24. Lincoln

Iwake up with the kind of headache that feels like a marching band stomping through my skull. A disorienting fog of sleep clinging to the edges of my consciousness. The sheets are twisted around my legs, evidence of last night with my stepsister. Sunlight is already barging in uninvited, making my eyes squint against its brightness. My hand shoots out, searching for a warm body that should be there, skin soft under my calloused fingers. But the bed is cold, empty except for me, and it hits me—I untied Iris hours ago.

"Fuck," I mutter, dragging a hand down my face. She had that damn class, the one she never shuts up about, always scribbling notes like they're her lifeline. I can still feel the ghost of her against me, the way her body arched, the desperate sounds that filled my room.

The room is silent now, suffocatingly so, and I throw the covers off in a hurry. Sunlight slices through the blinds—too bright, too real. Why is daytime always so fucking chipper? Just like Jeremiah's little pet, Oakley. He's got a weird ass hero complex when it comes to her. He needs to let that shit go; besties with her brother doesn't mean he's gotta be her big brother since Royce fucked off and disappeared.

I stretch, feeling every damn muscle protest, a reminder of last night's outburst. Anger coils in my stomach, still fresh, a snarling beast that refuses to be tamed.

"Son of a bitch," I hiss, rolling my shoulders to release some of the tension. Images from yesterday flash behind my eyelids—the rage, the broken glass, the red-hot feeling of losing control. It's all still there, simmering beneath the surface, waiting to erupt again at the slightest provocation.

I stumble to the bathroom, the chill of the tile against my bare feet grounding me back to reality. The mirror greets me with a reflection I barely recognize; eyes burning with an intensity that's become all too familiar. There's something raw there—a need for chaos, a desire to consume and be consumed.

"Get your shit together, Linc," I growl at my reflection, the smirk on my lips failing to reach those eyes. I crank the shower on, steam billowing out, beckoning me into its scalding embrace, and I answer. Water cascades over me, each drop a fleeting graze, but it's not her touch. It's never enough.

The heat sears away the remnants of sleep. I scrub my skin, as though I could wash away the frustration, the obsession, the fucking desire that claws at my insides.

"Focus," I command myself, even as my mind wanders back to her—those eyes that see too damn much, her full lips curved in that challenging smirk. I'm consumed by the need to possess her.

She's mine, no matter what twisted game we're playing, no matter how deep we spiral into this obsession.

Mine.

I dress quickly, yanking on jeans and a fitted black t-shirt that does nothing to hide the ink on my arm or the muscles from years of football and working out. The cross around my neck feels heavy today, a mockery of a faith I don't practice. I'm not looking for salvation—I'm too far gone for that—but maybe, just maybe, I enjoy the blasphemy of it all.

"Another day in paradise," I sneer at my reflection, grabbing my wallet and keys off the dresser. The leather feels cool against my palm, and I can't help and think this is the only thing not burning hot in my life right now.

The house is quiet as I move through it, no doubt my brothers are either still sleeping or already gone for the day.

The garage greets me with a hollow silence as I step inside, the dim light revealing a space too fucking empty. The Range Rover, big and black and mine, isn't squatting in its usual spot. "You've got to be kidding me," I mutter, my voice bouncing off the concrete walls, mocking me.

I rake a hand through my damp dark hair, droplets cascading down my neck. The image of the car outside, just beyond the door, floods back. I can almost smell the burnt rubber, feel the steering wheel beneath my white-knuckled grip. I'd parked the damn thing right there in the driveway after coming back from the campus.

"Failed fucking drug test," I growl into the nothingness, the memory igniting a fresh wave of anger. My pulse hammers in my ears. It's all noise, fury, the taste of bile on my tongue.

Walking out the side door of the garage, I turn the corner, putting myself right in the driveway and my car. But then I stop dead—at the sight before me. My windshield is cracked, headlights busted, dents all along the body. I move closer, visibly shaking with anger as I notice the deep grooves carved into the paint.

"Fuck," slips from between clenched teeth, the word as dark and heavy as I see the carnage that used to be my pristine ass vehicle. Iris. It has to be her doing—a payback that cuts deep. She fucking did this to spite me, and I know she's gotta be looking so fucking smug right now, sitting in class picturing what she's done. Thinking she's got the upper hand.

"Let's see what daddy is going to think about this," I mutter, my mind churning with how I'm going to blow it all up for her especially with daddy dearest.

With a snarl curling my lip, I pull out my phone, thumb jabbing at the security app icon with more force than necessary. I'm determined to catch her, to see that look wiped clean off when I confront her. "Gotcha," I breathe as the feed comes up, ready to savor her caught-in-the-act moment.

But what I see isn't what I expect. There's Iris, alright, but she's just... walking away. No gloating, no triumphant stride. Just her usual march toward class, green eyes glancing at the damage before moving past, utterly indifferent to my car. Confusion mixes with my anger, an unwelcome feeling that leaves a sour taste in my mouth.

"Son of a—" The words die on my lips. If it wasn't her, then who? My gaze snaps back to the screen, scanning for clues, for anything that might explain this. But all I'm left with is the sight of her retreating form and the nagging sensation that I've misjudged the situation. My hand clenches around the phone.

My thumb swipes furiously, rewinding through hours of darkness captured by the motionless eye of the security camera. The screen glows as I hunt for some sign of life in the inky time-stamped corners of the footage.

And then, there he is—a shadow in the grainy glow, masked and moving with purpose. My ears pound in anger as I watch this intruder, this trespasser, defile what's mine. Anger coils tight in my gut, hotter and more bitter than the coffee I never got to drink this morning.

"Who the hell are you?" I mutter, though the question is pointless; the guy's face is obscured, his identity shielded by anonymity. But the way he moves—there's something familiar in it, a memory that scratches at the back of my mind, just out of reach.

I lock my phone with a click that sounds too loud in the quiet of the driveway and stalk around the side of the car. A curse escapes me as I take in the damage—words carved viciously into the paint; a message meant to scar. "Bitch" it reads, and something primal within me snarls at the claim.

"Jesus," I breathe out, tracing the jagged letters with a fingertip. And then my eyes catch on the paint smeared across the window, red like blood in the early morning light. Recognition slams into me with the force of a tackle on the field—I know this script, these loops and lines marred by anger.

It's the same as the words written on Iris' damn wall the other night.

The realization hits me like a sucker punch, leaving a bitter taste of fear laced with possession. Someone targeted her, tried to break her, mark her like she's theirs to toy with. Rage swirls with something darker, deeper—a fierce protectiveness that surges through my veins.

"Nobody fucks with what's mine," I growl under my breath, the words a vow of vengeance. Iris is mine. She's my challenge, my chaos, my craving. We're tangled together in a way only we understand.

And some masked coward thinks he can step between us? No, this isn't how our story goes.

"Whoever you are," I say to the empty air, my voice barely above a whisper but laced with lethal intent, "you just made a very dangerous enemy."

I storm back into the house, full of fury, my heart rapidly hammering like it's trying to break free. The air feels thicker inside, laced with the scent of morning coffee and lingering cologne—at least one of my fucking brothers is here and awake.

"Jeremiah!" I shout, my voice echoing through the halls, but there's no answer from behind his closed door. It only fuels my impatience, the urgency clawing at my insides. I don't have time for subtlety. With one swift kick, the door gives way, splintering near the lock.

"Jesus, Lincoln!" Jeremiah bolts upright in bed, his expression a mix of anger and surprise.

"Sorry for the wake-up call," I sneer, my eyes narrowing as they land on Oakley, wrapped in the sheets next to him. "Just friends, my ass."

"Get out," I bark at her, the words sharp as the shards of wood scattered across the carpet. "We're locking down."

"Lincoln, calm down—" Jeremiah starts, rising to meet me, the tension between us crackling like static.

"Like hell I will!" My voice is a growl, the threat of violence simmering just beneath the surface. "Someone's messing with Iris. They fucked up the Range, Jere, with the same damn writing." I jab a finger toward the window.

"Fuck," he mutters, his earlier irritation melting into concern. "Alright, Oakley, you need to stay here. You can't leave this fucking house, you hear me?"

Oakley scrambles out of bed, clutching the sheet to her chest. Her wide eyes dart between us, sensing the danger even she can't comprehend.

"Whatever's going on, it's bigger than I thought," I say, the weight of my responsibility bearing down on me. "We need to be ready for anything."

He's standing now, shouldering his way into my personal bubble, chest puffed out like he's ready to take on a bull.

"Lincoln, you can't just barge in here and?—"

"Can't I?" My voice slashes through his protests, sharp as the chill seeping into the room. "Seems I just did."

He matches my glare, his own eyes spitting fire. He's usually the calm one, but not when little Miss Muffet is involved. Right now, he's a lit fuse, and I'm the match.

"Get your hands off me," he growls, trying to shove past.

"Make me," I sneer, and that's all it takes. We're a tangle of limbs and grunts, two brothers turned gladiators over a threat neither of us fully understand.

Our fight is a whirlwind of pent-up aggression, fists flying and connecting with soft thuds against flesh. The sound echoes, a dull rhythm in the early morning silence.

"Seriously?" Penn's voice cuts through the chaos, ice-cold and dripping with sarcasm. "This is what I wake up to? Should've grabbed popcorn for the show."

"Break it up, you idiots!" Graham's voice booms, his hands gripping my shoulders and jerking me back. His strength is enough to pull mountains down, and suddenly I'm stumbling backward, gasping for air.

"Easy, big guy," I rasp, trying to catch my breath, my chest heaving. "Just some brotherly love."

"Brotherly stupidity, you mean," Penn retorts, eyeing us like we're unruly kids rather than grown men.

Jeremiah's panting too, hair mussed and eyes blazing with the same protective fury that's coursing through me.

"Alright," I say, once the ringing in my ears subsides. "Let's figure this out. Together."

"Damn right," Jeremiah agrees, the anger dissipating as quickly as it ignited. "But next time, try knocking."

"Where's the fun in that?" I quip, cracking a half-smile, feeling the familiar tug of family stitching us back together.