Page 31 of Wicked Fury

“Come on! Answer me, you little bitch,” I urge, each ring an eternity. But the voicemail greeting cuts through interrupting any other thought I had.

“Dammit!” I hurl the phone onto the bed, the impact too soft, too forgiving. She’s playing games, but she doesn’t know who she’s messing with. I’m not just some random campus frat fuck she can sideline. The thought of her—laughing, touching, talking with anyone, it ignites this rage in me. Something primal, where my whole body is screaming to hunt her down and force her to submit to me.

“Next time you see me, angel,” I mutter to the empty room, “you’d better be ready to deal with the demon you called up.” My voice is a low growl, filled with the promise of retribution. She thinks she can toy with me? I’m about to show her how wrong she is.

I dial once more, knowing she won’t answer, and I wait for the stupid robotic voice to start talking. Once I get the shrill beep, I let loose, breath heaving like I’ve been running sprints. “Iris,” my voice is a blade sharpened with rage, “you think you can start this war and then just hide? Wrong move.” My chest burns with each word, the threat heavy in the air around me. “You want chaos? I’ll bring you chaos. Brace for impact, because when I find you, there’ll be hell to pay.”

The ghost of her laughter echoes in my head, that smug satisfaction she gets under my skin. She’ll learn. Iris Shelby will learn that no one walks away from Lincoln Blackwood. No one.

My knuckles collide with the hotel wall, a dull crack slicing through the silence, pain radiating up my arm — good, real, tangible. The sting is nothing compared to the disturbance inside me. The phone buzzes in my pocket, a mocking vibration against my thigh. Common sense knows it’s not her, but I’m delusional enough to think it might be. Maybe she fucking saw the error in her fucking bullshit.

Mr. Always Right

You’re losing control.

I'm fine, and no, I haven't found her yet. Thanks for askin

My thumb hammers out the words, my patience frayed to its last thread.

My Dipshit Brother

Lincoln, chill. You're losing it over a girl

Penn's words flare across the screen, mockery woven through every letter. I can almost hear his taunting voice, that 'I told you so' laced with sarcasm.

Fuck off Penn

I shoot back, the anger a live wire beneath my skin. I exit the chat, tossing the phone onto the bed, but it’s not long before it buzzes again. Penn's persistence is a match to my already short fuse.

My Dipshit Brother

Stop being a little bitch and get your shit together

The message reads, Penn’s audacity just another jab to my ego.

“Asshole,” I mutter, abandoning my phone entirely. I can deal with them later. Right now, I have a warpath to carve, and Iris Shelby is at the end of it.

The world shrinks to the pounding in my skull, a relentless rhythm that’s all rage. I continue to stalk the room like an animal circling its cage, every nerve ending screaming that for action. Instead, I’m stuck in this fucking hotel room, in this fucking city, because of football. I might just fucking hate the sport right now.

Knock, knock, knock.

My hand closes around the doorknob and wrenches the door open with more force than necessary, the metal groaning in protest.

“Jesus, Lincoln,” Graham’s voice is a low rumble, almost lost in the chaos of my thoughts. His attention flickers to the hole in the plaster, his eyebrow arching in silent question—a judgment I neither need nor want.

Penn thrusts his phone in my face, his screen displaying the text from earlier, the edges of his lips twitching with poorly concealed glee. “Coach is about ready to bench your ass for good.”

“Fuck off.” The words are a growl, torn from somewhere deep within me.

“Get your shit together,” Penn snaps back, undeterred by my glare. “We’re leaving without you if you keep up this shitty mood. Hell, even Coach doesn’t want you on the bus.”

“Can’t be worse than your playing out there,” Jeremiah mutters under his breath, but it’s loud enough for me to catch. His eyes roll, as if my life’s just another inconvenience.

“Shut up, Jere,” I snarl, my fists clenching at my sides. “You think any of this is funny?”

“Only as funny as you chasing after a girl who clearly doesn’t give a fuck,” Penn retorts, unflinching. “She’s not here, bro. And neither are we, so pack your shit and move it.”

“Is this how you help? By pissing me off more?” My voice is a blade, sharp and dangerous.

---