16. Iris

Istand there, in the wreckage that was once my sanctuary, and it's like a punch to the gut seeing the mess again. Shards of glass from the window crinkle under my boots, winking up at me like tiny traitors. My books, those old friends with dog-eared corners, flung about like they're nothing. The scent of rain from the shattered window mingles with something sour, the stench of intrusion. I haven't cleaned any of it up because I haven't had the time. I need to get my story straight for when I let the RA know that I'll need my window fixed. I don't want it on record that my room was broken into because I'm certain my dad is privy to any and all information attached to my name. My heart thuds against my chest, a desperate rhythm trying to keep up with the chaos.

"This is a fucking mess!" Lincoln's voice slices through the still air, a blade of fury and confusion.

"Thank you, captain obvious," I snap back, not able to help myself. I bite down on my lip, tasting the familiar tang of anxiety as my eyes scan the carnage. It's all too much, too personal, and Lincoln's little show of exasperation has me questioning everything I thought I knew.

His eyes are daggers as he surveys the room, jaw clenched so tight I can see the muscle twitching. His tattooed arm flexes, the inked patterns contorting with his anger. "Someone's been in here, touching your things… our things." I don't challenge him on his choice of words because I suspect he wants me to, and I'm not in the mood to give Lincoln Blackwood anything that he wants.

"Brilliant deduction, truly." Even now, I can't quell the sarcasm, but it's a thin veil over the tremor of fear of the unknown. If it wasn't Lincoln in my dorm, then who? I don't have any enemies other than my own father. I doubt anyone I've beaten out on accolades would risk their entire academic career to write a slur on my mirror. Whoever it was knows how important that locket is to me. I glance at him sidelong, taking in the rage that vibrates off him in almost palpable waves. Despite the fury, there's something else in his eyes, something that loosens the knot of suspicion I'd tied tight around his name.

"You think I did this?" he growls, a flash of hurt in his eyes that I almost miss. I've only seen that look one other time. His mother's speech at the wedding.

I'm honest with him when I say, "Crossed my mind," I admit, and I know he notices that my breathing is shallow and ragged. Who knew Satan's spawn could actually care about anything? Let alone me.

"Angel, when I get my hands on whoever did this…" His threat trails off, and I believe him. I believe the ferocity in his voice, the protectiveness that stiffens his posture. The way he said the pet name that he uses to incite me is different right now.

"Your concern is…unexpected," I say, though my voice breaks on the last word, betraying the storm of emotions inside me. Admitting even to myself that I might have been wrong about him is as painful as walking barefoot over the debris littering my floor.

"You're mine and I don't like the fact that someone felt they had the right to violate you this way," he says, his voice dropping an octave, eyes narrowing as he steps closer, into my space, into the mess of my broken life.

I stand there, the chill from the broken window mocking me with its invasive whispers. Lincoln's gaze sweeps the wrecked room like a storm, intense and brooding. He leans in, so close I can feel his breath fan over my face, a mix of mint and raw determination.

"Whoever did this is going to pay, Iris," he says, voice deep, each word punctuated with the promise of retribution. "No one gets to scare you like this. You're mine to torment, and they need to fucking realize that."

The fierceness wrapping around his words should be reassuring, yet it sends an involuntary shiver down my spine. His stance broadens, as if he could shield me from the world with his body alone. This is the facet of Lincoln that confuses me. He clearly hates me, or at the very least, I bother him enough to make him go out of his way to ruin my day. Yet, right now, he looks like he'd burn down the entire St. Charles campus to find out who broke into my room.

"Are you just mad that someone other than you ruined my day?" I ask, because I genuinely want to know why he's so riled up right now. "For all we know, this could just be some sick joke. It's someone who knows me well enough because they took my locket."

"Joke?" Lincoln's laugh is short and humorless. "You think this is funny? What if you had been here when they broke in? What if they hurt you instead of just writing on a fucking mirror?" He's becoming unhinged, sucking in a labored breath, and looking at me like he's exasperated. "What was the reason for this bullshit?" he points to the broken window. "They clearly didn't scale the fucking building to break in through the window."

"I don't know, Lincoln. I've been a little scattered lately since my new stepbrother has decided I'm his plaything." I cross my arms tightly over my chest, feeling the press of my own heartbeat against my ribs. "Maybe it was someone I pissed off at a party or something. Guys don't like to be turned down, and despite the way we met, I say no more than I've said yes."

"Who? I want names. I'm not fucking playing, angel." He mirrors my stance, a scowl etching into his sharp features. "Someone who gave you drugs and then you didn't follow through?" His words come out accusingly, each syllable wrapped in a layer of disgust.

"Wow, judgmental much?" My sarcasm slices through the tension between us like a knife. "It's called coping, Lincoln. You, out of anyone, should know that it runs in our happy little family, stepbrother."

"Don't push me." He growls, a dangerous edge creeping into his voice. "That line's been blurred since day one, and I don't give a fuck if your father is fucking my mother."

"Blurred, crossed, obliterated—what's the difference?" I retort, fighting to keep my voice steady. The air between us sparks with unspoken truths, each word loaded with double meanings.

"Fine." Lincoln steps back, running a hand through his hair, a gesture of frustration that does nothing to hide the raw energy humming beneath his skin. "Just tell me one thing—is anything actually missing? Did you look for your locket?" He steps over a pile of textbooks that look like they were thrown off my bookshelf in a fit of rage. Lincoln's movements are controlled, predatory.

I'm standing amidst the ruins of what was once a sanctuary, breathing in the stench of my violated privacy. The tang of shattered glass bites at my nostrils, mixing with the musty scent of my upended world. "Obviously. My file with all of my student information is missing as well. I assumed you swiped it to find other things to hang over my head, but clearly that's not the case."

"I'm going to find out who did this," Lincoln growls, his voice a low rumble of barely contained wrath. He's prowling now, a predator caged by his own anger.

"Really? And how exactly do you plan to make that happen?" My tone's sharper than the shards beneath our feet. I need to lash out, to find something solid in this chaos, and he's my unwilling anchor.

"By any means necessary." His fingers rake through his short hair, and his eyes lock onto mine in a way that I've never experienced before. It feels like Lincoln is looking right through me, as if he can see every thought I've ever had. "You have no idea what I'm capable of when someone comes after what's mine."

"I'm not yours, Lincoln. I'm just a game to you." My words are ice picks, chipping away at his composure. I'm not sure why it makes me so mad when he says things like that, pretending that I belong to him in any capacity. "It'll never be more than that."

"You'll never belong to anyone else, and the sooner you realize that, the easier it'll be." He snaps, gripping my forearm with an intensity that sends shocks of heat where skin meets skin.

"Let go—" I try to wrench free, but his grip only tightens, a physical manifestation of the battle we're locked in.

"Listen to me," he commands, and there's a new edge to his voice, one that doesn't invite defiance. "You're not leaving my side until I find out who did this. You're coming with me. Now."

"Where—"

"Doesn't matter." He pulls me toward the door, his body a shield against unseen threats. There's an urgency in the way he looks at me, a promise that tells me I'm not facing this alone, no matter how much I push him away.

"Fine," I relent, my pulse thrumming with a mix of fear and something dangerously close to desire. "Lead the way, quarterback."

"Angel," he counters, the flicker of a smirk crossing his face as we step into the corridor, knowing full well the game between us is far from over.

"And just where am I supposed to sleep?" My voice shakes, betraying the storm that rages beneath my cool surface.

"Where the hell do you think?" he growls, eyes scanning the length of the corridor, as if expecting shadows to leap at us.

"Seriously? My room's been turned upside down, and you're kicking me out of it? Perfect." The sarcasm drips, spiteful and thick, but my heart betrays me with its erratic beat.

"Your safety—" He starts, but I cut him off.

"Is not up for discussion, Satan's spawn." My steps falter, though, because his concern wraps around me like a blanket I didn't know I needed.

"Dammit, Iris." Lincoln stops, his eyes pinning me with this intensity. "You'll sleep in my bed."

My eyebrows shoot up, a silent question mark arcing between us. A flush creeps onto my cheeks. Part indignation, part…something else. Something warm and forbidden that whispers through my veins, setting them ablaze.

"In your bed?" My voice hitches, a mix of shock and a curiosity that claws at my composure. "You don't let girls sleep in your bed." I chuckle, not even caring that I've clearly perked my ears up, listening whenever I hear any of the girls in my classes talking about the elusive Blackwood brothers. They all apparently have a no sleepover rule, which I guess is insurance that they don't have to kick a crying coed out after they have post cum clarity.

"Don't believe everything you hear about me." His glare is a challenge, a dare I'm not sure I want to win or lose.

"I used deductive reasoning to assess that it's most likely true," I counter, but the thrill of his proximity buzzes under my skin, electric and demanding attention. "Too many girls have said the same thing for it to be completely made up." The words tumble from my lips before I can lasso them back. My heart's a jackhammer under the thin fabric of my shirt, betraying the calm I'm fighting to project.

Lincoln leans in, the scent of his cologne—a mix of leather and something darkly sweet—invades my senses. "You'd be the first, angel. Or would you rather be easy pickings for whoever messed with your things?"

"Easy pickings?" I spit back, my body rebelling against the invasion of his space. "I'm not some damsel, Lincoln. I got along fine before I met you." But the quiver in my voice says otherwise, and I hate it.

His stare deepens and intensifies, infuriatingly handsome in its arrogance. Instead of backing off, he just steps closer. "You're not staying in your dorm alone. End of discussion."

"Right, because what you say goes?" I challenge, chin up, even as my body acknowledges the heat radiating from his.

"Damn right," he asserts, the muscle in his jaw ticking like a time bomb.

I arch an eyebrow, crossing my arms over my chest despite the shiver that courses through me. "What's next? You gonna tuck me in and read me a bedtime story?"

"Don't fucking tempt me."