Page 38 of Wicked Fury

Lincoln grips my hand like a vise—firm, unyielding. I glance down at our intertwined fingers; his are calloused and warm against my own. It’s disturbing, this contrast of sensations—comfort laced with the threat of captivity. My chest tightens, and my mind races. He’s playing with my head and I’m smart enough to recognize that. Lincoln Blackwood doesn’t do affectionate hand-holding, but the way he’s flexing his fingers, and his thumb is stroking across the top of my hand has me questioning him and myself.

“Quit groping my hand. I’m not going to melt into a puddle like a groupie because you’re pretending to be nice to me,” I snap, trying to wriggle free, but it’s like trying to escape iron cuffs.

“Groping?” He smirks, that twist of lips that somehow makes my insides clench in the most inappropriate way. “You’d know if I was groping you, angel.”

“You’re disgusting.”

“And you’re a liar,” he dismisses with a nonchalant shrug that sets the inked muscles of his arm into motion—a distracting sight, to say the least.

We come to a halt beside his bike, a sleek beast that seems to rumble impatiently for the open road. Lincoln retrieves a helmet from its hold and offers it to me as if presenting a crown rather than protective gear.

“Here,” he says, his voice a low purr that vibrates through the air.

I eye the helmet, noting the scuffs and scratches that map out a history of recklessness. “You know, given our current… rapport, it might be safer not wearing this.” The words slide out drenched in sarcasm. “Who knows? An accident could solve all our problems.”

“Is that a death wish, Iris?” His laugh is disconcerting. “Or just your twisted sense of humor?”

“Call it what you want,” I retort, my heart pounding a rhythm of defiance.

“Put it on,” he orders, and I hate that his voice wraps around me like velvet chains. I take the helmet, the interior smelling faintly of leather and something uniquely Lincoln—a scent that stirs a heat within me despite my better judgment.

“Fine,” I huff, slipping it over my head. The world narrows to the visor’s view, and suddenly, it’s just me and him, everything else a blur.

“Good girl,” he murmurs, close enough that his breath brushes my cheek through the opening of the helmet.

“Watch it,” I warn, the enclosed space amplifying every nuance of our proximity. “I bite.”

“Promises, promises,” he taunts, his voice dripping with innuendo as he secures the chinstrap for me, fingers brushing against my skin in a touch that’s far too gentle for someone who claims ownership over me.

Chapter 15

Lincoln

Iglare at Iris as she stands there, arms crossed, refusing my offer to ride on the back of my motorcycle. Should have known getting the helmet on her without much fuss was too damn easy. She’s always so fucking stubborn, but it’s one of the things I like about her because breaking her is just so much fun. I rev the engine, letting it purr like a lion ready to pounce. “Come on. You don’t know what you’re missing.”

She rolls her eyes. “I know exactly what I’m not missing. A damn limb.”

I lean in closer, letting the predatory smirk play on my lips. “But isn’t that the ultimate rush? Teetering on the edge, hanging off the side, feeling that high?” I can see it in her eyes, the flicker of intrigue, the battle of her will against her desire.

“High?” she snorts, crossing her arms, her verdant eyes sparking fire. “I get my highs from achievements, not from reckless escapades with the spawn of Satan.” Oh, so we aren’t going to talk about the big ass elephant in the room that is you popping pills. Hmm, okay.

“Suit yourself,” I shrug, pretending to be nonchalant, but I can feel the annoyance simmering inside me. I hate being told no. But then, something in her eyes flickers, and I know I have a chance. “It’s like flying, you know? The wind rushing past you, the freedom. Don’t you want to experience that?”

Her lip catches between her teeth—a sign she’s weighing the risk. Finally, with a huff that tells me she’s far from conceding the war, she swings a leg over my sleek black beast of a bike. “Fine. But I’m not holding onto you.”

“Challenge accepted,” I smirk, popping the clutch and causing the bike to jump forward, throwing her into my back. She instinctively wraps her arms around my waist, and I can feel the heat from her body seeping into mine. I can practically hear her heart slamming against her chest, echoing my own erratic pulse.

“Asshole,” she mutters, but I can hear the hint of amusement in her voice.

“Trust me, you need to hold on,” I say, my voice low, almost a growl. The vibration of her grip on me sends a wave of heat down my spine.

“Fine,” she breathes out, the word getting lost in the wind as I rev my chrome and black Ducati Panigale. I can’t help the wicked grin that I know she can’t see as I pat her hand, a silent, mocking ‘good girl’ that would surely set her on fire if she knew.

I take off down the street, maneuvering the bike with calculated recklessness to scare her without putting her in actual danger. Weaving through traffic, I feel alive, powerful, in control. The streets are just streaks of gray and black, the traffic lights bleeding colors we don’t care about. I take the corner hard and the mic in her helmet picks up the way her breath catches.

“Are you trying to kill us?” she practically squeals over the roar of the engine.

“Nope,” I grin, splitting lanes and dragging the bike low on turns. “Just giving you a taste of what it feels like to be truly alive.”

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