Page 80 of Wicked Fury

“Lincoln,” I begin, my voice faltering as his name becomes a talisman against the memories. But I don’t need to say more; he understands the language of my body as if it were his own.

“Shh,” he soothes, his hand steadying on the small of my back. “I’ve got you.”

And damn if I don’t believe him.

I can feel the weight of his stare, heavy and unblinking, on the roadmap of my past. Lincoln’s fingers pause on a particularly gnarled scar, and I brace myself for the inevitable.

“Who did this to you, Iris?” he demands, his voice a low growl vibrating against my spine. There’s a heat in his words that wasn’t there moments ago, a fury smoldering just beneath the surface. “I want a name.”

I suck in a breath, my heart slamming against my ribcage. This is the part where I usually deflect with a snarky comment, but the truth claws at my throat, begging for release. “My father,” I spit out, the words tasting like blood and betrayal.

Lincoln freezes behind me, his body a wall of tension. I turn to look at him, searching the dark pools of his eyes for judgment, but all I find is a storm of protectiveness swirling in their depths.

“I want to know anything you’re willing to tell me.” The possessiveness in his tone should scare me, but instead, it’s a twisted lullaby that soothes the feelings inside me. With Lincoln, I’m not just scars and secrets; I’m someone worth claiming, worth protecting. And damn if that thought doesn’t send a shiver of want down my spine.

The crack of leather against skin echoes in my mind, a cruel percussion that still jolts me awake at night. In the dim afterglow, I whisper the details to Lincoln, his chest a solid warmth against my back. “He had this belt, thick and black, reserved for when I wasn’t good enough,’” I say, my voice a bitter laugh stripped of humor. “Each lash was a word in the language he spoke best—pain.”

Lincoln’s arms are an iron cage around me, his breath hot on my neck. I can feel him simmering, a beast practically brewing beneath his skin. His fingers trace the ridges of my scars, a silent promise etched in every touch.

“Every strike was to make me better,” I continue, “a punishment for not being good enough to carry his last name. To him, each welt raised on my flesh was proof of his care and guidance.”

At my words, Lincoln tenses, his body a taut wire strung with fury. His grip involuntarily tightens, like he could shield me from memories with brute strength alone. “More. Tell me,” he growls, the word a snarl of protective rage.

I turn within the circle of his arms, facing those turbulent eyes. Anger smolders there. I bite down on my lip, feeling it swell under the pressure, a familiar tactic to ground myself amidst chaos both past and present.

“I truly believe every scream, every plea, it was music to him,” I confess, my heart aching as I lay bare the darkest parts of my soul.

“Stop,” Lincoln commands, his voice jagged with barely restrained violence. But I don’t stop; I can’t. It’s all spilling out now, the dam broken by his touch, his presence.

“Sometimes,” I breathe out, reckless with the truth, “I still hear that belt in my nightmares, still feel its sting long after the marks have faded. But these are mine,” I confess, the words tumbling out of me as I stroke the inside of my thighs.

“From high school. It was the only way to... to take back some control, you know? To be the one deciding where the scars go.”

“Fuck.” The curse is wrenched from his lips, a visceral response to the agony laced through my confession. “He should’ve been protecting you. He won’t get the chance to hurt you again.”

And then Lincoln’s doing what he does best—reacting. His hands roam over my body, a silent promise traveling through his fingertips, trying to rewrite history on my skin. His anger is palpable, a living thing that wraps around us, fierce and unyielding as his embrace.

Lincoln’s body is a living furnace, his heat branding me in ways no scar ever could. His breath skates over my damp skin, sending shivers down my spine that have nothing to do with fear. I’m acutely aware of the weight of his muscular arm thrown across my waist.

“Listen to me, angel,” he growls, and there’s a dark edge to his voice, one that speaks of promises and threats all rolled into one deliciously dangerous package. “You’re mine. No one else gets to touch you. No one else gets to claim you. And no one gets to hurt you ever again.”

His words are a molten emblem, scorching through my veins, and I can’t help but press against him, my body craving the security his words offer. His ownership isn’t suffocating; it’s a lifeline, a tether keeping me from drifting into the abyss.

“And your father,” he continues, the menace in his tone vibrating against my ear, “if he so much as thinks about hurting you again...” His pause is heavy, laden with violence, and when he speaks again, his voice is hard, “I’ll tear him apart with my bare hands.”

The promise lingers between us, thick with the scent of sex almost like it’s sealing the pact. I don’t doubt him. Not when every fiber of his being is tensed like a coiled spring, ready to unleash hell on anyone who dares harm me.

“You’re mine, angel. No one touches what’s mine,” Lincoln whispers fiercely, sealing it with a kiss pressed against my pulse point—a kiss that feels like forever.

Lincoln’s chest rises and falls under my cheek, a raging sea, and his heart hammers a furious beat that syncs with the pulse in my own throat. His arms are wrapped around me tight. “You’re never seeing that bastard without me by your side.”

Anger crackles through him. I breathe deep, inhaling the scent of him and let it fill my lungs, chasing away the demons.

“Baby,” I murmur, my voice a soft counterpoint to his hard edges. I press closer, touching him. Silently pleading with him to calm down.

“Trust me,” he breathes, and I realize I do. Implicitly. Because in his eyes, dark and dangerous, there’s a promise more binding than any word spoken before a judge and jury. He’ll keep me safe; he’ll be my shield.

“Okay,” I whisper, tracing the line of his chest that dips beneath the sheets, my fingers skimming lower, teasing the edge where his abs meet hips.

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