18. Iris

My eyelids are traitors, heavy and uncooperative as I will them to open. The light slicing through the blinds is an assault, a stark contrast to the cocoon of darkness I wish I could crawl back into. My head pounds in protest, a reminder of last night. I was exhausted enough to pass out with Lincoln in the same room, which says a lot right there. I feel boneless, like my entire body is sated in a way that I can't say I've ever experienced before.

"Damn it," I mutter, and inhale because I can still smell Satan's spawn himself all over me and I can't say I hate it. Lincoln's room is chaos personified, a shrine to his athlete ego. Posters of football legends stare down at me, their victorious poses mocking my current state of undress. His bed is a tangled mess of sheets, a silent witness to the recklessness that brought me here. Clothes are strewn across the floor like casualties of war, and frustration simmers within me when I realize I'm dressed like Winnie the Pooh. Shirt and no bottoms.

"Of course," I snarl, kicking at the fabric debris until I spot a pair of shorts near the foot of the bed—definitely not mine, but they'll have to do. They're Lincoln's, that much is clear from the way they hang off my hips, his scent clinging to the fabric. A hint of cologne and something deeper, muskier, that sends a shiver down my spine despite my annoyance.

Yanking them up, I tie one end of the t-shirt I'm wearing up and tuck the other side into my borrowed shorts on the chance that I run into anyone other than him. I don't need his goofy ass brothers wondering if I have anything on under this St. Charles Football monstrosity. I storm out of his room, determined to escape this den of testosterone and bad decisions.

It doesn't take me long to figure out where the voices are coming from. Penn is the loudest and while I don't know him personally, his laugh is unique, and it's stood out to me when I've seen him with Lincoln. It's what? Like eight o'clock in the morning and he's already on some bullshit. Entering the kitchen is like stepping onto a different planet—one where golden-haired vixens cook breakfast and dark-haired football Adonises consume it. I've seen the girl who is flipping pancakes with one hand and swatting Penn away from the skillet with sizzling bacon with the other before. She was even at the away game Lincoln accosted me to attend, but I don't know her name. I feel like I've seen her in the library, but I can't be sure. She's sweeter, somehow softer, than what I imagined the girls would be that would hang out with the notorious Blackwood brothers, but her bright blue eyes glint with mischief. Her grin stretches wide when she catches sight of me, and Lincoln's brothers are gathered around the counter snickering at whatever joke I've walked into. I have no idea where Lincoln is, but I suddenly wish I would have just stayed in his room and waited until he came back or I died, whichever came first.

"Look who's up—the jersey chaser," the girl quips, and I'm not in the mood for any attitude.

"Did they promote you from team toy to head chef?" I shoot back, rolling my eyes. Penn erupts into laughter, and I even get a quirk of Graham's lips like he wants to smile but doesn't actually know how. But I catch Jeremiah's eye—he's not amused. Something snaps in his stare that is familiar to me. It's like when Lincoln saw my room torn apart and became so possessive of me. Got it, blondie isn't a Blackwood toy. She clearly belongs to Jeremiah. Interesting.

Jeremiah is a wall of muscle and moodiness; his brooding demeanor is enough to cast a shadow over the sunniest of days. Graham's the picture of restraint, if you ignore the snark ready to leap off his tongue. And then there's Penn, with his smirk that says he knows every secret in the room, probably because he's the one who started half the rumors. The muscle in Jeremiah's jaw tics, a clear sign of his brewing storm. "You're crossing a line," he growls, his voice bellowing through the kitchen.

"Am I?" My words come out full of bitterness, and I lean back against the counter, arms folded. "Because from where I'm standing, it looks like I'm the only one not drawing lines in the sand."

"Take your anger out on Lincoln and leave Oakley out of it." Jeremiah takes a step forward, the very air around him charged with hostility.

"She called me a jersey chaser and if you haven't noticed I'm not the one doing a whole lot of the chasing around here," I shoot back, meeting his glare head-on. It's a battle of wills, our eyes locked in silent warfare. This is a man who would go to war, burn the world down, but only for the sweet blonde named Oakley.

"I don't give a fuck," he says, his tone sharp enough to draw blood. "Take it up with Lincoln if you have a problem in this house."

Jeremiah's words slice through the air, his anger a tangible slap to my pride. My retort hovers on the tip of my tongue, an onslaught ready to launch?—

And then he's there.

Lincoln bursts through the door like he's ready for a fight, his presence engulfing the room. Hair tousled, his facial hair a shadow across that chiseled jawline, and those intense eyes zero in on the conflict. He's a mess of sensual disarray, yet every inch the embodiment of raw masculine appeal.

"I'll fuck you up, don't tempt me." His voice is a command settling on Jeremiah, an unyielding force that halts everything else.

"Lincoln," I exhale, but it's less of a greeting and more of a gasp because he's defending me just like Jeremiah was defending Oakley. Like he absolutely cares about me and that's such a wild concept. I have to shake the thought away.

The room stills, as if the very air pauses to see what he will do next. I can't help but feel the thrumming energy that radiates from him, a magnetic pull that tugs at something primal within me.

"Back off," he warns his brother, stepping between us with no hint of hesitation. "She's not the one starting shit."

Jeremiah's lips part, shock mingling with defiance in his eyes. But before he can counter, Penn—ever the instigator—slips into the fray with a smirk that promises trouble.

"Careful, Linc," Penn drawls lazily, popping a piece of bacon into his mouth with exaggerated nonchalance. "Wouldn't want the team to get distracted by your… complicated love life. Has anyone figured out if it's legal to fuck your sister yet?"

I tense, bristling at his implication. But it's Graham who adds fuel to the fire, his buttoned-up facade slipping enough to reveal the concern beneath.

"Dad is going to be a fucking buzzkill if you don't get your fucking temper under control." His words are a blade, slicing through the room's tension. "You know how he feels about distractions during the season. If he knew you brought her to the away game and spent the whole half-time calling her, he'd dig your grave."

Heat floods my cheeks, and I clench my fists—less at the mention of their father and more at the undercurrent of judgment. A mix of anger and mortification burns through my veins, reminding me that I'm an outsider in this twisted family that I never asked to be a part of.

"Your father can shove his opinions," I mutter under my breath, barely audible under the clamor of male egos.

Graham's gaze flickers to me, sharp and assessing. But any further argument is cut short by the smoldering intensity in Lincoln's stare, a silent promise of protection that sends an illicit shiver down my spine.

There's something erotic in the way Lincoln has positioned himself between his brothers and me. The connotation wraps around me, an allure that whispers of forbidden desires we both have. I swallow hard, averting my attention from his penetrating stare, my body betraying me with its traitorous heat.

Graham rambles on about their father, and Lincoln's facade cracks. His jaw clenches, that sharp edge of his profile cutting through the tension. "Shut up, Graham," he hisses, the words dripping with ire.

"Easy for you to say," Graham fires back, pushing away from the counter with a force that rattles the dishes. "You're never here, dealing with his crap. I'm the one stuck playing the prodigal son. It's like just because I don't fuck women, I'm the only one with his head on straight enough."

The air seems to crackle, charged with the raw energy of brother pitted against brother. I lean against the doorframe, feeling like an intruder in this private war zone. The scent of bacon hangs heavy, but it's burnt resentment that fills my nostrils now.

"Guys, come on," Oakley chimes in, her voice laced with forced cheer. "Some things never change. You're all so hellbent on fighting that you'll even fight each other for dumb reasons."

Her words are like a bucket of ice water, dousing the flames just enough for me to breathe. But they also snag my curiosity, the way she talks about the Blackwood brothers with the familiarity of shared history. I side-eye her, trying to piece together the puzzle without asking outright.

Oakley catches my attention; a hint of guilt flickering in those bright blue eyes. "Sorry for the jersey chaser crack," she confesses, tucking a strand of blonde hair behind her ear. "I figured you were just another one of Lincoln's conquests."

"Conquests?" I arch an eyebrow, my lips curling into a smirk despite myself. "Please. If anyone's conquering anything around here, it's me."

"Touché," she concedes with a wry grin, and for a moment, the tension between us seems to lift.

A hush hangs for a split second, like the calm before a storm. Then Graham's voice slices through it, sharp as a knife. "You know what your problem is, Oakley? You stir up shit without thinking about the consequences. It's not just Jeremiah's life you're complicating—it's all of ours and it's been that way since he—" Graham either runs out of steam or it's Jeremiah's glare that steals the words threatening to pour out.

Oakley's face crumples, eyes glossing over with an unspoken hurt. The vulnerability in the way she's looking at me clashes with the bright blue I've pegged as mischievous, and it hits me hard in the chest. I'm no stranger to masking pain with defiance, but watching her struggle is like catching my reflection in a cracked mirror.

"Do you want to finish that sentence?" Jeremiah explodes, crossing the room in two predatory strides to yank his brother up by the collar. His muscles bulge under his shirt, each fiber tight with barely restrained violence. My breath catches—there's something raw and untamed about Jeremiah when he's defending someone he cares about. If any of the Blackwood brothers could be considered sweet or wholesome looking, it would be him. He has a more innocent face than the other three, but clearly he inherited a good portion of the Blackwood temper.

Chaos unfurls around us, the kitchen transforming into a battlefield of egos and emotions. And there's Penn, leaning back against the counter with that knowing smirk, drinking in the drama like it's his morning coffee. He's clearly getting a kick out of this domestic implosion, the bastard.

I can't help but notice the way Jeremiah positions himself between Oakley and Graham, a human shield ready to take on whatever comes their way. A pang of… something flutters in my stomach. Envy? Concern? Hell, if I know. What I do know is there's a depth to their connection, a story there waiting to be told.

"Should've sold tickets to this show," Penn says loudly, tossing more bacon in his mouth and cackling when both Graham and Jeremiah snap their heads in his direction almost in unison to glare at him. But really, he's not wrong. Who needs reality TV when you've got a front-row seat to the Blackwood family circus?

"Talk to her again like that, and I'll fuck you up!" Jeremiah's voice slashes through the tension-thick air, his words a raw, jagged edge. He's all but shaking with fury, face contorted in a snarl that would give any sane person pause.

"I fucking wish you would try." Graham tries to shake off his brother's iron grip, his own anger flaring up like a match to gasoline.

Jeremiah pushes Graham against the wall with a thud that rattles the pots hanging above us. There's a fire in his eyes, a blaze that could burn the whole damn house down if it escapes.

I lean against the cool fridge, arms crossed, watching the Blackwood brothers' drama unfold, and it doesn't escape me that Lincoln shadows me, moving to stand in front of me so that if his brother's tumble my way, he's a brick wall of a barrier. Part of me, the darker, twisted part, is glad that Oakley's drama has jerked the spotlight away from my own tangled mess.

Graham's hands ball into fists, knuckles whitening as he stares down Jeremiah. "She's had you whipped since high school," he spits out, the accusation sharp enough to cut.

"Shut your mouth about things you don't understand," Jeremiah growls, towering over Graham, every line of his body screaming protectiveness and possession.

The clench and release of their jaws, the low, guttural sounds of male aggression is wild to witness up close.

"Boys, please." Oakley's voice quivers, barely audible over the testosterone-charged standoff, but it's enough to make Jeremiah's head snap toward her, his expression softening just a fraction.

"Stay out of it, Oak," Graham warns, speaking to her the way I'd expect an older brother to chide a younger sibling.

And just like that, the momentary ceasefire shatters. Jeremiah lunges at Graham, hand cocked back, ready to defend Oakley's honor with more than just heated words. But before a punch can be thrown, Penn's chuckle cuts through the chaos like a knife through butter.

"If you guys played football like you fight over absolutely nothing, St. Charles would be undefeated," he drawls, clearly entertained.

"Don't!" Lincoln snaps, backing up, so he's pressing me against the firm steel appliance, shielding me from whatever's about to happen.

"Get over here, I'll give you something to laugh about," Graham grunts out, and before I realize what's going on, both Graham and Jeremiah stop fighting each other and turn to Penn who's still cackling as he races around the counter in the center of the kitchen, heading for the door with his brothers in tow.

Lincoln turns to glower down at me, the protectiveness gone from his eyes and replaced with exasperation. "You couldn't just wait in my room, could you?"

I pat him on the arm in the most condescending way when I say, "I wouldn't be in your kitchen if you would have let me stay in my dorm last night. This is your fault." I skitter away from him before he can snatch me up and drag me back to his room and I take a seat at the counter where Oakley is trying to hide a snicker while she plates food.

"She's easily amused. You're not funny," Lincoln says to me, taking a seat next to me. He picks up a pancake and bites half of it off with no syrup, like a complete psychopath.

"She's a little funny," Oakley says with a bright smile, and offers him the plate of bacon, which he begrudgingly snatches out of her hand.