25. Iris

"Come on, angel." Lincoln's voice is a low rumble in my ear, the kind of sound that usually sends shivers down my spine. Not today, though. Today I'm immune. Or at least, I pretend to be. When Lincoln is nice, he has an ulterior motive, and I'm not in the mood for it. "We can do this the easy way or the hard way."

There it is. The real Lincoln Blackwood.

I roll my eyes, leaning against the hallway wall just outside of his room as he towers over me, all broody with a smirk that says he knows exactly how this will end. "You're benched, Lincoln. Why would I go watch a game you're not even playing in?"

"Because," he leans in closer, lips barely brushing the shell of my ear, his hot breath fanning my neck, "I want to watch my brothers play and I want you there, too. With me." His hand finds mine, thumb tracing the delicate lines of my wrist before circling around to hold me in place.

"Yesterday you were blaming me for all sorts of shit I didn't do and—" I start, but Lincoln cuts me off by moving his hand up my sternum to wrap around my throat. It's a gentle squeeze to quiet me, but there's no malice there.

"I know it wasn't you," he says, his jaw flexing like he's grinding his back molars. "I think it's whoever broke into your room. Which is reason number one, among many, that I'm not leaving you alone while I go to the game."

There's a flicker in those brown eyes, something deeper than the usual arrogance as he flexes his fingers around my neck. An ulterior motive? Possibly. But he's not spilling, and I'm not psychic. He looks so sincere, like he actually wants me with him. "Okay," I relent, more because his touch is sparking fires along my skin than any real desire to watch college boys toss a pigskin back and forth.

The stands are a racket of excited noise, the air thick with the scent of cheap beer and cheaper cologne. Axe body spray if I had to take a wild guess. It's a sensory overload, but Lincoln's presence is grounding. His arm brushes mine, casual yet deliberate, as he guides us through the crowd. His hand hangs at his side, his fingers brushing mine and if I didn't know better, I'd think my bully of a stepbrother wants to hold my hand.

"Watch your step," he murmurs as we navigate the bleachers. A protective bubble seems to form around us, which is Lincoln's doing, no doubt. People just move out of his way, gawking at him like he's some sort of trash TV celebrity. Am I on the wish version of The Challenge? Lincoln positions himself to my side, subtly blocking jostling elbows and rowdy fans. The heat from his body is a constant reminder that I'm not alone and I hate that I crave that from him. He's supposed to be the person who makes me the most uncomfortable, but it's the exact opposite.

"Thanks," I say, as we take our seats, but my voice is drowned out by a drum line's beat. It's hard to stay feisty when someone's making you feel…safe. Cared for, even. Damn him.

"Anytime, angel," he replies, his gaze holding mine for a moment too long before it snaps to the field. There's a tension in his jaw, a focused edge to his stare that tells me he's scanning for threats, not watching the game. There's something in his tone and the way the nickname that was supposed to be spiteful rolls off his tongue like he's praising me.

I can't help but wonder what it means—that protectiveness. It's genuine, I'm almost certain. I may not have known Lincoln for long, but he's let me inside his head through these twisted little games he plays with me.

I know him, and this isn't some ploy.

"Remember to breathe, angel," he chuckles, as if he senses my internal turmoil. I'd have to ask the whole football team to pummel me if Lincoln ever gained access to the thoughts popping in and out of my head when he's near.

"Breathing is overrated," I grumble, but deep down, his presence is the only thing keeping my panic at bay. The thing about Lincoln is that he makes me feel like the most protected person in this entire arena.

A familiar, booming voice cuts through the noise, shattering our bubble of security. "Iris Marie Shelby!"

That tone, dripping with authority and disapproval—only one man owns it. My father. My head snaps around, and there he is, barreling toward us like a linebacker on a mission. Beside him, Lincoln's mother, her expression a forced smile that doesn't reach her eyes.

"Shit," escapes under my breath before I can stop it. Lincoln tenses; his hand finds the small of my back, a silent mark of solidarity. But it's too late. I've been too preoccupied with Lincoln that I haven't been placating my father and hiding all of the things about me that will make him irate.

"Your dorm room is empty; you've been skipping classes. Is this the reason you're becoming a fuck up?" Dad gestures toward Lincoln and then before I see it happening, he's got a grip of steel on my arm, pulling me up out of my seat on the bleachers as if I'm still a child caught misbehaving.

"Ow, Dad, let go!" I try to yank free, but his fingers are like clamps, each word he spits a mark against my self-esteem.

Lincoln is up, shadowing me and he doesn't have to say a word to get my father to let me go. I feel Lincoln's warm fingers soothing over the spot where my father grabbed me, and my stomach drops because I can sense how calm he is.

Angry calm is not a good thing when it comes to any of the Blackwood brothers.

Dad doesn't realize this because he starts in on me, "Unbelievable. You used to be so driven, so focused. And now look at you, fraternizing with…" His eyes sweep disdainfully over Lincoln, and I can feel the weight of judgments unspoken.

Keep going. You're digging your own grave.

"Your mother," Dad says, his voice sharp enough to slice the tension hanging between us, "thank God she's not here to see this." It's a low blow, one that carves through my chest like a scalpel. I feel the sear of it, the jagged edges of grief reopening with his every word. Mom's image, perfect and poised, is an unreachable benchmark—a ghostly model against whom I'll always fall short.

"Shut up about her," I hiss, my eyes stinging, trying to keep the dam from breaking in front of him. He has no right to wield her memory like a weapon.

"Excuse me?" His tone is incredulous, and he reaches for me again, but before he can continue his tirade, Lincoln steps in.

"Disrespectfully, if you want to walk out of here without broken legs, I suggest you shut the fuck up. " Lincoln's voice is a deep, dark growl, almost demonic as he inserts himself between us. "You don't get to talk to her like that anymore." He moves closer against my back, the heat of his body a stark contrast to the chill of my father's presence. I feel like Lincoln is going to envelop me, swallow me whole, and right now I wish he would.

"Son, this is none of your—" Dad tries to rebuff, but Lincoln cuts him off with a sharp gesture.

"Never fucking call me son again. You married my mother for whatever godforsaken reason, but you and I are nothing to each other. You have no claim to me and…" I watch as Lincoln's head pushes forward above me until it's right by my dad's ear and I strain to hear what he's whispering to him.

"I don't think Robert Blackwood would like to know how much you're riding my cock, don't you, Dan?" My dad's cheeks redden before going white.

"Now, so—," he catches himself before he utters that singular word that would make my stepbrother snap.

"From now on, anything you want to say to Iris goes through me. Got it?" The command in Lincoln's voice is absolute, brooking no argument. It's a protective claim, possessive and powerful. "You don't need to drive by or check on her or ask for updates. Assume she's with me because that's the only place you'll ever find her."

Dad's eyes narrow, and for a moment, the two men are locked in a silent battle of wills. I'm caught in the crossfire, an explosive mix of gratitude and confusion swirling inside me. It's madness, the way Lincoln assumes control, and yet…I can't deny the part of me that revels in it.

I can't believe it—Lincoln just threw down the gauntlet in front of my dad, and he's not backing down. My breath catches as I watch my father's expression, his anger giving way to something else—an unnerved glance toward a man standing next to the coach on the sideline. Is that fear flickering in his eyes? I've never seen him look so…rattled.

"Lincoln," a soft voice breaks through the heavy air. It's Lincoln's mom, her hand reaching out like she's trying to smooth over the volcanic eruption that is her son. She's all soothing tones and placating gestures, but the tension is a living thing between them.

"Mom, don't," Lincoln's voice slices through her words, sharp as a knife. "Don't act like you're here for me when we both know you're using Iris to cozy up to her dad."

His accusation stings the air, and I'm momentarily frozen by the raw hurt lacing every syllable. Lincoln's mom recoils, her expression a mask of shock and something that might be guilt. The betrayal between them is almost tangible, and I feel like an intruder witnessing this fractured moment.

"Lincoln," I try, my own voice trembling with emotions, "let's just?—"

"Stay out of this, angel," he snaps, but there's no malice directed at me. It's protective, territorial even. He looks at me with such intensity—a silent promise that this... madness isn't about us. It's about them. I notice Dad staring at the man next to the coach again and his eyes flash to mine one last time before he silently turns to leave.

"I didn't raise you to be this rude and crass, Lincoln." His mother's voice is tight with anger and something like defeat.

"You didn't raise me at all, now did you?" Lincoln finishes her with that one sentence. Lincoln's mother doesn't retort, instead, she turns sharply, striding off after my dad who's already vanishing into the crowd like a specter.

"Could this day get any more bizarre?" I mutter under my breath, shaking my head. The sound of the game fades into the background, the thud of the ball and the roars of the crowd distant against the rushing sound of blood in my ears.

The crowd swallows our parents, my dad's rigid back, and Lincoln's mom's defeated slouch. I watch the space where they'd been, like some twisted mirage fading away, and finally, I can breathe. The anger that had crackled in the air, sharp as winter lightning, thins out, leaving a hollowness in its wake.

Lincoln pulls me to sit back down and this time he makes sure to pull me close to his side. I know the confrontation with his mother upset him, even if he won't say it out loud. My leg starts its own rhythm, bouncing with an anxiety that feels like it's drilling through my bones. Tap-tap-tap against the cold metal bleacher.

Then there's warmth, Lincoln's hand pressing gently on my thigh, right above the knee. It's a touch that shouldn't be coming from someone like him, but sparks shoot straight to places that have no business tingling right now. Damn him.

"Stop worrying, Iris," he murmurs, thumb drawing lazy circles on my denim-clad skin. He stretches his fingers out and then curls them around my thigh. His hands are huge, making my leg seem small in comparison. It's as if he's sucking the anxiety out of my body just by touching me.

The sound of the crowd roars around us, punctuated by the sharp whistle of the ref, but it's his hand on my thigh that's got all my attention. It's warm, possessive, and it screams danger with every gentle stroke. It's sin wrapped in a simple gesture.

The world fades to a murmur, the din of the crowd nothing but background noise against the confusion playing in my head.

"Lincoln," I start, my voice barely above the sound of the marching band's instruments, "why did you go all medieval knight on my dad?"

He tilts his head, shadows playing across his chiseled features as the stadium lights dance above us. "Because," he says, his voice low and dangerous, "no one gets to handle you like that. No one but me."

I blink, taken aback by the fervor in his tone, the possessive glint in his eyes. "Handle me? I'm not some trophy in your case, Blackwood."

"Damn straight you're not." He leans in closer, and I can smell the mix of his cologne and the leather from the football he's been twirling absentmindedly. "You're mine, Iris. Mine to protect. Mine to...care for."

"Care for?" My lip curls into a half-snarl, half-smirk. "Like a pet?"

"If that's what you want to call it," he counters, the smirk now fully on his face. But his eyes... They're deadly serious. "I've told you that you're mine. However, you need to reconcile that in your head is fine with me. No elaborate equation you concoct will change that fact. You belong to me, and that won't change. Ever."

"That sounds pretty archaic, Lincoln."

"Call it what you want," he murmurs, his lips grazing the shell of my ear, sending a jolt straight through me. "It won't change the fact that I'd burn the world down before I let someone hurt you."

"Is that a promise or a threat?" I ask, my breath hitching. "No one can hurt me…except for you."

"I'm glad we're in agreement, angel," he replies without hesitation, the words hanging between us.

The game goes on and the air turns chilly, nippy at my skin. I try and watch the game even though I don't really know what's going on when I see the mysterious man who snagged my father's attention earlier. He's still there, lurking on the sidelines, but he's watching us now.

"Lincoln," I hiss, nodding subtly toward the figure. "That guy, he's still watching us."

He doesn't even glance that way, just shrugs off my concern with the easy confidence of someone used to owning the room. "Just my old man keeping an eye on the game, or more likely, on me."

"Your dad has a hobby of glaring holes into people?" I quip, but my attempt at levity falls flat against the feeling of unease in my chest.

"Hey," Lincoln says, voice low and steady as his hand finds mine, a silent pledge of protection. "You've got nothing to worry about. Not while I'm here."

But before I can argue that it's not my safety I'm concerned about, everything flips upside down. The sudden presence of police officers walking up the bleachers slices through the tension between Lincoln and me like a cold blade. I expect them to walk past us, but before I can figure out what's happening, two of them latch onto Lincoln with a grip that's all business, while the third steps forward, flipping open a small badge wallet with a practiced motion.

"Lincoln Blackwood! You are under arrest," the officer declares, and the world grinds to a halt around us. My heart slams against my ribcage, and I can't seem to drag enough air into my lungs.

"Wait, what? On what charge?" I demand, my voice sharp as broken glass.

"Lincoln Blackwood, you have the right to remain silent," the officer continues, and I watch helplessly as they start to pull him away.

"Get off of him! Lincoln, don't answer any questions," I snap, my words slicing through the thick confusion. But no one answers. I feel the panic clawing up my throat. If you'd asked me the day of my father's wedding if I'd care if Lincoln was dragged off by the police, my answer would have been very different than it is now.

I push forward, stupidly thinking if I could just get to him, touch him, it'll be okay. It's in this moment that I realize just how much I need Lincoln. I'm shoved back by the officer who's smirking at Lincoln. Almost relishing this.

"Hey!" Lincoln barks, his usual smoldering look now ablaze with fury. "Don't you fucking touch her."

"Lincoln, what's happening?" I blurt out, the plea naked in my voice.

"Stay back," he growls, struggling against the iron hold, eyes locked on mine with a ferocity that commands obedience. But obedience has never been my strong suit.

"Like hell I will," I retort, stepping closer even as another officer moves to block my path. The world shrinks until it's only the two of us.