Page 83 of Wicked Fury

“Y-yes, Lincoln,” Brandon stutters, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows hard.

“Twenty-four hours,” I say, stepping closer until we are inches apart. “You get us a recording of Nicole confessing to the drug test sabotage and those fake bruises, or else.”

“Or else what?” His voice trembles, but there’s a flicker of defiance in his gaze.

“Or else we’ll make sure your football career becomes a very painful memory,” my smirk is cold, devoid of any real humor as I lean in, invading his personal space. “We’ll take turns teaching you about real pain until you’re just a ghost story they whisper about in these halls.”

“Lincoln, I—” he starts to plead, but I cut him off.

“Tick-tock, kicker boy. I suggest you move fast.” My tone is sharp, each word meant to cut into him. “Nicole played you for a fool, but if you don’t deliver... let’s just say you won’t be walking straight enough to kick anything.”

He nods, desperation etched into every line of his face. “I’ll do it,” he says, the fight draining out of him.

“Smart choice,” I reply, the edge to my words is cutting.

I think of Iris then, how she would disapprove of this scene, but also how she stands as my antithesis to Nicole’s fake charm. I ache for her touch, her clarity.

“Get out of my sight,” I sneer at Brandon, dismissing him with a flick of my wrist. “Before I forget I’m not the monster Nicole painted me to be.”

Brandon bolts, his sneakers squeaking a frantic rhythm against the linoleum of the hallway as he ducks around the corner. I can almost smell the bitter note of fear he leaves hanging in the air - it’s pathetic, but it serves its purpose. He’ll get what we need if he knows what’s good for him. Hate to have to shatter that kicking leg and drop him off in bumfuck nowhere.

I lean against the wall, feeling the cool press of plaster through my fitted t-shirt, and let out a slow breath. The adrenaline starts to ebb away, replaced by a familiar ache deep in my chest—Iris. Her image flickers behind my eyelids: those striking eyes that strip me bare, cheekbones flushed with passion, lips parted in a silent plea.

“Bro, you good?” My brother Graham’s voice slices through the haze of my thoughts, grounding me.

“Yeah,” I mutter, pushing off from the wall, “just thinking about the next move.”

“Nicole won’t know what hit her,” he says with a smirk. His confidence is infectious, but there’s more at stake than just exposing Nicole’s deceit.

It’s Iris.

As we stride back down the hallway, the echo of our steps fills the silence. I picture Iris’ mess of chestnut waves, the way they’d feel tangled between my fingers.

“Lincoln,” my brother snaps again, pulling me back to the sticky corridor and the lingering scent of cheap cologne and desperation.

“Focus,” he says, and he’s right.

I straighten up, rolling my shoulders back as I lock down the hunger, the raw need for her. There’s work to be done first.

“Let’s do this,” I say, the edge back in my voice. “We’ve got a roach to catch.”

Chapter 35

Iris

Idon’t know what the Blackwood brothers did last night, but I know I didn’t sleep once they all left the house in unison. As if Oakley and I wouldn’t hear their boots clomping through the house. Between the lack of sleep, the physical exertion and all the anxiety and drama in my life my body feels like it’s running on fumes today except for now.

The library doors close behind me, and every nerve in my body hums with anticipation. I’m almost running now, but who can blame me? Each step on the worn cobblestone path is one closer to Lincoln. I don’t know what we are and for the first time in my life I’m not racking my brain to figure out the equation. I just know that I feel relief that I’m about to be wrapped in the arms of my own personal brand of addiction.

I draw in a sharp breath, the cool air biting at my lungs. It’s like this every damn time. The ache when he’s not around is a gnawing thing, fierce and unrelenting. No one’s ever made me feel like I’m walking a tightrope between insanity and ecstasy.

The scent of late autumn mingles with the crispness of impending winter. My footsteps sound sharp on the pathway, echoing my racing heart.

“Going to meet the tattooed covered bastard?”

That voice—it’s not the gravelly timbre that sets my skin ablaze. It’s not the one I’m aching to hear. It’s a cold splash of reality, chilling me from the inside out. I freeze mid-step, my breath catching. There, beneath the twisted branches of an ancient oak, stands my father, his silhouette imposing against the fading light.

“What—what are you doing here?” My words feel like they’re slogging through molasses, heavy and slow. I stupidly thought maybe he was going to back off since he stopped calling and texting me to berate me.