20. Iris

Ipush open the door to my room, a smile of relief plastered on my face, ready to collapse into the chaos I call my sanctuary. The grin dies. My duffel of cynicism drops to the floor with a thud that resonates through the stark emptiness. It's all gone. Every last scrap of me snatched away. My breath catches in a room too vacant to echo it back.

"Shit," I mutter, my voice a stranger in this hollow space. The walls—bare. Where the hell are my clothes? Panic claws at my chest, and I spin around, praying this is a sick joke. But no textbooks lie in wait to mock my distress, no photographs smirking from their perches. Just... nothingness. A void where my life should be.

"Lincoln," I breathe out, biting down on my lip until I taste metal. I thought he might try to make me sleep at Blackwood house, but I didn't think he'd go through all this trouble to move all of my things.

I storm out, my footsteps sound angry against the linoleum. Determination ignites within me, fierce as the sting of alcohol on an open wound. I'm a battering ram with a destination—the resident assistant's office. Someone's going to answer for this. I don't give a fuck if he fucks every female on the campus while holding his goddamn football. He shouldn't have this much power.

The RA's door looms ahead, and I don't bother knocking. I shove open the door to the office, my heart pounding in a rhythm of pure, unadulterated fury. The resident assistant glances up from their desk, and an expression of bored nonchalance is all she's giving me.

"Don't start with me, Iris. There was nothing I could do," she quips, but I'm not here for her attitude today.

That's all it takes for me to snap, slamming my palms down onto the cold surface of the desk. "My entire room is empty. Everything is gone. Why did you allow that?"

"Ah, right." They lean back in their chair, fingers laced behind their head. "Some guys from the football team mentioned they were helping you move. Took all your stuff with them."

"Helping me move?" My voice rises, incredulous and sharp as shattered glass. "Are you serious? You know I'd have to put in a formal request to move and I never did that."

"Hey, just passing on what I heard," she replies dismissively, waving a hand as if shooing away a particularly annoying fly. "Maybe check with Lincoln. I'm sure he can tell you where your stuff is."

"Fantastic advice. Gold star for you," I sneer, my sarcasm dripping like acid. I storm out, already dialing Lincoln's number. The golden boy quarterback who gets his kicks pushing my buttons, and I'm about to push every single one of his.

The phone rings one time and then goes immediately to his voicemail. His voice, smug and taunting, grazes my senses. "You've reached the spawn of Satan. Sorry I missed your call, angel. You know where to find me."

"Damn you, Lincoln," I mutter, envisioning his annoying ass smirk, that infuriating glint in his eyes. My blood boils, every cell screaming for a confrontation. He fucking changed his voicemail to irritate me.

The beep sounds like a starting pistol, and I launch into my tirade, words spilling out hot and fast. "Lincoln, you better move every single one of my things back or hell will seem like a vacation spot compared to what I'll unleash on you."

My thumb hovers over the ‘end call' button before jabbing it with more force than necessary. I can almost feel the tension crackling through the air, the heat of anger settling deep within me, promising an explosion of raw emotion yet to come.

My fingers fly over the phone's keyboard with a speed that mirrors the tumult in my chest. Each tap is a jab, each word a bullet, aiming straight for Lincoln Blackwood's ego.

You think you"re cute, stealing my stuff? I'm not moving into your room so you can feel like you got one over on your mom by fucking her husband's daughter.

Seconds tick by, each one heavy with the brewing storm, until his reply lights up my screen, mocking in its brevity.

Lincoln

Angel don't be mad

My lips curl into a snarl as I read his words. That smug bastard. With a few deft swipes, I edit his contact info, letting my scorn write itself out. ‘Satan's Spawn' now graces my contacts list—a fitting title for the thorn in my side.

"I'm going to kill him," I mutter to myself, the scent of my own frustration filling the air around me like smoke. The sight of his nickname on my screen is a small victory, but it ignites a spark that burns hotter than my lingering desire. It's a reminder that I won't be played with.

I double check my backpack and I'm thankful that the textbooks I need are inside and not in a storage locker in the basement of the Blackwood mansion. Lincoln is in for the fight of his life if he thinks he's going to keep this bullshit up. Do I feel anything for him? Yes, and I fucking hate that. But I'm not willing to be jerked around just because he has moments of protectiveness that make me feel some sort of way. I shove my rage for Lincoln aside because Nicole's waiting, and I'm already late for our tutoring session.

I shoulder my bag. The session can't wait, even if my life looks like a tornado swept through it thanks to Lincoln and his football goons. What does he think is going to come from this? He makes his mommy mad and then I'm left to pick up the pieces and figure out how to get all my shit back to my dorm. I know my father won't be helping me with that when he finds out what's been happening between Lincoln and me.

The campus air bites at my cheeks as I march toward the library, the chill mirroring the cold fury in my chest. A frustration so tangible I could spit it out, I swear. When I push through the doors to the study room, it's empty—save for the scent of old books and lemon cleaning spray. I really fucking love the smell of this place. I drop into a chair, tapping my foot against the floor as I turn my phone on silent so I don't get scolded by one of the older librarians who I'd venture to say think this place is more sacred than the cathedral on campus. I see that Lincoln has sent another text, probably just baiting me, trying to rile me up more than he already has. I choose peace and I don't open it because the last thing I need is to be on the front page of the St. Charles Gazette for throwing a bookshelf out a window in sheer rage. Priorities, Iris. Lincoln can stew in his own arrogance for another hour and wonder what I'm plotting.

Nicole is late, which isn't like her. She's the kind of person who probably came out of the womb with an itinerary. When the door finally creaks open, it's like a scene straight out of a horror flick.

"Jesus, Nicole…" My words trail off as I take in her haggard appearance. The Nicole I know is a walking advertisement for valley girls, but not today. Today she's a portrait of someone who fought a demon and barely made it back.

"I'm so sorry I'm late. I got held up with a long-winded professor," she says, voice as brittle as the chipped nail polish on her fingers. A weak excuse hanging in the air between us, pathetic and unconvincing.

The slight exposed skin on her arms peeking out from her shirt is a canvas of light blues and purples, a sickening rainbow of hurt that looks like she's tried to cover them with makeup. I see the way she winces when she moves, the faint grimace she thinks I don't catch.

"You look like you've been through hell," I say, unable to keep the edge out of my tone. Anger simmers under my skin, not just for Lincoln now, but for whoever did this to her. "Are you okay? What happened?"

"Let's just start the session, okay?" Nicole brushes past me, her scent a mix of floral body spray and something metallic and I imagine it's something like fear sweating through her pores.

"Um, okay," I relent, though every instinct screams to press her, to peel back the layers of whatever nightmare she's trying to hide.

As we dive into the material, I can't help but notice the way she tugs her sleeves down over her wrists, as if she's holding herself together by threads. I'm no stranger to pain, to the need to conceal scars—but these? These are fresh, and I know she doesn't want to talk about it, but with everything I've been through with my dad, I can't stop reeling over it.

Nicole fumbles, her hands shaking, trying to get her pen out of her bag and I can't handle it anymore. "Nicole," I blurt out, my eyes raking over her like a detective scoping a crime scene. "Who did this?"

She winces, that slight curl of her lip betraying the pain she's trying to mask with a thin layer of bravado. She's a mess—her usual poise crumbled like the facade of an old building after a quake.

"Wrong place, wrong time," she mutters, her voice threaded with an attempt at nonchalance. But the way her gaze flickers away tells me there's a whole novel of shit she's not spilling.

"I'm not buying that." My tone hardens, snark laced with concern. "You can't just show up looking like you've gone ten rounds with a heavyweight and expect me not to ask questions."

Her shrug is almost imperceptible, but I catch it. "I'm fine, Iris. Really." Her words are hollow, the facade of ‘everything's peachy' about as convincing as a wolf in sheep's clothing.

I bite back a retort, my own problems clawing at the edges of my mind. The empty room, my vanished life—it all fades to static as I stare at the girl in front of me. She's fine my ass. But if she wants to play it close to the chest, who am I to pry it open? When I was younger, I was questioned before about bruises, scars that were accidentally exposed and I never told anyone. It was embarrassing, and I was afraid of the fallout if anyone confronted my father.

I concede, letting the subject drop—for now. We settle into the books spread before us, but my thoughts stray, dancing around the bruises that mar her skin and the secrets she's so desperate to keep locked away. I'm here for Nicole. Even if she's not ready to let me in, I'll be damned if I let her take on her demons alone.

The silence between us stretches, taut like a wire ready to snap. "Stop looking at me like you're disappointed in me. He's really powerful on this campus and I can't risk the wrath that would rain down on me," Nicole finally says.

My voice is steady, but there's an edge of urgency I can't quite mask when I tell her, "We should go to the cops?—"

Her laughter cuts through the air, bitter and sharp as a shattered bottle. "To the police? And say what, exactly? That I got some bruises?" Nicole's eyes flash; there's steel beneath that frail exterior.

"Or someone could—" I start, then clamp my mouth shut. Offering to have my psychotic stepbrother and his friends kick ass on her behalf seems ridiculous when not that long ago I was ready to set fire to Lincoln's world. I hate the fact that my knee-jerk reaction when I feel lost is to call on him.

"Look, Iris." Her tone brooks no argument, yet it's the tremble in her hands that screams louder than words. "I don't need a savior. I've got this."

"Nicole—" The name feels heavy on my tongue, weighted with all the things I want to say, all the fears I want to soothe.

"Stop," she snaps, and suddenly the room feels colder, smaller. "Just…stop." She wraps her arms around herself, a fortress of flesh and bone.

I lean back, my mind a whirlwind of frustration and concern. "Alright, Nicole." I keep my voice light, injecting a bit of my usual snark. "You're the boss, but remember—I'm just one text away."

I shuffle the flashcards, my fingers brushing the coarse edges, the scrape of paper against skin grounding me in the here and now. Nicole's voice, usually as clear as a bell, wavers today, notes of discord humming beneath each word.

"Supply and demand," she mumbles, staring down at her own set of cards, the purple crescents under her eyes betraying nights stolen by something other than studying.

"Okay, but can demand ever really be satisfied?" I quip, but my heart's not in it. The smirk that usually tugs at my lips feels heavy, out of place. I lean forward, elbows braced on the tabletop, the wood cool under my forearms. My attention slips past the dog-eared index cards to Nicole's throat.

"Jesus," I breathe out, the word slipping like a sinner in church. There they are, angry red welts peeking above her collar, makeup smeared and failing to cover evidence of hands that had no right. My stomach clenches, bile burning the back of my throat.

"Nicole…" It starts as a whisper, a ghost of sound barely shuffling through the space between us.

"Stop looking at me like that," she snaps, her hand flying up to shield her neck, but it's too late. I've seen the marks that scream of violence, of a story she's not telling.

"Like what? Like I'm worried about you?" The bite in my words is a shield against the horror twisting inside me.

"Like you're about to do something stupid," she retorts, her entire vibe challenging, daring me to push further. She rolls her eyes, the bruise on her cheekbone shifting with the motion. "Can we get back to economics, or do you want to keep playing detective?"

"Detective sounds very thrilling, but sure, let's talk about the exhilarating world of fiscal policy," I grumble, but my mind isn't on the words. It's on the shadows lurking behind her strained smile, the secrets etched into her skin.

"Or let's focus on acing this exam," she deflects.

"Right. Super easy," I roll my eyes, but I file away the image of her bruised neck, the marks hidden and yet so blatantly there.

The session drags on; the clock ticking away seconds, minutes, hours of pretense. But I can't shake the sight, the smell of fear clinging to her like a second skin, the silence screaming louder than any cry for help.

"Let's call it," I say finally, standing abruptly, my chair screeching against the hardwood floor—a sound of protest, an echo of the frustration boiling within me.

"Finally," she mutters, gathering her things, but her hands are shaking, betraying the nonchalance she aims for.

"Text me when you get home," I command, more than suggest, my voice brooking no argument.

"Will do, boss," she says, but there's gratitude in her eyes, a flicker of relief that I'm still here, still fighting for her even when she pushes me away.

"Good." I watch her leave, the door closing with a soft click behind her, leaving me alone with the ghosts of our conversation.

I'll find out what happened to her, but until then I'm going to deal with Satan's spawn himself.