12. Iris

The relentless throb behind my temples is a not-so-gentle reminder of last night's reckless choices. It's the day after Lincoln accosted me to that stupid away game, and the hollow echo of cheering still rings in my ears. I'm running on fumes—a toxic blend of adrenaline and caffeine—and the only thing I crave is a slice of solitude. A chance to peel off the mask and just breathe. I was lucky that the pills that Nicole thought were Xanax actually were and not some sort of roofie. I made it home in one piece and left my phone off until this morning. I still haven't responded to Dad, which has been gnawing at me all day. I should have held it together, made something up last night, and it would have been over.

Dragging myself across campus, the air bites at my cheeks, sharp and unforgiving. My heeled boots click-clack against the concrete with an urgency that mirrors the racing of my heart. The library looms in the near future, where I'm supposed to meet Nicole for our political science cram session. But even my inner scholar needs to play hooky sometimes.

"Get it together," I mutter under my breath, biting down on my lip hard enough to taste blood. I sidestep a cluster of freshmen, too bright-eyed and bushy-tailed for this time of day. I'm hyper-aware of everyone I come into contact with because I haven't seen or talked to Lincoln since I bailed midway through his game. I might not have known my stepbrother for very long, but I know him well enough to venture that this little spat of ours isn't over.

My dorm building emerges from the collage of collegiate Gothic architecture and seeing it makes me feel just a tiny bit better. I push through the entrance, the scent of stale coffee and desperation greeting me like an old friend. Feet pounding up the stairs, I spare a quick glance at my watch. Every tick mocks me; time is a luxury I can't afford.

I freeze, my hand hovering inches from the brass knob. The door, once again, isn't how I left it. It's partially ajar, a sliver of my private world exposed to anyone who walks by. A cold dread snakes up my spine as Lincoln's face flashes across my mind. His eyes seem to be hiding secrets and forbidden desires. He's been here before, uninvited, cloaked in that smug smirk that says he knows exactly how to get under my skin. Of course he'd do this. I knew he would be mad that I left his game, but I've been so wrapped up in my head about how I'm going to handle Dad that I hadn't really given Lincoln much thought.

"Seriously?" I mutter under my breath, my heart pumping a rapid beat against my ribcage. I nudge the door with the tip of my boot, sending an echo of trepidation down the deserted hallway. A tightness squeezes at my chest, half expecting to see Lincoln brooding on my bed again.

As the door swings wide, I'm assaulted by the chaos that used to be my neatly kept room, and it's a visual dissonance that screams violation. My sanctuary is turned upside down. Drawers vomit their contents onto the carpet, clothes tangled with papers in an unkempt pile. Every instinct screams run, but I'm rooted to the spot, anger boiling over.

"That fucking asshole," my voice comes out choked, the edges tinged with hysteria. I underestimated him. I really did. I know he likes to play games, but this was just malicious.

The room reeks of desperation, like someone clawed through my belongings, searching, searching for a piece of me to claim. My attention flicks to the bed, the sheets twisted in a torrid mess, as if echoing the turmoil inside me. I can almost hear Lincoln's husky chuckle, the sound dripping with innuendo, taunting me.

A bitter laugh escapes me, my sarcastic armor clinking into place. There's nothing sexy about this mess, nothing erotic in the invasion. Yet, the thought of Lincoln, with all of his predatory grace, sifting through my things sparks a dangerous trill in me.

I swallow hard, pushing back the unwanted arousal. This is no time for twisted fantasies. My stepbrother has been here, invaded my most intimate space and touched what's mine, and I'll be damned if I let him get away with it.

I stride to my dresser, and my heart clenches as I see my trinkets—little pieces of a past I cling to—scattered like the aftermath of a storm. I reach for the silver frame, its corner dented, the photo of Mom and me smiling through cracked glass. A sharp inhale, and I prop it back up, giving us both a semblance of peace.

"Okay, let's find you," I mutter, eyes scanning the chaos for the locket's familiar gleam. It's not just any trinket; it's my sanity on days when everything else is a dumpster fire. My fingers sift through the debris, pushing aside textbooks with dog-eared pages and crumpled notes scribbled with political theories.

Nothing.

"Dammit," I hiss, my throat tight as desperation scratches at its walls. This morning, of all mornings, I chose to leave the locket behind, thinking the gym's sweat and grime would do it no favors. I knew if I didn't go to the gym first thing after I woke up, that I'd end up dragging ass more than I am the entire day. As if mocking me, the empty space on my dresser where it usually sits when I'm not wearing it is stark, accusing.

"Come on, Iris, think. Where the hell is it?" I shove clothes aside, crawl to check under the bed, the void in my chest growing with each passing second. The locket isn't here, it's just not. And with that realization, panic doesn't just set in; it crashes over me like a tidal wave.

My hands tremble, not with delicate femininity, but with raw, unfiltered fear. My blood boils. From Lincoln's perspective, one of privilege and power, I'm shitty for disobeying him and leaving the game without his permission. This is not even on the same level as what I did. Angry tears fill my eyes, but I refuse to let them fall. I blink them back as fast as I can and brush away the ones that escape as if they don't exist.

When I turn to face the other wall, I'm taken aback by the scarlet letters glare at me, a stark contrast against the purity of my mirror. "Whore!" it screams at me in a shade that mimics the color of sin, or blood—I can't decide which is more fitting. My breath hitches; my pulse races. Which one of his jersey chasers let him borrow their lipstick to insult me? It's definitely not one of mine.

"Of course, my father would pick a gold-digger with a psychotic son," I mutter, my voice laced with malice, but even that doesn't mask the shiver that runs down my spine.

Before I can even compose a scathing retort to an absent adversary, the metallic click of a key entering the lock jolts me into action. A surge of adrenaline kicks my heart into overdrive. Not now.

I dash across the room, a mess of long chestnut waves and desperation. My fingers fumble with the doorknob, slamming it shut just as it begins to inch open. I lean back against the door, my breathing erratic, my eyes closed for a scant moment as I try to collect myself. It's either Lincoln returning to do more damage or my RA, and I'm not in the mood to see either of them.

On the other side of the door, the handle gives another jiggle, persistent, insistent. They're not leaving, not without a fight.

"Give me a minute!" I snap, the fake smile in my voice crumbling into exasperation. Can't a girl catch a break?

My back slams against the door, holding it shut with a force born of desperation. The old wood groans under my weight, a creaking protest that mirrors the panic rising in my chest. I brace myself, ready for confrontation, but as I look through the peephole, nothing prepares me for the face on the other side.

"Dad," I breathe out, my voice betraying none of the dread coiling tight in my belly.

I manage to grab my backpack and open the door just a sliver and slip out, locking it behind me before I turn to face my father. His eyes, cold and hard like chips of flint, narrow at the sight of me. His lips are a thin line of disapproval, his jaw set in that all-too-familiar way that spells trouble. As I sidestep him, he reaches out, fingers biting into my arm with an iron grip.

"Ow," I hiss through clenched teeth, feigning nonchalance. Pain lances through my skin, but I won't give him the satisfaction of seeing how deep it cuts.

"Where have you been?" he demands, and it's like he's screaming in the silence of the hallway.

"Super busy with studying," I retort, mustering a smile so fake it could belong in a wax museum. The smirk I usually wear like armor feels heavy on my lips, but it's all I've got to shield me from his wrath.

I can feel the heat of his anger radiating off him; it's tangible, a pressure in the air that makes my lungs feel two sizes too small. But I've danced this dance before, stepped on these burning coals barefoot and emerged with only the faintest scent of smoke clinging to my clothes.

He hasn't laid a hand on me since Mom died, a fact I cling to like a charm. If I can just keep the waters calm, maybe he'll drift away, leaving me to navigate this current catastrophe alone.

"Look at me when I'm talking to you," he snaps, giving my arm another wrenching twist that elicits an involuntary whimper. It's only then that I realize that I'm looking anywhere but his face.

"Sorry, I was just…lost in thought." The lie slides off my tongue, smooth as satin. I lock eyes with him, green meeting ice, and pour every ounce of false sincerity I possess into my gaze. "It won't happen again."

Keep him talking, keep him outside. Every second buys me time, time to figure out this mess, to scrub away the vitriol scrawled across my mirror. I need space to breathe, to plan, to survive.

I snap the lock into place, a barrier between the chaos of my room and my father's prying eyes. "I have a tutoring session," I blurt out, my voice sharper than intended, "at the library, for political science." The words tumble over each other, a frantic waterfall of excuses.

He narrows his eyes, a storm brewing in the icy depths. "You've been ignoring my messages, Iris." His voice is a whip, each word lashing against me. "And you're off schedule."

"Sorry." The apology tastes like ash on my tongue, bitter and dry. "I just… lost track of time." My attention flickers to the door I've just locked, thankful for its flimsy promise of secrecy.

He steps closer, his presence suffocating, and I fight the urge to step back. "Your mother would be disappointed."

The mention of her sends a shiver down my spine, but I choke down the lump in my throat. "I'll do better." I force my lips into a smile that doesn't reach my eyes. "I just got caught up in all the tutoring and homework and studying of my own that I kept meaning to call you back?—"

I'm not able to finish rambling because my father is shaking his head. "I didn't come all the way out here for excuses, Iris." He's not convinced, I can tell, but he lets it slide—for now.

Inside, I'm screaming. If he saw the word scrawled across my mirror, the hate etched into glass, he'd tear my world apart looking for answers. And I'm not ready to give him any because for the first time in a long time, I have none to give. Lincoln is an absolute wild card. I have no idea what his next move is, and I definitely can't anticipate when it will be. For all I know, he could pop up here in the hallway and offer to give my father a tour of my destroyed room.

I need to get my dad out of here, and fast.

"Would you mind giving me a ride over to the library? I'm running behind and you, out of everyone, know how tight my schedule is," I try to keep the trembling out of my voice, and by some stroke of luck, it seems to have worked. Dad doesn't answer me, but instead begins walking down the hall toward the exit. The air is heavy with the scent of gasoline and impending rain as we stride toward Dad's car. I guess I'm not walking quickly enough because my father's grip is back on my arm and it's like a vise that dictates our pace. I'm counting every step away from what used to be my sanctuary, trying to keep my breathing steady, when I catch sight of my worst fucking nightmare.

Lincoln Blackwood lounges on his stupid crotch rocket like he owns the damn campus, and his intimidating stare fixed on me. An unbidden shiver crawls up my spine; those eyes have seen too much and want far too much from someone who has nothing to give. The tattoos on his arm seem to shift with the muscle beneath them like a silent threat or a promise. I see the way Lincoln's eyes are fixed on my father's hand gripping my arm and by the way his jaw flexes, I'm getting the vibe that he doesn't like it. I don't know what he's doing, why he's waiting outside when he clearly has no qualms about entering my dorm.

"Is everything alright?" My father's voice slices through my thoughts, sharp as glass.

"Of course," I try to sound easy going and cheery, but my eyes are still locked with Lincoln's. He's a storm cloud in human form, and I can't help but wonder if the hurricane that tore through my room is planning on doing any more damage. He's bold, invasive, and a little bit twisted.

"Get in the car, Iris." Dad's command is terse, and I oblige, not because I'm eager to obey, but because it puts a metal barrier between me and Lincoln. The door slams with a finality that echoes in my chest.

As we pull out of the lot, Lincoln kicks his bike to life, the roar of the engine a wild thing that claws at the inside of my skull. I watch him through the rearview mirror, heart hammering against my ribs. If he decides to approach, to challenge my father, it'll be an explosion of testosterone and rage that I will ultimately be blamed for.

I never thought I'd be looking forward to a tutoring session.