Page 37 of Wicked Fury

“Jesus, Iris, you’re wound tighter than a two-dollar watch.” Nicole’s laugh holds no real mirth. “You can’t keep doing this to yourself.”

“Can’t I?” I retort, the words a challenge even to my own ears. My father’s shadow looms over every step I take, every decision I make. Perfection or bust should be the Shelby family motto.

Nicole shakes her head, strands of her hair dancing around her face, a stark reminder of the freedom I crave yet constantly push away. “All work and no play makes Iris a dull girl,” she teases, trying to pierce the armor I’ve welded shut.

“Better dull than dead,” I shoot back, the image of my father’s cold, disapproving stare imprinted behind my eyelids.

“Your call, ice queen.” Nicole tosses her hands up in resignation as we reach the fork in the corridor where our paths diverge.

“I hope that nickname doesn’t stick,” I say with a laugh, but the weight of those words are heavier than any bad grade could ever be. As she turns away to walk in a direction that probably leads to Nick and not her next class, I wonder if I’ll ever be able to make that sort of choice.

The chill of the air nips at my skin as I stride away from the direction Nicole headed in, leaving a trail of my pent-up frustration in my wake. Suddenly, a shadow looms over me, and before I can react, my favorite stepbrother yanks me sideways into the seclusion of a stone alcove.

“Hey!” My protest dies against the rough texture of the wall he pins me to. His fingers wrap around my bag’s strap, effectively grounding me in place. “You’ve got some fucking nerve, Lincoln.”

“Needed to get your attention, angel,” he says, his voice dipping into that menacing baritone that sends shivers down my spine, and unfortunately for me it’s not entirely from fear.

His gaze locks onto mine, pupils dilated, and I’m thrust into a world where it’s just him and me and this dangerous dance we’ve been skirting around. Annoyance surges through me, but it’s a thin veil over the undeniable surge of desire that throbs in response to his proximity.

“Oh, you’ve done a good job of that since I escaped the last time you kidnapped me,” I snap, attempting to reclaim some semblance of control.

Lincoln leans closer, the faint scent of leather and sweat mingling between us. His hand shifts from my bag to my throat, his grip firm but not constricting. He’s being more possessive than punishing, unless I’m just that fucking twisted to be romanticizing this psychopath. The rough pads of his fingers graze my skin, and I feel every nerve ending in my body come alive.

“Annoyed, princess?” he taunts, but his eyes betray the heat of raw desire. “Or did you miss me as much as I missed you?” Oh, we’re playing that game, I guess.

“Thrilled,” I retort, my sarcasm a weak weapon against the onslaught of sensation. Despite being pushed against cold stone, warmth pools within me, centered where his body touches mine.

“Of course you are. I’m a Blackwood, after all.” His smirk is a promise, and I’m caught between the urge to knee him in the groin or pull him closer. God, what is this twisted spell he has over me?

“Let go of me,” I manage, my voice coming out less fierce and more breathless than intended.

But it’s like he hears the unspoken words, the ones that curl in the pit of my stomach, begging for friction, for the slide of skin on skin. Lincoln reads them in the quick catch of my breath, in the way my body leans into his touch despite my better judgment. And damn him, he knows exactly what he’s doing.

The press of his body is a living glimmer against my own, and for a split second, I’m lost in the blaze. But then the memory hits—my room turned upside down, the locket gone. The heat that thrums through me ignites something else entirely: fury. Pure wicked fury.

“Tearing up my room,” I hiss, my voice laced with hate as I stare up at him, “and taking my locket wasn’t enough amusement for you?” My accusation is a dagger thrown in the dark, aimed to wound.

Lincoln’s smoldering demeanor changes, confusion flashing in those abyssal eyes. He masks it quickly, but I caught it. A liar’s tell? Or genuine bewilderment? His expression hardens, a granite statue now replacing the leering boy.

“What are you talking about?” he growls, backing off an inch. His warmth retreats, leaving a chill in its wake.

“I figured you’d want credit for your hard work?” I snap, anger sharpening my words until they’re razors. “You’re the only one who has a history of breaking into my room.”

He steps away, the space between us crackling with tension. His jaw clenches—a sure sign I’ve struck a nerve.

“I didn’t tear your room up, and I didn’t take your damn locket,” he says, the aggression in his words barely restrained. But he’s too much of an enigma, wrapped in bravado and inked skin, for me to decipher truth from lies.

I open my mouth to tear into him again, but he cuts me off, “You’re not going to send me off on some wild goose chase and make me forget why I’m here.” He dismisses me as if I’m nothing more than a pesky fly. “We’re going for a ride, Iris. Now.”

“Like hell I am,” I retort, standing my ground. But there’s a promise in his glare, a silent vow that this isn’t a negotiation. It’s a summons. I gesture to my backpack that I probably won’t need now that I’m failing tests.

“Trust me, you don’t have a choice.” The way he says it, low and certain, sends another shiver down my spine. There’s a thrill there too, a whisper of danger that calls to the darkest parts of me that I know only Lincoln Blackwood can touch.

“Since when do I do anything you tell me to without a fight?” My challenge hangs in the air, charged and defiant.

“You’ll learn to do as I say. I’ve decided that you’re mine,” he states simply, as if declaring ownership of the sky or the sea. Lincoln snatches my backpack and tosses it like it weighs nothing to the side, and before I can argue with him about anything he’s barking orders at someone to pick it up and take it to Blackwood Manor. I roll my eyes at him because the fact that he has minions to do his bidding is not helping me bring him down the several notches that he needs to be considered a decent human being.

“Keep dreaming, quarterback.” But even as I spit the words out, part of me wonders just how deep this game goes and how far I’m willing to play.

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