, my sarcastic armor clinking into place. There’s nothing sexy about this mess, nothing erotic in the invasion. Yet, the thought of Lincoln, with all of his predatory grace, sifting through my things sparks a dangerous trill in me.

I swallow hard, pushing back the unwanted arousal. This is no time for twisted fantasies. My stepbrother has been here, invaded my most intimate space and touched what’s mine, and I’ll be damned if I let him get away with it.

I stride to my dresser, and my heart clenches as I see my trinkets—little pieces of a past I cling to—scattered like the aftermath of a storm. I reach for the silver frame, its corner dented, the photo of Mom and me smiling through cracked glass. A sharp inhale, and I prop it back up, giving us both a semblance of peace.

“Okay, let’s find you,” I mutter, eyes scanning the chaos for the locket’s familiar gleam. It’s not just any trinket; it’s my sanity on days when everything else is a dumpster fire. My fingers sift through the debris, pushing aside textbooks with dog-eared pages and crumpled notes scribbled with political theories.

Nothing.

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