14. Iris

The seconds stretch like hours as I tap my foot against the cool tile of the classroom floor, waiting. The crisp scent of paper and that vaguely musty aroma of old textbooks fill the air. While that's my usual comfort zone, there's a sour twist of anticipation curdling in my stomach. Professor Hastings finally starts handing back our graded tests, his thin lips curved in a perpetual semi-smirk.

"Shelby," he calls out, my last name hanging in the air like a guillotine's blade.

I reach for the paper, my fingers brushing against his as he relinquishes the test with reluctance, or maybe it's just my imagination. But then, the grade slaps me in the face. It's a big, fat D glaring up at me from the page—and I'm pretty sure my imagination has nothing to do with this nightmare.

"Excuse me?" I blurt out, my voice betraying a crack. Smirks and whispers buzz around me like flies to a carcass. Heat singes my cheeks. How could I have possibly gotten a D? There's no way in hell I bombed this thing—I know Rousseau's social contract theories better than I know the intricate lines of scars hidden beneath my clothes.

"Problem, Miss Shelby?" Professor Hastings drawls, arching an eyebrow as if I'm some kind of intriguing specimen under his microscope.

"Uh, yeah. There's a mistake." My hand shoots up, nails digging into my palm to keep it steady. "This can't be right."

"Are you questioning my grading methods?" His voice is smooth, but it's laced with something else—amusement, condescension…delight?

"Of course not, Professor." I force a laugh, hoping it sounds more casual than hysterical. "I mean, I don't see how this is possible, a D? Must be a mix-up."

"Or perhaps you're not as infallible as you believe." His tone is low, patronizing, and it echoes off the walls, etching into my skull. My classmates are getting a kick out of this, their eyes flicking back and forth between us, eager for a show.

"Right." I chew on my lip, tasting the metallic hint of anxiety. "Silly me."

The sarcasm drips from my tongue, heavy and bitter. I sit back down, the bright red grade burning a hole through the desk, through my meticulously curated GPA, and straight into my pride.

I swallow the bile of defeat and raise my hand again, trying to keep my voice level. "Is there any chance for extra credit? Anything I can do to make this up?"

Professor Hastings' lips curl into a smirk that doesn't reach his cold eyes. "This is college, Miss Shelby, not kindergarten. There are no redos or gold stars for effort." His flat insinuation of ‘no' rings in my ears like a death knell, and the last embers of hope disintegrate.

"Understood." The word is a shard of ice lodging in my throat. I'm pinned under the weight of his indifference as my classmates' whispers scratch at my already raw edges.

Class is dismissed, and the room empties, leaving me with the debris of my academic invincibility. My chestnut waves cling to my face, heavy and limp, mirroring my defeated posture. I gather my things mechanically because I'm on autopilot now.

The hallway outside is a blur, but I don't miss the pitying glances thrown my way. I push through them, wishing I could outrun the image of my father's face when he finds out. The man's got emotions like a brick—hard and immovable; his disappointment will be just as unforgiving.

"This is going to be so fun to explain," I mutter under my breath, a bitter laugh escaping my lips.

Each step feels heavier than the last, my GPA's downfall thumping in sync with my racing heart. I flick a stray lock of hair from my eyes, biting down on my lip until I taste the prick of broken skin. The familiar sting is a welcome distraction from the storm brewing inside me.

I force my feet to keep moving, but the anxiety coils tighter, a clinch squeezing every ounce of bravado out of me. This is more than a bad grade; it's a chink in my armor, a crack in the facade I've fought so hard to maintain. It's going to push my father over the edge he's been teetering on for weeks.

I stride through the hallway, my mind a whirlpool of numbers and letters that refuse to add up making each breath I take feel like an inhale of defeat.

"Hey, Iris," Nicole's voice cuts through my brooding thoughts like a knife. "You look like you've seen a ghost. He was an ass back there. Are you okay?"

I force my lips into a semblance of a smirk, but it feels more like baring my teeth. "Worse than a ghost. More like the entire underworld decided to throw a party on my transcript." I know I sound absurd. It's just one bad grade, but for me it's so much more. Every single time I've let my father down is suddenly bouncing around in my head.

Nicole's brows knit together; her soft features etched with concern—a stark contrast to my own hardened lines of frustration. "It's just one grade, you know. Not the end of the world."

"Yeah, something like that," I sigh, not even trying to explain. For years, I've let everyone think I'm just some sort of uptight bitch who can't see past her own grade point average. Everything is riding on this, though, and the only person who will understand that is my father. Nicole's shoulder brushes against mine as we walk, a silent offering of solidarity that I'm not sure I deserve or even want.

"Come on, let's bail on our next classes and call Nick. You need to chill," she suggests, her voice laced with that carefree lilt I don't think I've ever mirrored in my entire life.

"Oh, how I wish I could join you," I reply with a chuckle, the words tasting sour on my tongue. "I'm already skating on the thinnest ice known to man. One more crack and I drown."

"Jesus, Iris, you're wound tighter than a two-dollar watch." Nicole's laugh holds no real mirth. "You can't keep doing this to yourself."

"Can't I?" I retort, the words a challenge even to my own ears. My father's shadow looms over every step I take, every decision I make. Perfection or bust should be the Shelby family motto.

Nicole shakes her head, strands of her hair dancing around her face, a stark reminder of the freedom I crave yet constantly push away. "All work and no play makes Iris a dull girl," she teases, trying to pierce the armor I've welded shut.

"Better dull than dead," I shoot back, the image of my father's cold, disapproving stare imprinted behind my eyelids.

"Your call, ice queen." Nicole tosses her hands up in resignation as we reach the fork in the corridor where our paths diverge.

"I hope that nickname doesn't stick," I say with a laugh, but the weight of those words are heavier than any bad grade could ever be. As she turns away to walk in a direction that probably leads to Nick and not her next class, I wonder if I'll ever be able to make that sort of choice.

The chill of the air nips at my skin as I stride away from the direction Nicole headed in, leaving a trail of my pent-up frustration in my wake. Suddenly, a shadow looms over me, and before I can react, my favorite stepbrother yanks me sideways into the seclusion of a stone alcove.

"Hey!" My protest dies against the rough texture of the wall he pins me to. His fingers wrap around my bag's strap, effectively grounding me in place. "You've got some fucking nerve, Lincoln."

"Needed to get your attention, angel," he says, his voice dipping into that menacing baritone that sends shivers down my spine, and unfortunately for me it's not entirely from fear.

His gaze locks onto mine, pupils dilated, and I'm thrust into a world where it's just him and me and this dangerous dance we've been skirting around. Annoyance surges through me, but it's a thin veil over the undeniable surge of desire that throbs in response to his proximity.

"Oh, you've done a good job of that since I escaped the last time you kidnapped me," I snap, attempting to reclaim some semblance of control.

Lincoln leans closer, the faint scent of leather and sweat mingling between us. His hand shifts from my bag to my throat, his grip firm but not constricting. He's being more possessive than punishing, unless I'm just that fucking twisted to be romanticizing this psychopath. The rough pads of his fingers graze my skin, and I feel every nerve ending in my body come alive.

"Annoyed, princess?" he taunts, but his eyes betray the heat of raw desire. "Or did you miss me as much as I missed you?" Oh, we're playing that game, I guess.

"Thrilled," I retort, my sarcasm a weak weapon against the onslaught of sensation. Despite being pushed against cold stone, warmth pools within me, centered where his body touches mine.

"Of course you are. I'm a Blackwood, after all." His smirk is a promise, and I'm caught between the urge to knee him in the groin or pull him closer. God, what is this twisted spell he has over me?

"Let go of me," I manage, my voice coming out less fierce and more breathless than intended.

But it's like he hears the unspoken words, the ones that curl in the pit of my stomach, begging for friction, for the slide of skin on skin. Lincoln reads them in the quick catch of my breath, in the way my body leans into his touch despite my better judgment. And damn him, he knows exactly what he's doing.

The press of his body is a living glimmer against my own, and for a split second, I'm lost in the blaze. But then the memory hits—my room turned upside down, the locket gone. The heat that thrums through me ignites something else entirely: fury. Pure wicked fury.

"Tearing up my room," I hiss, my voice laced with hate as I stare up at him, "and taking my locket wasn't enough amusement for you?" My accusation is a dagger thrown in the dark, aimed to wound.

Lincoln's smoldering demeanor changes, confusion flashing in those abyssal eyes. He masks it quickly, but I caught it. A liar's tell? Or genuine bewilderment? His expression hardens, a granite statue now replacing the leering boy.

"What are you talking about?" he growls, backing off an inch. His warmth retreats, leaving a chill in its wake.

"I figured you'd want credit for your hard work?" I snap, anger sharpening my words until they're razors. "You're the only one who has a history of breaking into my room."

He steps away, the space between us crackling with tension. His jaw clenches—a sure sign I've struck a nerve.

"I didn't tear your room up, and I didn't take your damn locket," he says, the aggression in his words barely restrained. But he's too much of an enigma, wrapped in bravado and inked skin, for me to decipher truth from lies.

I open my mouth to tear into him again, but he cuts me off, "You're not going to send me off on some wild goose chase and make me forget why I'm here." He dismisses me as if I'm nothing more than a pesky fly. "We're going for a ride, Iris. Now."

"Like hell I am," I retort, standing my ground. But there's a promise in his glare, a silent vow that this isn't a negotiation. It's a summons. I gesture to my backpack that I probably won't need now that I'm failing tests.

"Trust me, you don't have a choice." The way he says it, low and certain, sends another shiver down my spine. There's a thrill there too, a whisper of danger that calls to the darkest parts of me that I know only Lincoln Blackwood can touch.

"Since when do I do anything you tell me to without a fight?" My challenge hangs in the air, charged and defiant.

"You'll learn to do as I say. I've decided that you're mine," he states simply, as if declaring ownership of the sky or the sea. Lincoln snatches my backpack and tosses it like it weighs nothing to the side, and before I can argue with him about anything he's barking orders at someone to pick it up and take it to Blackwood Manor. I roll my eyes at him because the fact that he has minions to do his bidding is not helping me bring him down the several notches that he needs to be considered a decent human being.

"Keep dreaming, quarterback." But even as I spit the words out, part of me wonders just how deep this game goes and how far I'm willing to play.

Lincoln grips my hand like a vise—firm, unyielding. I glance down at our intertwined fingers; his are calloused and warm against my own. It's disturbing, this contrast of sensations—comfort laced with the threat of captivity. My chest tightens, and my mind races. He's playing with my head and I'm smart enough to recognize that. Lincoln Blackwood doesn't do affectionate hand-holding, but the way he's flexing his fingers, and his thumb is stroking across the top of my hand has me questioning him and myself.

"Quit groping my hand. I'm not going to melt into a puddle like a groupie because you're pretending to be nice to me," I snap, trying to wriggle free, but it's like trying to escape iron cuffs.

"Groping?" He smirks, that twist of lips that somehow makes my insides clench in the most inappropriate way. "You'd know if I was groping you, angel."

"You're disgusting."

"And you're a liar," he dismisses with a nonchalant shrug that sets the inked muscles of his arm into motion—a distracting sight, to say the least.

We come to a halt beside his bike, a sleek beast that seems to rumble impatiently for the open road. Lincoln retrieves a helmet from its hold and offers it to me as if presenting a crown rather than protective gear.

"Here," he says, his voice a low purr that vibrates through the air.

I eye the helmet, noting the scuffs and scratches that map out a history of recklessness. "You know, given our current… rapport, it might be safer not wearing this." The words slide out drenched in sarcasm. "Who knows? An accident could solve all our problems."

"Is that a death wish, Iris?" His laugh is disconcerting. "Or just your twisted sense of humor?"

"Call it what you want," I retort, my heart pounding a rhythm of defiance.

"Put it on," he orders, and I hate that his voice wraps around me like velvet chains. I take the helmet, the interior smelling faintly of leather and something uniquely Lincoln—a scent that stirs a heat within me despite my better judgment.

"Fine," I huff, slipping it over my head. The world narrows to the visor's view, and suddenly, it's just me and him, everything else a blur.

"Good girl," he murmurs, close enough that his breath brushes my cheek through the opening of the helmet.

"Watch it," I warn, the enclosed space amplifying every nuance of our proximity. "I bite."

"Promises, promises," he taunts, his voice dripping with innuendo as he secures the chinstrap for me, fingers brushing against my skin in a touch that's far too gentle for someone who claims ownership over me.