Page 85 of Wicked Fury

He recoils, as if slapped, his lips twisting into a sneer. “Bold words, Iris.” His voice drips with derision. “Do you really think Lincoln can offer you what you need? Protection? Love?” He scoffs, the sound grating against my resolve. “He’s just a boy with more brawn than brains who thinks toying with you will get him the reaction he wants.”

“He’s never taken his belt off and beat me with it because I got a ninety-eight instead of one hundred percent on a test,” The retort leaps from my lips, a snarl full of sarcasm. My heart hammers against my ribs, a wild urging to flee, but I stand my ground. I won’t let him see fear in my eyes—not now, not ever again.

“Your bond with Lincoln is nothing but a farce,” he taunts, his eyes gleaming with cruel satisfaction. “A little college fling spun out of control. And when you fall, Iris, remember I warned you.”

His words are meant to wound, to rip open old insecurities and leave them bleeding. But I’ve bled enough for one lifetime. I’ve grown thorns in place of tears, and I will not be pricked by the likes of him.

“Keep your warnings,” I snap, my pulse throbbing at the base of my throat.

Out of nowhere, a shadow looms over us, heavy with an unspoken threat. My breath catches as I pivot toward the intrusion, and there he is—Lincoln Blackwood. His presence slashes through the tension.

“Get the fuck away from her,” he commands, voice low and laced with a promise of retribution. The ground seems to tremble under his words, the air charged with his fury. They’re not just words; they’re a war cry.

“Lincoln,” I breathe out, my heart skipping a beat then pounding double-time. He doesn’t glance my way, his focus locked on the man who’s haunted my nightmares.

“I won’t tell you again,” Lincoln continues, stepping forward until he’s a fortress between me and my father. “Your intimidation ends here.”

“Ah, the valiant playboy,” my father sneers, but the arrogance in his eyes falters. “Playing hero for your little conquest? Did your father put you up to this?”

“Conquest?” Lincoln chuckles, dark and humorless. “Iris isn’t a prize to be won. She’s a force you’ll never understand, let alone control.” His fists clench at his sides, and I know that can’t mean anything good for my father.

“Blackwood,” my father says the name like a curse. “Don’t think your family’s legacy gives you any power here. I’m not intimidated by your last name. Not anymore.”

“Legacy?” Lincoln arches an eyebrow, his smirk all teeth. “This isn’t about legacies. It’s about respect. Something you lost the right to claim the moment you laid hands on Iris.”

“Your threats don’t scare me,” my father retorts, but his voice lacks conviction.

“They’re not threats,” Lincoln counters, stepping closer, his towering frame casting a shadow that swallows my father whole. “I will literally fucking kill you if you touch her again. Because you know the Blackwood name so well, you know I can do that, and you’ll never be thought of again. There will be no consequences. You will cease to be remembered by anyone.”

His words are a caress and a strike—all at once. Lincoln Blackwood, my forbidden savior, my stepbrother—the one man who can make my father flinch.

“Understand this,” Lincoln leans in, his voice a velvet growl. “You hurt her, you deal with me. And I swear, I will bring hell down upon you.”

My skin prickles with heat, each word from Lincoln igniting something wild within me. And God help me, I want more.

A fist clenches inside me, knuckles white with the effort of holding back the scream that’s clawing at my throat. Lincoln’s stature is a fortress in front of me, his back a shield against the onslaught of my father’s hurtful words.

“Enough running your mouth, Blackwood,” my father sneers, voice laced with contempt. “You think you can protect her? She’s nothing but?—”

The rest of his sentence is cut off by the sharp sound of Lincoln’s fist connecting with his jaw. It’s a visceral noise that resonates in the suddenly silent space between breaths. My heart hammers against my ribcage erratically.

Finally, someone hurt him back.

Shock ripples through me, cold and swift like a winter stream. Lincoln stands over my father, his chest heaving, eyes blazing with unspoken promises of violence if provoked further. “Talk about her like that again, and it won’t be just a punch,” Lincoln growls, his voice a low rumble.

I should feel horrified, appalled by the violence. Instead, there’s a thrumming deep within me, that syncs with Lincoln’s wicked fury.

“Don’t make me hurt you in front of her,” he spits out, standing tall, every inch the protector that my father never was.

My father stumbles back, hand pressed against where Lincoln hit him, disbelief etching lines into his forehead. He looks smaller somehow, diminished. I’m torn between wanting to dance on the ashes of his authority and the fear that claws at my insides, whispering warnings of repercussions

Lincoln’s stare meets mine, feelings swirling within there. His eyes anchor me, a lifeline in the midst of my world capsizing. It’s raw and intense, that look, speaking volumes without a single word uttered. I see it all there—the fervor, the rebellion, the quiet oath that he’ll burn the world down before letting harm come to me again.

“I’ve got you,” he mouths, barely audible over my ragged breaths, not a promise but a statement, as if I ever doubted. The corner of his mouth twitches upwards; that smile of his that’s infuriatingly endearing.

Out of nowhere, my father swings on Lincoln and is unsuccessful. Lincoln catches the punch and hits my father square in the face with a punishing blow.

“You turned my daughter into a fucking whore. When I get her back, I’m going to do worse than she’s ever seen. Iris! You will obey me,” my father bellows, and it’s too much. I need air. I need space. I need Lincoln. But not like this.

---