Page 84 of Wicked Fury

“Let’s talk about your appalling choices lately,” he snarls, each syllable dipped in hate. He steps closer, and I can see the familiar fire of condemnation in his eyes. “He’s using you to hurt his mother. He sees how weak you are and how easy you jumped into his bed.”

“Lincoln is not up for discussion.” My tone is steel wrapped in velvet, but it trembles. Damn it, it trembles.

“Of course he is. Everything you do reflects on me, Iris. Your…association with that boy is unacceptable.” His voice cuts through the air, sharp as the November breeze.

“Association?” I scoff, disbelief coloring my laugh. “You make it sound so clinical. Lincoln and I are?—”

“He’s your stepbrother.” He looms over me now, and I can smell the bitter cigar smoke that’s always reminded me of restrictions and expectations—cloying and suffocating.

“Really, Dad?” I arch a brow, forcing bravado into my stance. “Because he happens to be related to the gold-digger you decided to marry instead of running through her and leaving like you usually do?”

He steps closer, invading my personal space. “I will not allow?—”

“Allow?” I interrupt, incredulous. “Last I checked, you don’t ‘allow’ me anything. I’m not your property to smack around because I can’t read your mind or adhere to your unrealistic expectations.”

“Is that what he tells you?” he spits out, his tone dripping with derision. “Fills your head with ideas like that so he can take control? That’s all he wants, Iris. He wants to control you to get to me.”

“Unlike you, Lincoln doesn’t tell me what to think or feel.” My voice is confident, sure, and the tone breaks the illusion of calm. “He doesn’t need to leash me with expectations.”

“You’re making a mistake, Iris.” He’s close enough now that I can count the threads of silver in his hair—a crown of control atop his head.

“Maybe,” I concede, my expression fierce. “But it’s mine to make. Not yours.”

“Remember who pays for your education,” he warns, his threat unsheathed.

“Always dangling that carrot, aren’t you?” I retort, rolling my eyes. “Well, chew on this—I’d rather starve than live off your terms.”

The silence stretches between us, thick with unspoken ultimatums and the weight of a gilded cage. I can almost taste the tang of iron and resolve in the air. This is not how I envisioned tonight unfolding—instead of kisses and whispered promises, I’m dancing with old ghosts in familiar cages.

“Speak to me like that again, and?—”

“And what?” I cut him off, my voice low and dangerous. “You’ll do what you always do? Punish me? Try it. I fucking dare you.”

There’s a flicker of something dark in his gaze, like the first whisper of an encroaching storm. But I’m done being afraid of thunder.

I pivot on my heel, the soles of my sneakers kissing the pavement with a sharp sound. The night air clings to my skin, a cool contrast to the heat flaring in my chest. I’ve had enough of his vitriol, enough of being consumed by guilt and twisted daughterly duty.

“Where do you think you’re going?” he barks, the familiar note of command slicing through the distance I put between us.

“Away from you!” I toss over my shoulder, my words laced with the anger of years suppressed. Each step is a small victory, a declaration of independence from the man who thinks he owns my will.

But then it happens—his fingers clamp around my arm like a vise, yanking me back into a world where I’m never quite free. His grip is like steel; it’s possessive, it’s painful—it’s everything I loathe.

“Let go,” I grind out, my voice a sharp edge, as I try to wriggle free. It’s a destructive fight of push and pull, the kind that leaves bruises beneath the surface.

“Listen to me,” he growls, but all I can focus on is the way his thumb digs into the soft flesh near my elbow, threatening to leave a mark that won’t fade by morning. I do something then that I’ve never done before.

“I’ll never listen to you again,” I hiss, adrenaline and disgust mingling in my veins. I twist, ignoring the spike of pain as I fight against his hold. “Touch me again, and I swear?—”

His laugh is a low rumble, devoid of humor. “You’ll what? Run to Lincoln?”

“Maybe I will,” I snap, defiance flashing in my eyes. “He’s more of a man than you’ll ever be.”

“Is that so?” he sneers, but I don’t give him the satisfaction of seeing me flinch. Because even now, with his hand gripping, I’m already tasting the freedom that waits for me in Lincoln’s arms. And nothing—not even this—can take that away.

My joints lock, muscles coil. It’s now or never. With every ounce of confidence I possess, I jerk my arm back. It slips from his fingers—a fleeting victory—and the stinging sensation where he clutched me fuels my anger.

I spit the words, my voice a serrated whisper, “I’m done letting you hurt me.”

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