Page 96 of Wicked Fury

“Don’t ‘good girl’ me, Lincoln Blackwood,” I warn. “I play nice until I don’t.”

His chuckle rumbles deep, sending a jolt of heat through my veins. “You like when I call you good girl in bed. I didn’t know it was situational.”

My whole body heats at his words, but luckily his brothers and Oakley don’t seem to be paying attention to us. Thank fuck, I can’t handle Penn calling me good girl as a joke and then Lincoln breaking the table with his body because it wasn’t funny.

“Come on, baby,” Lincoln announces abruptly, a cryptic edge to his voice that forces my mind into overdrive. “We’ve got something else to take care of.” His words hang in the air, and I can’t help but feel the pull of intrigue tugging at the corners of my curiosity.

“Something like what?” I ask, struggling to keep my tone even, to mask the crackle of interest that threatens to betray me. But he’s already turning away and without thinking, I’m following.

“Get on the bike, Iris,” is all he offers when we get outside, the command short, non-negotiable.

The ride is a blur of streetlights and shadow, time twisting until we’re standing before the house that haunts my nightmares—the place where sometimes I wanted to die. My father’s house looms before us, its facade a mocking testament to false fronts and hollow insides. The smell of wilted gardenias assaults me, sickly sweet, as if trying to cover the stench of past sins.

“Lincoln, why are we here?” The question is sharp and loaded, fired into the thick tension that surrounds us.

“To tie up some loose ends,” he answers simply, though it’s anything but. His eyes capture mine in the dim light, orbs with an intensity that swaddle me in a strange sense of safety despite the fear clawing at my insides.

Just being here has memories flooding in unbidden—shouts, crashes, the sharp sting of a belt. I swallow hard, bile rising in my throat.

“Remember, I’ve always got you,” Lincoln murmurs, close enough that I can feel the heat of him, a living barrier between me and the ghosts of this place. His arm brushes against mine, electric, grounding, reminding me that this is now, not then.

“Let’s do this,” I whisper back, feigning a bravery I don’t feel. As we step inside, the past wraps around me, a cold embrace. Every corner, every shadow whispers of the girl I used to be, the one who had nothing but scars to show for her pain.

But I’m not her anymore. I’m the girl who bites back. And I have Lincoln—a man whose darkness plays with my own, a twisted knight in tarnished armor.

The scent of aged wood and old money fills my nostrils as we breach the threshold. Lincoln’s strides are sure, a panther poised to claim his territory as he knocks loudly.

“Come in,” I hear my father call. My father stands at the foot of the grand staircase, his lips curling into what might pass for a smile on someone less contemptuous. “Lincoln Blackwood,” he says, each syllable dripping with disdain. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

Lincoln retorts, “We’re not here to exchange pleasantries.”

The air crackles with tension. I watch as two formidable men—one who raised me in tyranny and one who threatens to unmake me with every searing look—clash.

My father scoffs, a vain attempt to mask the flicker of fear in his eyes. “You think you can just walk in here and lay claim? She is my daughter.”

“Was,” Lincoln corrects him, the word slicing through the room like a knife. “She’s under my protection now.”

I should be outraged by the possessiveness in his tone, but instead, there’s this unruly heat coiling in my belly. Damn him.

My father’s eyes narrow, calculating. “What if I pull my funding for her schooling? What then? You want to be a lawyer, don’t you, Iris?”

Lincoln’s laughter is rich, warm honey laced with cyanide. “I’ve already made the call to pay her tuition at St. Charles. Iris is brilliant and she will be whatever it is she wants to be. But most of all, she will be my wife. She will be a Blackwood.”

“Is that so?” My father’s voice is a viper’s hiss.

“Dead ass,” Lincoln replies, the fire in his stare searing into my skin. “She’s got more strength in her little finger than you have in your entire portfolio.”

I’m caught, breathless, watching the interaction unfold. Lincoln’s unwavering stance is so fucking sexy, and my body is responding before my mind can catch up. He’s fighting for me, and it’s the most erotic thing I’ve ever experienced.

Lincoln’s hand finds the small of my back, a touch that sends a jolt straight to my core. “You will never hurt her again. I needed to bring her here so that she can see for herself that you hold no power any longer.”

Lincoln’s mother walks into the foyer, her eyes wide for a moment before they narrow on me. “Don’t involve yourself,” my father mutters, but his voice is hollow, defeated.

I feel something shift inside me. The tendrils of fear that have held me captive for so long begin to shrivel and die in the heat of Lincoln’s conviction.

“I’ve seen the scars you left on her,” Lincoln growls suddenly, his voice low and laced with malice that sizzles through the heavy air. “The only reason I’m letting you live is because Iris is good. You’re still her father, and I don’t want her to look at me every day and think about how I snuffed you out. Even if I do think it would be better if she was a fucking orphan.” His hand hovers just inches from my spine, as if the very memory of touching my scars might send him over the edge. Once Lincoln has been set off, there’s no reeling him back in, and he’s trying to prevent that.

My father looks pallid. His mouth is a thin line, cornered by Lincoln’s smoldering wrath. “Stay away from her,” Lincoln warns, muscles taut beneath his fitted shirt, tattoos peeking out like dark secrets. “If you so much as think about hurting her again, she will watch me cut your fucking hands off. Got it?”

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