Page 8 of Wicked Fury

But neither is he.

“Your daddy would be so proud, wouldn’t he? Knowing his perfect little angel got high off her ass and screwed her stepbrother.” Lincoln’s voice is acid, stripping away the veneer I’ve worked so hard to shellac over my cracks.

I stare into his eyes, those vast pools of malice, and feel my heart hammering against my ribs. It’s a messy, staccato rhythm that screams of panic. He’s got me cornered, the walls of this gilded hallway closing in like a vise.

“Does he know about these? I bet he doesn’t,” he taunts further, a smirk playing on his lips as he brings his free hand up to pinch my pierced nipple through the fabric of my dress. It’s cruel, the way he enjoys this moment of power, his upper hand. But it’s not just the threat that sets my nerves alight—it’s the truth behind it. The imperfect, ugly truth.

“Go to hell, Lincoln. I didn’t know your shrew of a mother was marrying my father. Clearly,” I spit back, trying to shove him away. My hands press against the firm wall of his chest, but it’s like pushing against an iron gate. He doesn’t budge, and I feel a flare of anger ignite within me, burning through the fear.

“Touchy, are we?” His grin widens, enjoying the rise he gets from me. “Or is it because you’re terrified that you’re not as untouchable as you think?”

“Untouchable?” I laugh, bitter and sharp. “Please. You’re the one who can’t stand being ignored by mommy dearest, aren’t you? Or is this about last night? Disappointed I didn’t throw myself at your feet after your mediocre performance?” I lie.

There was nothing mediocre about last night, and he knows it. So when I see that his confident facade falters, and something flashes in his eyes—anger, hurt, or maybe both, I know I pushed the right button about his mother ignoring him. I seize my chance, shoving him with renewed force. This time, he stumbles back, surprise etching his features.

“Newsflash, Lincoln,” I say, my voice steady despite the chaos inside me. “You’re not the center of my universe. And you never will be.”

I turn sharply on my heel and stride toward the reception, the clack of my heels against the marble floor sounding like gunshots in the silence. I don’t look back, but I can feel him there, almost as if he’s searing into me like a brand.

I’m walking back into the lion’s den, the weight of his stare heavy on my shoulders. Yet, somehow, in this twisted game of ours, I hold on to the fragile victory of having the last word.

Chapter 3

Lincoln

The sun’s already blazing down on the empty parking lot as I swing my Range Rover into the last available spot. Gravel crunches underneath me, and my chest tightens with a combination of anger and adrenaline—it’s gonna be a long-ass day. The scent of freshly cut grass from the field slices through the morning air, but it does shit to improve my mood.

“Thank fuck,” I mutter under my breath, the words lost in the growl of the engine as I kill it. If I were one second later, Coach would’ve had my ass. I don’t need another lecture about responsibility—not today.

I slam the car door harder than necessary; the sound echoing like a damn gunshot. It’s barely seven in the morning and I’m already wound up tighter than that creepy jack-in-the-box Penn had when we were kids. Last night’s farce of a wedding replaying in my head doesn’t help. My mom’s sudden nuptials—a sloppy affair that felt more like a business merger than a celebration of love. Again, marriage is useless. And Iris… Damn, that girl knows how to crawl under my skin and set up fucking camp there.

“Lincoln Blackwood, you’re nothing but an arrogant prick who thinks the world should worship at your feet.” Her voice taunts me, those emerald eyes flashing with scorn. She had the audacity to call me out, refusing to be another person that simpers for me.

And she’s right—I’m pissed because she didn’t melt into a puddle of adoration after I fucked her. As if her indifference is a personal attack on my ego. Usually, they all want more, but not Iris. She’s got this infuriating self-control when it comes to me that makes me want to shatter it just to see her break. But now, she’s fucking family, and that complicates things in ways that are going to make this little game so much more enticing.

The musky scent of the locker room slams into me like a linebacker as I crash through the doors, heart still throttling from the last-minute dash across campus. The hollow echo of my sneakers against the tiled floor syncs with the jumbled thoughts ricocheting in my skull.

“Linc, man, you’re cutting it close,” Jeremiah calls out, his voice bouncing off the walls lined with open lockers and discarded gear.

“It’s fucking fine.” I grunt, struggling to pull on my pads, the straps resisting as if sensing my urgency. I glance at the clock, its red digits glaring back at me menacingly, a silent observer marking my tardiness.

“Didn’t think you’d stick around Port Hollow,” Penn chimes in. “You didn’t off the groom, did you? Just give us a heads up so we can cover for you.”

“Ha-ha,” I snort, yanking my jersey over my head, the fabric stretching tight across my shoulders. “I should’ve just for making me sit through that boring ass ceremony.”

Jeremiah, hovering nearby, adds with a smirk, “Need an alibi? ‘Cause I was thinking we spent the night playing poker and discussing Proust.”

“Very funny.” My voice is as dry as the humor in their eyes. “I’m too pretty for prison.”

“Bro, you okay?” Graham’s concern slices through the banter, his eyes scanning mine for any sign of the usual reckless defiance.

“Never better,” I lie through clenched teeth, fastening my helmet, the familiar pressure a welcome vise squeezing the remnants of chaos from my mind.

“Let’s move,” I bark, not waiting for their response. We emerge into the sunlight, the field sprawling before us like a kingdom awaiting its ruler. The clatter of shoulder pads and shouts fill the air, violence set to the rhythm of thudding pigskin.

“About damn time, Blackwood!” Coach’s roar welcomes me, the threat of his displeasure a distant storm cloud I’m too wired to fear. My brothers fall into step beside me, an unspoken pact of blood and bone against whatever hell this day wants to throw my way.

“Let’s tear it up,” I growl, the promise of redemption lying just beyond the white lines painted on the turf. And I intend to claim it, one play at a time.

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