1. Lincoln

"Look at you, big bro," he smirks, leaning against the doorframe with that irritating ease of his. "All dressed up and ready to play loving son for a day."

"Shut up, Penn," I snap without heat, my focus zeroed in on the rebellious tie that refuses to knot right. "It's not funny."

"Come on, man," he chuckles, pushing away from the woodwork and striding over. "You know you'll have all those bridesmaids swooning. Just watch yourself, eh? Wouldn't want your tinkle tassel to get caught in anyone's IUD." He winks, obscene and unrepentant, before fixing my tie and walking away. Leaving me alone once again.

I'm standing in front of the mirror glaring at the picture staring back at me, adjusting my tie with more force than necessary. The silk resists, suffocating around my neck like the very idea of this wedding. It's all a show, a farce dressed in white and pastels, and I can't stomach it—the hypocrisy of vows that mean nothing. I don't know why people put themselves through this shit all the time. How exhausting. My reprieve from stress last night was short.

I grab my jacket before throwing it to the side. I need a little ‘fuck you' to my mother, so no penguin jacket. For an extra point in the terrible son column, I roll up the sleeves of my starched dress shirt until just below my elbow. I am thriving on being a fucking degenerate today.

"Pathetic," I mutter, thinking of Iris. The way she shrugged off my touch, as if I hadn't just unraveled her with my hands, my mouth. Her dismissive little smile is etched behind my eyelids—a brand on my ego. How dare she walk away from me, Lincoln Blackwood, as if I were some mere forgettable fuck?

The memory festers, bitter as old coffee grounds. She's got nerve, treating me like I'm ordinary. A smirk twists my lips; nobody dismisses me, especially not a girl like her. With her sharp tongue and those piercing verdant eyes that could cut glass, she's a challenge. And I live for challenges. They fuel me when everything else feels bland, like potatoes with nothing added. Screw the rules. I'll have her again. This time, it won't just be her body under my control—I want her every thought consumed by me.

The ancient clock tower strikes as I swagger into the church, each gong a testament to my deliberate tardiness. The heavy oak doors groan their protest, and all eyes—a sea of decorated hats and somber suits—snap toward me. I drink in the attention like a shot of bourbon, letting it burn.

"Typical," I mutter under my breath.

A wedding in a church, with its stained-glass windows casting judgmental glances and the incense clinging to the air like a desperate lover, is not my scene. But here I am, dressed to the nines—jeans traded for slacks, jersey for a tailored shirt—out of sheer obligation. I find an unoccupied pew at the back and slump into it, arms stretched out, claiming territory.

"Lincoln Blackwood!" Margo's voice is shrill in the hushed space. She's upon me, her scent suffocating, like roses left to die in stagnant water. "What do you think you're doing?"

"Getting a good view," I answer my mother's sister. Calling her the title of aunt would designate that she means something to me. She doesn't. She's another cog in a wheel of desperate people eager to get their hands on whatever they perceive the Blackwood's have.

"Your mother is getting married," she hisses, her face pinched in disapproval, "and you're acting like a petulant child!"

"Guilty as charged," I smirk, but her glare hardens.

"Move to the front. Now." She delivers the command with the force of an executioner.

"Wouldn't want to ruin mommy dearest's big day," I sigh theatrically, rising to my feet.

"Stop being so damn flippant," she snaps, grabbing my arm with surprising strength.

"Fine," I concede, shaking off her grip. "Lead the way, Margo."

I follow her down the aisle, each step a mockery of the ceremonial march. My gaze flickers over the congregation, feeling their scrutiny like insects crawling on my skin.

I slide into the front pew with a silent snort, my mother's attempts at parenting amounting to nothing more than a signature on a birthday card each year.

"Lincoln," Margo whispers sharply from beside me, "show some respect."

"Respect is earned," I mutter under my breath, memories of empty stands at football games and lonely dinners scratching at old wounds. My mother gave life to me, sure, but that's where her contribution ended. The rest? That was all me.

"Let's get this farce over with." I lean back, eyes half-closed, waiting for the inevitable boredom to wash over me. But as I catch a glimpse of the bridesmaids lining up, a familiar surge of anticipation curls in my gut, a predatory smile playing on my lips.

"Game on," I whisper to myself, my eagerness for the reception swelling within me. If I have to be here, then at least I'm going to find whoever I can at the wedding to have a little fun with. As if I'd actually sit here and go through with this and get not even some small satisfaction. A stroke of my ego or my cock. Either will do.

The first chords of the wedding party march vibrate through the church, and I glance up to see bridesmaids paired with groomsmen, their procession a mockery of unity. A sneer tugs at my lips. Not a single invite to stand by her side—no, she's kept me at arm's length since she realized she wasn't getting anything out of Dad, and today is no different.

"Could've used your star quarterback son up there," I scoff, leaning back as the pairs parade past me. "But then again, who needs a tattooed heathen involved when you've got appearances to keep?"

Margo shushes me but doesn't dispute my words. She can't. Because she knows. This whole fucking thing isn't about love; it's about image, about pretending we're something we're not.

I fold my arms, my inked skin a stark contrast to the sea of suits and dresses. The irony isn't lost on me—I'm the misfit in a house of God, yet I'm the only one not pretending to be holy.

"Look at them," I whisper, more to myself than to Margo, "clueless pawns in her perfect little setup."

The bridesmaids' smiles are too wide, their steps too measured. It's all an act, a performance. And I refuse to clap along.

The organ's haunting melody fades into a soft hum as the next bridesmaid steps out. Then she appears. Iris. My jaw clenches as I take her in—my last night's conquest wrapped in chiffon and lace, the irony of it all tightening around my chest like a vise. I hear the whispers of the guests asserting how beautiful the groom's daughter is and heat spreads throughout my whole body.

I fucked my stepsister last night.

"Isn't this a fucked up little game of fate?" I murmur under my breath, a smirk playing on my lips. She walks with an elegance that's all fake. As she nears, a rush of anticipation sweeps through me—I'm the ghost of her indiscretions about to become the demon in her future.

Her eyes haven't met mine yet. I lean forward, resting my elbows on my knees, my smirk widening. The air is heavy with whispers, but all I sense is her—the way her body moves with restrained grace, the slight tremble of her hands clutching her shitty bouquet. It screams tension, and I revel in it, feeding off the way that it swirls through the air separating us.

"Wait till you realize, angel," I say to myself, watching her every step, "that last night's fuck is now bound to you."

Iris is close now, close enough that if I wanted to, I could reach out and brush against the fabric of her dress, remind her of the hot sex we shared. But no, I hold back, because the show is just getting started, the realization yet to dawn on her. And here I thought this wedding was going to be a fucking bore.

"Any moment now," I whisper, my voice tinged with amusement, as I imagine the gears turning in her head when she finally fits the pieces together.

She passes me, and I drink in the sight of her, my rebellious smirk never fading. Her shoulders are rigid, her posture too perfect. It reeks of effort, and I can almost smell the fear mixed with the jasmine scent trailing behind her. Poised and polished, yet underneath, a delicious mess of nerves and gloom.

"Can't wait to stir that darkness a bit more," I breathe out, relishing in the thought of the chaos I could unleash with a single, well-placed sentence. I fucked your daughter last night. How epic would her dad's face be when it registers?

The organ swells again, a high and haunting melody that commands everyone to rise. Like puppets on strings, they stand. All except me. I'm no one's fucking puppet. The bride floats down the aisle, veiled in white, but she's just blurred scenery. Isn't white meant for virgins? I'm living proof the bride is most definitely not one. She should have gone with a nice cream in my opinion. At least it wouldn't have contrasted as much with the over tanned skin she has going on. I look away from my mother and search through the crowd, sharp and unrelenting, until I lock onto Iris again.

She's a vision in her champagne colored bridesmaid dress, her face a canvas of control, but I see the cracks. Our eyes clash—hers wide with shock, like she's seen a ghost. A ghost of last night. Then, understanding morphs her surprise into a grimace. It's beautiful, the way her perfect mask crumbles. She knows now. Knows I'm about to become the forbidden fruit plucked straight from her new family tree.

"Didn't see that coming, did you?" I murmur under my breath, the words for no one but myself. A smirk plays on my lips, satisfaction pulsing through me. She looks away first. Score one for Lincoln Blackwood.

As the ceremony trudges on, I'm fixated on Iris, every fidget and forced smile. She's a caged bird, wings clipped by the irony of the situation. I savor it, the squirming discomfort she can't hide from me. There's something intoxicating about watching her unravel.

Iris starts to pick at her bouquet, stripping the innocence of the white flowers petal by petal. Her fingers are nimble, but there's a tremble to them giving away her nerves. She's too easy to read, like a book I've skimmed a hundred times. But I want the unabridged version, the one with all the dirty secrets tucked between the lines.

My mother reaches the altar, hand in hand with Mr. New Stepdad of the Year. But who gives a damn? This show is all about Iris and me now.

"Bet you're wishing for an escape hatch right about now," I muse, leaning back against the pew. The wood creaks in protest, like it disapproves of my attitude. Tough luck.

I slide further down, stretching out my legs, an open display of defiance in this holy space that couldn't feel less like a sanctuary. The feeling of her panic is heady, almost enough to make me dizzy with power. For a moment, I close my eyes, letting the image of Iris's startled face burn behind my eyelids.

"Oh, game on, stepsister."

Iris's fingers dance along the satin ribbon, her movements stealthy, almost delicate. I zero in on her, slicing through the monotony of the ceremony like a blade. The priest drones on, but the real sermon is in Iris' hands. She plucks something small and white from the folds, hidden until now.

"Interesting," I mutter under my breath, my voice lost in the hymns and hollow amens.

She glances around, ensuring no prying eyes catch her little act. But she doesn't see me—I'm a master at this game, invisible when I choose to be. Her fingers tremble ever so slightly, betraying her cool facade.

"Got secrets, little sis?" I muse internally, leaning forward, the curiosity gnawing at me, chasing away the boredom.

A silk pocket square appears next, pristine, and white against her flushed skin. She dabs at her eyes, the epitome of an elated bridesmaid. The priest's words melt into nothingness as I tune everything but her out.

Then, with a grace that contradicts her shaky hands, Iris slips the pill onto her tongue, swallowing down her secret with practiced ease. My interest, already piqued, skyrockets. What kind of demons are you keeping at bay?

The church falls silent for a moment, and all I can hear is the sound of my own heart racing with anticipation.

The final chords of the wedding music bleed into applause, signaling the end of this farcical ceremony. I should be striding out of here, back to my reality where I'm in control. But no, I stay seated, an anchor in a sea of standing bodies. My eyes narrow, focus sharpens on my new stepsister as she smiles her way back up the aisle—her face a serene mask.

"Let's see what else today has in store for you," I murmur under my breath, a predatory grin curling at the edge of my lips.

She doesn't glance my way, and it's just as well. The vision of her unraveled self is imprinted on my mind, and I want to watch it play out firsthand. The thought of witnessing any ensuing chaos tickles something eerie within me, the thrill of it all about to unfold.

"Lincoln, the reception?" Margo's voice cuts in, but I wave her off with a dismissive flick of my hand, my gaze never leaving the retreating figure of Iris.

"Wouldn't miss it for the world," I reply, the words laced with a sarcasm only I can appreciate.

As the crowd filters out, murmurs and the clink of heels on marble, I replay that night with Iris. She was fierce, and now is reduced to smoldering embers. Yet here she stands, woven into the fabric of my life without warning or consent.

"From fling to family," I chuckle lowly, the sound lost in the commotion. "Has a nice ring to it, doesn't it?"

I rise, taking my time to saunter out, relishing the anticipation of the reception. What will it be like to uncover the layers, to peel back the facade of the perfect bridesmaid? It's a challenge I welcome—a chance to assert my control over her, to reignite the spark and fan it into an inferno under my terms.

"Careful, Iris," I whisper as I exit the church doors, my voice blending with the breeze. "Your new stepbrother loves to play with fire."