Page 44 of Wicked Fury

“Damn it,” I mutter, and inhale because I can still smell Satan’s spawn himself all over me and I can’t say I hate it. Lincoln’s room is chaos personified, a shrine to his athlete ego. Posters of football legends stare down at me, their victorious poses mocking my current state of undress. His bed is a tangled mess of sheets, a silent witness to the recklessness that brought me here. Clothes are strewn across the floor like casualties of war, and frustration simmers within me when I realize I’m dressed like Winnie the Pooh. Shirt and no bottoms.

“Of course,” I snarl, kicking at the fabric debris until I spot a pair of shorts near the foot of the bed—definitely not mine, but they’ll have to do. They’re Lincoln’s, that much is clear from the way they hang off my hips, his scent clinging to the fabric. A hint of cologne and something deeper, muskier, that sends a shiver down my spine despite my annoyance.

Yanking them up, I tie one end of the t-shirt I’m wearing up and tuck the other side into my borrowed shorts on the chance that I run into anyone other than him. I don’t need his goofy ass brothers wondering if I have anything on under this St. Charles Football monstrosity. I storm out of his room, determined to escape this den of testosterone and bad decisions.

It doesn’t take me long to figure out where the voices are coming from. Penn is the loudest and while I don’t know him personally, his laugh is unique, and it’s stood out to me when I’ve seen him with Lincoln. It’s what? Like eight o’clock in the morning and he’s already on some bullshit. Entering the kitchen is like stepping onto a different planet—one where golden-haired vixens cook breakfast and dark-haired football Adonises consume it. I’ve seen the girl who is flipping pancakes with one hand and swatting Penn away from the skillet with sizzling bacon with the other before. She was even at the away game Lincoln accosted me to attend, but I don’t know her name. I feel like I’ve seen her in the library, but I can’t be sure. She’s sweeter, somehow softer, than what I imagined the girls would be that would hang out with the notorious Blackwood brothers, but her bright blue eyes glint with mischief. Her grin stretches wide when she catches sight of me, and Lincoln’s brothers are gathered around the counter snickering at whatever joke I’ve walked into. I have no idea where Lincoln is, but I suddenly wish I would have just stayed in his room and waited until he came back or I died, whichever came first.

“Look who’s up—the jersey chaser,” the girl quips, and I’m not in the mood for any attitude.

“Did they promote you from team toy to head chef?” I shoot back, rolling my eyes. Penn erupts into laughter, and I even get a quirk of Graham’s lips like he wants to smile but doesn’t actually know how. But I catch Jeremiah’s eye—he’s not amused. Something snaps in his stare that is familiar to me. It’s like when Lincoln saw my room torn apart and became so possessive of me. Got it, blondie isn’t a Blackwood toy. She clearly belongs to Jeremiah. Interesting.

Jeremiah is a wall of muscle and moodiness; his brooding demeanor is enough to cast a shadow over the sunniest of days. Graham’s the picture of restraint, if you ignore the snark ready to leap off his tongue. And then there’s Penn, with his smirk that says he knows every secret in the room, probably because he’s the one who started half the rumors. The muscle in Jeremiah’s jaw tics, a clear sign of his brewing storm. “You’re crossing a line,” he growls, his voice bellowing through the kitchen.

“Am I?” My words come out full of bitterness, and I lean back against the counter, arms folded. “Because from where I’m standing, it looks like I’m the only one not drawing lines in the sand.”

“Take your anger out on Lincoln and leave Oakley out of it.” Jeremiah takes a step forward, the very air around him charged with hostility.

“She called me a jersey chaser and if you haven’t noticed I’m not the one doing a whole lot of the chasing around here,” I shoot back, meeting his glare head-on. It’s a battle of wills, our eyes locked in silent warfare. This is a man who would go to war, burn the world down, but only for the sweet blonde named Oakley.

“I don’t give a fuck,” he says, his tone sharp enough to draw blood. “Take it up with Lincoln if you have a problem in this house.”

Jeremiah’s words slice through the air, his anger a tangible slap to my pride. My retort hovers on the tip of my tongue, an onslaught ready to launch?—

And then he’s there.

Lincoln bursts through the door like he’s ready for a fight, his presence engulfing the room. Hair tousled, his facial hair a shadow across that chiseled jawline, and those intense eyes zero in on the conflict. He’s a mess of sensual disarray, yet every inch the embodiment of raw masculine appeal.

“I’ll fuck you up, don’t tempt me.” His voice is a command settling on Jeremiah, an unyielding force that halts everything else.

“Lincoln,” I exhale, but it’s less of a greeting and more of a gasp because he’s defending me just like Jeremiah was defending Oakley. Like he absolutely cares about me and that’s such a wild concept. I have to shake the thought away.

The room stills, as if the very air pauses to see what he will do next. I can’t help but feel the thrumming energy that radiates from him, a magnetic pull that tugs at something primal within me.

“Back off,” he warns his brother, stepping between us with no hint of hesitation. “She’s not the one starting shit.”

Jeremiah’s lips part, shock mingling with defiance in his eyes. But before he can counter, Penn—ever the instigator—slips into the fray with a smirk that promises trouble.

“Careful, Linc,” Penn drawls lazily, popping a piece of bacon into his mouth with exaggerated nonchalance. “Wouldn’t want the team to get distracted by your… complicated love life. Has anyone figured out if it’s legal to fuck your sister yet?”

I tense, bristling at his implication. But it’s Graham who adds fuel to the fire, his buttoned-up facade slipping enough to reveal the concern beneath.

“Dad is going to be a fucking buzzkill if you don’t get your fucking temper under control.” His words are a blade, slicing through the room’s tension. “You know how he feels about distractions during the season. If he knew you brought her to the away game and spent the whole half-time calling her, he’d dig your grave.”

Heat floods my cheeks, and I clench my fists—less at the mention of their father and more at the undercurrent of judgment. A mix of anger and mortification burns through my veins, reminding me that I’m an outsider in this twisted family that I never asked to be a part of.

“Your father can shove his opinions,” I mutter under my breath, barely audible under the clamor of male egos.

Graham’s gaze flickers to me, sharp and assessing. But any further argument is cut short by the smoldering intensity in Lincoln’s stare, a silent promise of protection that sends an illicit shiver down my spine.

There’s something erotic in the way Lincoln has positioned himself between his brothers and me. The connotation wraps around me, an allure that whispers of forbidden desires we both have. I swallow hard, averting my attention from his penetrating stare, my body betraying me with its traitorous heat.

Graham rambles on about their father, and Lincoln’s facade cracks. His jaw clenches, that sharp edge of his profile cutting through the tension. “Shut up, Graham,” he hisses, the words dripping with ire.

“Easy for you to say,” Graham fires back, pushing away from the counter with a force that rattles the dishes. “You’re never here, dealing with his crap. I’m the one stuck playing the prodigal son. It’s like just because I don’t fuck women, I’m the only one with his head on straight enough.”

The air seems to crackle, charged with the raw energy of brother pitted against brother. I lean against the doorframe, feeling like an intruder in this private war zone. The scent of bacon hangs heavy, but it’s burnt resentment that fills my nostrils now.

“Guys, come on,” Oakley chimes in, her voice laced with forced cheer. “Some things never change. You’re all so hellbent on fighting that you’ll even fight each other for dumb reasons.”

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