22. Iris

The room is a war zone—clothes strewn like casualties across the floor, open drawers gaping like fresh wounds. I shove my belongings into my duffle bag with more force than necessary. The scent of Lincoln's cologne clings to everything, a constant reminder of the hold he has on me. It thickens the air, making it harder to breathe. I need to get out of here before he comes home and holds me hostage. The longer I'm around him, the more he pulls me under his damn spell.

Oakley leans against the door frame, her eyes wide and uncertain. I can tell that she's torn between leaving and diving into the fray to help me pack. I can tell she wants to say something, anything that might ease the dramatic charge of unrest. But what can you say when the storm is brewing right in front of you?

"Get out," Lincoln growls as he storms into the room. His voice booms, and Oakley flinches as if struck. I don't know her that well, but I recognize a part of me in her. She just shows her vulnerability in a different way than I do. Lincoln's eyes blaze with anger beneath those brows, and his jaw is set hard enough to chisel stone.

"I was just worried about Iris and—" Oakley starts, but another harsh snarl from him has her biting back words and retreating. I catch her pained glance before she vanishes down the hall, leaving a wake of awkward silence that quickly fills with the crackling energy emanating from Lincoln.

"Happy now?" I spit out, hate dripping from each syllable. "You enjoy making girls cower? That the kind of power trip you're on these days? I'm leaving and you're not going to convince me to stay, so just save us both the trouble of a fight."

"Power trip?" He prowls closer.

"She'll be down the hall with Jeremiah coddling her. She's fine. You, however, are not. Put your shit back, you're not going anywhere." Lincoln slams his bedroom door and my whole body jerks with the boom. "How'd you do it?"

I cease what I'm doing to look up at him with what I hope is the most exasperated expression that has ever been expressed in the history of the world. "Do what, Lincoln?"

"You swapped my drug test with dirty piss, and I want to know who helped you. You're not on steroids, so I know it wasn't yours." Lincoln's jaw clenches and I can see that he really believes this delusion that one, I'd do something like that and two, that I'd be capable of figuring out how to sabotage his little football test.

"You cannot be serious," I say, but I'm not looking at him when I do. I think I'm more so talking to myself. This is absurd. I keep packing, slamming things into my bag with unnecessary violence.

"Don't play innocent, angel. Tell me how you did it."

"You're insane if you think I'm staying here," I snap, ignoring his question, my voice laced with scorn when he grabs the first bag I set by the door earlier and starts unpacking it. "I'm not in the mood to play whatever twisted game you've got going on in that messed-up head of yours."

He chuckles darkly, pacing the perimeter of his domain like a predator eyeing its prey. "Game? Oh, angel, this isn't a game. This is just the beginning."

I slam another shirt into the duffel bag before I square my body to him. He's not going to let me leave, but I'm not staying without a fight. "At some point, you'll get tired of this and move on to your next victim. Any idea what I can do to speed up the process? Do you want me to hang around looking at you googly-eyed? Ask you if you love me? What will scare you off?" My voice is a whip, cracking through the tension in the room.

He mirrors my stance, arms folded across his chest, that damn smirk plastered on his face like he's got the world figured out. "Nothing. This is it, Iris. You're mine to do whatever I want with, and right now I want to know who helped you fuck up my life."

I bark out a laugh, but there's no humor in it—just bitter acid. "You're a monster."

Lincoln's dark eyes narrow, and he leans in close enough for me to feel the heat of his body. "I can show you just how unhinged I can be. Say the word, angel."

I let out a scoff, rolling my eyes. My skin seems to burn hotter than ever, and the only logical answer as to why is that I'm fucked in the head. "Let's cut the crap, Lincoln. You've done some shitty things and I've said some shitty things, but this is too much." I snap, my words slicing through the tension like a knife. "Why the hell would you accuse me of messing with your drug test? Like you don't have an abundance of enemies." My hands plant firmly on my hips as I lean into his space, leaving no room for him to dodge the question.

He watches me like a predator assessing its prey. The air in the room is thick with the smell of him and the tang of sweat—a scent that seems to cling to the walls after his workouts. The sound of our breathing fills the silence, mine quick and sharp, his slow and deliberate.

His words are ice, sending chills down my spine. "You. Tell. Me." He moves closer, and I refuse to back down.

The accusation stings, hitting nerves that I keep buried deep. It's a low blow, and he knows it. "You think you're so smart, don't you?" I seethe, my voice barely a whisper. "But you're wrong. So damn wrong."

"Am I?" He tilts his head, that smug smirk playing on his lips. "Or are you just a practiced little liar?"

"Fuck you, Lincoln," I spit out, the words tasting like bile. He's struck a chord, alright. It's because he knows exactly where to prod to get a rise out of me.

"Such language for an angel," he taunts, stepping into my personal space. "Doesn't seem very little miss perfect of you, now does it?"

"Keep pushing, and you'll see how ‘perfect' I can be." My breath hitches as I stand my ground, refusing to show any sign of weakness. His presence is overwhelming, consuming, wrapping around me like a shroud.

"Ah, there's that fire." He leans in, so close I can feel the heat radiating from his body. "I like it when you're feisty. Makes everything more... interesting."

"Is that all this is to you? A hobby?" I'm furious, but damn him, the proximity sends waves of unwanted excitement through my veins. "You made up the drug test thing to get me worked up?"

"I'm not letting the test go. You're going to tell me who helped you sabotage my test." His voice is a low growl, stirring something primal within me. "When I find him, he's dead. And you're going to watch me kill him."

"It's going to be a while because you're making all of this up. There is no guy," I sneer, though his closeness is making it harder to focus. There's a part of me—a dark, secret place—that wonders what it would be like to let go, to surrender to this twisted dance of ours.

"Did you fuck him?" he whispers, his breath hot against my ear. "Did he make you come?"

My pulse races, and I hate myself for the way my body responds. But I won't let him see that. No, I'll never give him the satisfaction.

My hands are weapons, tearing through the chaos of Lincoln's room with an ire that surprises even me. I snatch a trophy from his shelf, one he probably won some stupid game with, and hurl it across the room. It crashes against the wall, the sound satisfyingly violent.

"Really, angel? That's mature," Lincoln's voice drips with disdain, but there's an undercurrent of something else—surprise, maybe even intrigue—as he watches the destruction unfold. He's never seen me lose control, especially not with rage being my outlet.

"Shut up!" The words explode from my mouth as I sweep his framed photos off the dresser, glass shattering on impact with the hardwood floor. "You want to blame me for something? I might as well do something to be blamed for!"

His smirk falters for a moment, replaced by a look I can't quite decipher. He's not used to seeing me like this, unhinged and unapologetic. Good. Let him see all of it—the anger, the pain, the real me that I keep buried beneath layers of perfection that are all a farce.

"Your little performance doesn't change anything," he says coolly, but his gaze is locked onto mine, searching.

"Performance?" I scoff, my breath coming in ragged gasps. "This isn't a show, Lincoln. This is me being sick to death of everything!" My voice breaks, and suddenly I'm not just angry; I'm drowning in a sea of hurt.

I'm unraveling, the threads of composure I hold on to so tightly fraying before both of our eyes. I swipe at the hot tears that betray me, hating their warmth on my cheeks.

He's silent now, watching me. There's no satisfaction in the way he's looking at me, no smug superiority—just a flicker of something like understanding. He sees me, really sees me, not just the facade I put up to push people like him away. The storm inside me rages on, but for a moment, amidst the ruin and the revelations, there's a twisted sort of peace between us.

I don't even see it coming. One second, the air is heavy with my confessions, and the next, Lincoln's hand is vise-like around my throat, his anger a tangible force as he hauls me up and throws me onto the bed. The world tilts, a blur of motion and flaring temper. His weight pins me down, and I'm suddenly aware of every line of his athletic form pressing against mine.

"Lincoln!" My voice comes out strangled, but there's no fear in it, just fury. The bed shifts, molding beneath us, a soft counterpoint to the hard lines of his body caging me in.

His hand releases my throat for just a moment before he draws his knife from nowhere, silver glinting ominously in the dim light. My heart doesn't skip a beat, doesn't falter. It pounds with a dark, wild rhythm that feels more like anticipation than dread.

He restrains my hands above my head, the blade's edge cool and threatening against the vulnerable skin of my throat. "Is this the monster you wanted to play with, angel?" His smirk is a challenge, his eyes two dark pools of malice.

"Cut me if you want," I spit back, my tone dripping with scorn. "I'm already scarred, Lincoln. A little more pain won't change anything." I fix him with a glare that dares him to do his worst, my eyes fixed on the only person who has ever pushed me to break this way. I'm unflinching and I see that he's surprised by that.

The way he's looking at me could be laughable if we weren't drenched in tension thick enough to slice through. He didn't expect this—my resistance, my unwillingness to cower or beg. This isn't the reaction he wanted, and I can tell by the way his grip falters, just for a fraction of a second, that I've gotten under his skin.

"Come on then, stepbrother," I taunt, feeling the edge of the blade press just a hint more insistent against my flesh, a silent promise of what could come. "Do it."

The air between us crackles with something fierce and dangerous, a folly of power where neither of us is willing to back down. His breath fans hot against my cheeks, smelling faintly of mint and the dark scent of his fury. I can hear the ragged edge in his breathing, a testament to his own inner turmoil.

And still, I stare him down, daring him to cross a line I'm not sure either of us can come back from.