Page 82 of Wicked Fury

The air in the cramped basement room of the house is thick with tension, a palpable force that sticks to my skin like the residue of a party. Our reflections cast long shadows over the concrete walls, four columns plotting.

“Simple extraction,” I growl, my voice low, rolling out plans like loaded dice. “We corner him, squeeze out the truth about Nicole’s little bullshit.”

“Think he’ll crack?” asks one of my brothers, his question slicing through the dim light.

“Like an eggshell,” I sneer, my smirk a sharp blade in the darkness.

We leave our home intent on heading to the football frat house on campus. Brandon lives there, and it’s our best chance to catch him. According to Ramsey, he’s there, all alone, which is damn near unheard of at a frat house especially with all of them supposed to be out of town for an exhibition game. How lucky for us that while we were doing our thing, my cousin was doing his own. I really should give him more fucking credit.

The house looms before us. My heart beats against my ribcage. The knowledge that we are going to start getting some fucking answers spurning me on. We pause, each of us looking at the others and giving a single nod, then slip inside. What’s understood doesn’t need to be voiced.

Hallways stretch out, echoing the soft scuff of our boots. And then we’re there, outside Brandon’s door. His name plate a taunt, and also quite fucking helpful. Whoever’s dumbass idea it was to label doors needs a reality check of what can happen. A flicker of anticipation licks at my insides, a hunger for the confrontation to come.

“Brandon!” I bark, my voice shattering the silence like a fist through glass. The door swings wide as Penn fucking kicks it open, leaving a size thirteen dent in the flimsy wood. Goddamn big foot motherfucker.

“Fuck, kicking shit gives me a chubby.” My degenerate brother says while grabbing his crotch.

There he stands—the kicker, the dumbass participating in Nicole’s game. His eyes widen, the whites gleaming like admissions of guilt.

“Lincoln, I?—”

“Save it,” I cut him off, my words ice, my stare fire. “You and I are going to have a little chat about Nicole and her penchant for storytelling.”

He stumbles backward, the scent of his fear now a tangible thing, curling into my nostrils. I step forward, into his space. He’s no match for us, for me. No one is.

“Talk,” I command, the word a boom in the stillness, “and you better make it good.”

The taste of power is sweet on my tongue. But even as I revel in it, Iris’ image flares behind my eyelids. Soon, I remind myself. First Nicole’s web of deceit, then back to the warmth of her arms.

I glance over at Jeremiah and Graham who are enforcers, arms crossed and glaring at Brandon. He needs to know that if he, by some miracle managed to get by me, they’ll fuck him up. But it’s Penn that has Brandon’s attention…walking around the room like he owns the place, picking things up and tossing them on the floor with one hand and flicking his lighter with the other. He’s itching for some violence and none of us miss that fact.

“Alright, alright,” Brandon stammers, his voice quivering. “I’ll tell you everything.”

My lips curl up in a promise of retribution. This is just the beginning, and I’m already thirsty for more.

Brandon’s eyes dart around the cramped dorm room, looking everywhere but at me. His Adam’s apple bobs—a mouse caught in a trap set by wolves. The Blackwood presence is a palpable force, squeezing the air from the space.

“Nicole,” he gasps out, “she…she played me.”

“Disappointed, but not surprised,” Penn chimes in and his tone is nothing but meant to be instigating.

“Did she now?” My voice drips with mockery, and I lean in close enough to catch the sharp tang of his sweat. “How exactly did ‘sweet, innocent’ Nicole play you?”

He swallows hard, eyes flicking to the tattoos crawling up my arm. “She said you were dangerous, that if I went against you, it’d be my word against a Blackwood’s. I was pissed at the beat down you gave me and I wanted to report you.” His voice trembles like a plucked string, off-tune and desperate.

“Damaged my car, didn’t you, Brandon?” I prod, circling him like a predator. “Because of her lies?”

“Y-Yes, I helped.” He’s a broken faucet, truth spilling over. “She told me you hurt her... that you wouldn’t get in trouble because of your name for what you did to me. ‘Football is a tough game.’”

I chuckle, low and menacing, the sound of power unchecked. “Nicole’s got a talent for fiction, doesn’t she?”

His nod is frantic, eager to appease. “She showed me bruises, said you?—”

“Enough.” I cut him off, the lie too sour on my tongue. “You should’ve known better than to trust someone full of mascara tears.”

The musky scent of sweat and fear hangs heavy in the cramped dorm room, mingling with the stale odor of what was last night’s pizza. Brandon’s eyes are wide, darting between me and my brothers like a cornered animal.

“Let’s make one thing crystal clear,” I begin, my voice low and steady, “The game you’ve been playing with Nicole ends tonight.”

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