Page 90 of Wicked Fury

Nicole growls, wearing a mask of distorted fury. She charges again, and this time her fingers find purchase on my hair. The sting sharpens my senses, and my response is primal. I reach up, tangling my fingers in the straw-like extensions that cling desperately to her scalp.

“Get off!” she screams, her nails clawing at my arms.

“Shoddy work on these,” I hiss, giving a fierce yank. The extensions give way, and strands of artificial hair float between us like candy corn-colored confetti.

“Let go, you bitch!” Nicole screeches, her blows flailing wildly.

I dance back, avoiding her fists with a grace born of necessity. My breath comes in short bursts, the scent of her body odor clogging my nostrils.

“Lincoln chose me, Nicole. Get over it,” I throw the words at her like daggers, each one calculated to wound.

She howls, the sound unhinged and feral, as if I’ve struck at the very core of her madness. And in that moment, I know I have her exactly where I want her—unraveled, exposed, and on record. My knuckles whiten as I grip Nicole’s wrist, twisting just enough to send a jolt of pain through her arm. She hisses, an animal cornered but not yet defeated. The world shrinks to the space between us—breath hot and ragged, the smell of rage and desperation mixing with the sharp tang of fear.

“You think you’re so perfect!” Nicole spits, anger infused in every syllable. Her other hand flies toward my face, nails first.

I duck, a laugh bubbling up despite the adrenaline surging through my veins. “Better than your cheap hair job, sweetie.”

Then, crashing through the tension like a wrecking ball, comes the sound of heavy footsteps. A familiar rush of relief floods me, even as I keep my attention locked on Nicole. Lincoln bursts into the hallway, his brothers flanking him like guard dogs sensing danger.

“Get off of her!” Lincoln’s voice booms, thick with urgency. His eyes scan over us, assessing the situation with that quarterback precision.

“Nicole,” Graham growls, a warning clear in his tone.

Penn, always the wildcard, steps forward, wearing an irreverent grin. “Ladies, if you wanted to wrestle, all you had to do was say so. Next time, let’s make it Jell-O, huh?” His chuckle is a near-perfect counterpoint to the tension, absurd and oddly calming.

I can’t help it; a snort escapes me, and for a split second, Nicole’s maniacal glare flickers with confusion. That’s Penn for you—turning a brawl into a bad porno with one quip. I don’t know whether to hug him or smack him upside the head.

“Shut up! Shut up! Shut up!” Nicole snaps, but the bite’s gone from her bark, replaced by a shaky uncertainty. It’s hard to play the femme fatale when someone suggests gelatin as your next battleground.

Lincoln moves closer, and suddenly I’m keenly aware of the heat radiating off his body. He doesn’t touch me, not yet, but the promise is there in the air.

Nicole is screaming, wailing even as she hurls insults at me. Jeremiah’s voice cuts through the chaos, sharp as a knife. “Shut her the fuck up, I’m calling the cops!” His declaration slices into my adrenaline-fueled haze, grounding me back to the gravity of what’s unfolding.

“Fuck,” I mutter under my breath. Nicole’s antics aren’t just campus drama anymore; we’re in real-world trouble territory now. Penn and Graham move like they’re one person, instinctively knowing their roles in this. Graham’s got Nicole pinned faster than I can blink, his broad frame an immovable barrier against her thrashing limbs.

“Are you hurt?” Lincoln’s hands are on me, gentle but searching, and it’s like every point of contact is a balm to my frayed nerves. My skin prickles with the need to lean into him, to hide in the fortress of his arms.

“Scratches and bruises. Nothing I can’t handle,” I say, but my voice is steadier than I expect. It’s not a lie; right now, the sting fades into insignificance. “I got her confession recorded,” I tell him, holding up my phone. “She confessed to the drug test and the false rape allegations.”

“Let me take you home,” he murmurs, his intense eyes scanning me for any sign of serious damage. I expected him to be elated about the confession, but all I see is worry for me.

Lincoln’s presence is a tether, pulling me back from the edge where panic claws at my mind. I let him guide me a few steps away.

“Lincoln,” I start, not sure what I want to say, only that his name tastes like safety on my lips.

“Shh, it’s okay, angel,” he says, and I feel his lips brush the top of my head, a silent promise. The world could be ending, but right here, in the haven of his hold, everything else falls away.

The clatter of a plastic hair extension hitting the ground snaps me back to reality. Penn, ever the jester even in chaos, holds up another strand like a trophy fisherman. “Wow, Nicole, did you rip these off a barbie doll? It’s kind of... desperate,” he drawls, his tone dripping with so much snark it could corrode metal.

“Lincoln!” Nicole screeches, her voice raw, eyes wild and fixed on me as if I’m some witch who’s charmed Lincoln away.

“If we didn’t need her to confess to everything she did, I’d shoot her in the fucking skull,” Graham mutters, but there’s no humor in his eyes. They dart around, gauging the threat level like sensors—his way of coping when shit hits the fan.

Lincoln’s phone goes off, a sharpness in the eerily quiet. His thumb moves swiftly over the screen, and I strain to catch a glimpse of what’s got him so on edge.

“Who is it?” My voice slices through the silence, demanding, unyielding.

“Brandon.” Lincoln’s voice is a growl, low and dangerous. He turns the phone toward me, and I see the text, the desperate plea spelled out in shaky words:

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