Page 5 of Wicked Fury

I follow her down the aisle, each step a mockery of the ceremonial march. My gaze flickers over the congregation, feeling their scrutiny like insects crawling on my skin.

I slide into the front pew with a silent snort, my mother’s attempts at parenting amounting to nothing more than a signature on a birthday card each year.

“Lincoln,” Margo whispers sharply from beside me, “show some respect.”

“Respect is earned,” I mutter under my breath, memories of empty stands at football games and lonely dinners scratching at old wounds. My mother gave life to me, sure, but that’s where her contribution ended. The rest? That was all me.

“Let’s get this farce over with.” I lean back, eyes half-closed, waiting for the inevitable boredom to wash over me. But as I catch a glimpse of the bridesmaids lining up, a familiar surge of anticipation curls in my gut, a predatory smile playing on my lips.

“Game on,” I whisper to myself, my eagerness for the reception swelling within me. If I have to be here, then at least I’m going to find whoever I can at the wedding to have a little fun with. As if I’d actually sit here and go through with this and get not even some small satisfaction. A stroke of my ego or my cock. Either will do.

The first chords of the wedding party march vibrate through the church, and I glance up to see bridesmaids paired with groomsmen, their procession a mockery of unity. A sneer tugs at my lips. Not a single invite to stand by her side—no, she’s kept me at arm’s length since she realized she wasn’t getting anything out of Dad, and today is no different.

“Could’ve used your star quarterback son up there,” I scoff, leaning back as the pairs parade past me. “But then again, who needs a tattooed heathen involved when you’ve got appearances to keep?”

Margo shushes me but doesn’t dispute my words. She can’t. Because she knows. This whole fucking thing isn’t about love; it’s about image, about pretending we’re something we’re not.

I fold my arms, my inked skin a stark contrast to the sea of suits and dresses. The irony isn’t lost on me—I’m the misfit in a house of God, yet I’m the only one not pretending to be holy.

“Look at them,” I whisper, more to myself than to Margo, “clueless pawns in her perfect little setup.”

The bridesmaids’ smiles are too wide, their steps too measured. It’s all an act, a performance. And I refuse to clap along.

The organ’s haunting melody fades into a soft hum as the next bridesmaid steps out. Then she appears. Iris. My jaw clenches as I take her in—my last night’s conquest wrapped in chiffon and lace, the irony of it all tightening around my chest like a vise. I hear the whispers of the guests asserting how beautiful the groom’s daughter is and heat spreads throughout my whole body.

I fucked my stepsister last night.

“Isn’t this a fucked up little game of fate?” I murmur under my breath, a smirk playing on my lips. She walks with an elegance that’s all fake. As she nears, a rush of anticipation sweeps through me—I’m the ghost of her indiscretions about to become the demon in her future.

Her eyes haven’t met mine yet. I lean forward, resting my elbows on my knees, my smirk widening. The air is heavy with whispers, but all I sense is her—the way her body moves with restrained grace, the slight tremble of her hands clutching her shitty bouquet. It screams tension, and I revel in it, feeding off the way that it swirls through the air separating us.

“Wait till you realize, angel,” I say to myself, watching her every step, “that last night’s fuck is now bound to you.”

Iris is close now, close enough that if I wanted to, I could reach out and brush against the fabric of her dress, remind her of the hot sex we shared. But no, I hold back, because the show is just getting started, the realization yet to dawn on her. And here I thought this wedding was going to be a fucking bore.

“Any moment now,” I whisper, my voice tinged with amusement, as I imagine the gears turning in her head when she finally fits the pieces together.

She passes me, and I drink in the sight of her, my rebellious smirk never fading. Her shoulders are rigid, her posture too perfect. It reeks of effort, and I can almost smell the fear mixed with the jasmine scent trailing behind her. Poised and polished, yet underneath, a delicious mess of nerves and gloom.

“Can’t wait to stir that darkness a bit more,” I breathe out, relishing in the thought of the chaos I could unleash with a single, well-placed sentence. I fucked your daughter last night. How epic would her dad’s face be when it registers?

The organ swells again, a high and haunting melody that commands everyone to rise. Like puppets on strings, they stand. All except me. I’m no one’s fucking puppet. The bride floats down the aisle, veiled in white, but she’s just blurred scenery. Isn’t white meant for virgins? I’m living proof the bride is most definitely not one. She should have gone with a nice cream in my opinion. At least it wouldn’t have contrasted as much with the over tanned skin she has going on. I look away from my mother and search through the crowd, sharp and unrelenting, until I lock onto Iris again.

She’s a vision in her champagne colored bridesmaid dress, her face a canvas of control, but I see the cracks. Our eyes clash—hers wide with shock, like she’s seen a ghost. A ghost of last night. Then, understanding morphs her surprise into a grimace. It’s beautiful, the way her perfect mask crumbles. She knows now. Knows I’m about to become the forbidden fruit plucked straight from her new family tree.

“Didn’t see that coming, did you?” I murmur under my breath, the words for no one but myself. A smirk plays on my lips, satisfaction pulsing through me. She looks away first. Score one for Lincoln Blackwood.

As the ceremony trudges on, I’m fixated on Iris, every fidget and forced smile. She’s a caged bird, wings clipped by the irony of the situation. I savor it, the squirming discomfort she can’t hide from me. There’s something intoxicating about watching her unravel.

Iris starts to pick at her bouquet, stripping the innocence of the white flowers petal by petal. Her fingers are nimble, but there’s a tremble to them giving away her nerves. She’s too easy to read, like a book I’ve skimmed a hundred times. But I want the unabridged version, the one with all the dirty secrets tucked between the lines.

My mother reaches the altar, hand in hand with Mr. New Stepdad of the Year. But who gives a damn? This show is all about Iris and me now.

“Bet you’re wishing for an escape hatch right about now,” I muse, leaning back against the pew. The wood creaks in protest, like it disapproves of my attitude. Tough luck.

I slide further down, stretching out my legs, an open display of defiance in this holy space that couldn’t feel less like a sanctuary. The feeling of her panic is heady, almost enough to make me dizzy with power. For a moment, I close my eyes, letting the image of Iris’s startled face burn behind my eyelids.

“Oh, game on, stepsister.”

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