Page 62 of Wicked Fury

“Your mother,” Dad says, his voice sharp enough to slice the tension hanging between us, “thank God she’s not here to see this.” It’s a low blow, one that carves through my chest like a scalpel. I feel the sear of it, the jagged edges of grief reopening with his every word. Mom’s image, perfect and poised, is an unreachable benchmark—a ghostly model against whom I’ll always fall short.

“Shut up about her,” I hiss, my eyes stinging, trying to keep the dam from breaking in front of him. He has no right to wield her memory like a weapon.

“Excuse me?” His tone is incredulous, and he reaches for me again, but before he can continue his tirade, Lincoln steps in.

“Disrespectfully, if you want to walk out of here without broken legs, I suggest you shut the fuck up. “ Lincoln’s voice is a deep, dark growl, almost demonic as he inserts himself between us. “You don’t get to talk to her like that anymore.” He moves closer against my back, the heat of his body a stark contrast to the chill of my father’s presence. I feel like Lincoln is going to envelop me, swallow me whole, and right now I wish he would.

“Son, this is none of your—” Dad tries to rebuff, but Lincoln cuts him off with a sharp gesture.

“Never fucking call me son again. You married my mother for whatever godforsaken reason, but you and I are nothing to each other. You have no claim to me and…” I watch as Lincoln’s head pushes forward above me until it’s right by my dad’s ear and I strain to hear what he’s whispering to him.

“I don’t think Robert Blackwood would like to know how much you’re riding my cock, don’t you, Dan?” My dad’s cheeks redden before going white.

“Now, so—,” he catches himself before he utters that singular word that would make my stepbrother snap.

“From now on, anything you want to say to Iris goes through me. Got it?” The command in Lincoln’s voice is absolute, brooking no argument. It’s a protective claim, possessive and powerful. “You don’t need to drive by or check on her or ask for updates. Assume she’s with me because that’s the only place you’ll ever find her.”

Dad’s eyes narrow, and for a moment, the two men are locked in a silent battle of wills. I’m caught in the crossfire, an explosive mix of gratitude and confusion swirling inside me. It’s madness, the way Lincoln assumes control, and yet…I can’t deny the part of me that revels in it.

I can’t believe it—Lincoln just threw down the gauntlet in front of my dad, and he’s not backing down. My breath catches as I watch my father’s expression, his anger giving way to something else—an unnerved glance toward a man standing next to the coach on the sideline. Is that fear flickering in his eyes? I’ve never seen him look so…rattled.

“Lincoln,” a soft voice breaks through the heavy air. It’s Lincoln’s mom, her hand reaching out like she’s trying to smooth over the volcanic eruption that is her son. She’s all soothing tones and placating gestures, but the tension is a living thing between them.

“Mom, don’t,” Lincoln’s voice slices through her words, sharp as a knife. “Don’t act like you’re here for me when we both know you’re using Iris to cozy up to her dad.”

His accusation stings the air, and I’m momentarily frozen by the raw hurt lacing every syllable. Lincoln’s mom recoils, her expression a mask of shock and something that might be guilt. The betrayal between them is almost tangible, and I feel like an intruder witnessing this fractured moment.

“Lincoln,” I try, my own voice trembling with emotions, “let’s just?—”

“Stay out of this, angel,” he snaps, but there’s no malice directed at me. It’s protective, territorial even. He looks at me with such intensity—a silent promise that this... madness isn’t about us. It’s about them. I notice Dad staring at the man next to the coach again and his eyes flash to mine one last time before he silently turns to leave.

“I didn’t raise you to be this rude and crass, Lincoln.” His mother’s voice is tight with anger and something like defeat.

“You didn’t raise me at all, now did you?” Lincoln finishes her with that one sentence. Lincoln’s mother doesn’t retort, instead, she turns sharply, striding off after my dad who’s already vanishing into the crowd like a specter.

“Could this day get any more bizarre?” I mutter under my breath, shaking my head. The sound of the game fades into the background, the thud of the ball and the roars of the crowd distant against the rushing sound of blood in my ears.

The crowd swallows our parents, my dad’s rigid back, and Lincoln’s mom’s defeated slouch. I watch the space where they’d been, like some twisted mirage fading away, and finally, I can breathe. The anger that had crackled in the air, sharp as winter lightning, thins out, leaving a hollowness in its wake.

Lincoln pulls me to sit back down and this time he makes sure to pull me close to his side. I know the confrontation with his mother upset him, even if he won’t say it out loud. My leg starts its own rhythm, bouncing with an anxiety that feels like it’s drilling through my bones. Tap-tap-tap against the cold metal bleacher.

Then there’s warmth, Lincoln’s hand pressing gently on my thigh, right above the knee. It’s a touch that shouldn’t be coming from someone like him, but sparks shoot straight to places that have no business tingling right now. Damn him.

“Stop worrying, Iris,” he murmurs, thumb drawing lazy circles on my denim-clad skin. He stretches his fingers out and then curls them around my thigh. His hands are huge, making my leg seem small in comparison. It’s as if he’s sucking the anxiety out of my body just by touching me.

The sound of the crowd roars around us, punctuated by the sharp whistle of the ref, but it’s his hand on my thigh that’s got all my attention. It’s warm, possessive, and it screams danger with every gentle stroke. It’s sin wrapped in a simple gesture.

The world fades to a murmur, the din of the crowd nothing but background noise against the confusion playing in my head.

“Lincoln,” I start, my voice barely above the sound of the marching band’s instruments, “why did you go all medieval knight on my dad?”

He tilts his head, shadows playing across his chiseled features as the stadium lights dance above us. “Because,” he says, his voice low and dangerous, “no one gets to handle you like that. No one but me.”

I blink, taken aback by the fervor in his tone, the possessive glint in his eyes. “Handle me? I’m not some trophy in your case, Blackwood.”

“Damn straight you’re not.” He leans in closer, and I can smell the mix of his cologne and the leather from the football he’s been twirling absentmindedly. “You’re mine, Iris. Mine to protect. Mine to...care for.”

“Care for?” My lip curls into a half-snarl, half-smirk. “Like a pet?”

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