26. Lincoln

"Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law…" The cop's voice drones on, but the words are just background noise now. My mind races, and my heart hammers against my ribcage like it wants to break free. This is bullshit—got to be some kind of mistake.

"Fuck," I mutter under my breath, my gaze darting to Iris, her eyes wide with shock. There's no time for sweet talk or assurances; this is fucked. With a flick of my wrist, I toss my phone and keys her way. "Find one of my brothers," I command sharply. "Tell them ‘Code Blackbird.' You got that? Code fucking Blackbird."

Her hand snatches the items from mid-air, a testament to her reflexes. She nods, determination setting into her sharp cheekbones as she bites down on her lip. It's a look I've come to know and crave—but not tonight. Tonight, that bite is laced with fear, not passion.

The metallic click of handcuffs cinches around my wrists, cold and impersonal. They're pulling me away, dragging me out of the stadium, my quarterback status counting for jack shit. The ground beneath my feet feels unstable as my sneakers scuff against the concrete.

"Easy, QB," one officer sneers, shoving me forward into the back of the cop car and all I feel is fucking annoyance. Another thing in my fucking life going off the deep end.

"Looks like we finally got one of you Blackwoods," sneers a cop with an expression that tells me he chews gravel for fun. His eyes gleam with malice and something else... satisfaction, like he's just scored the winning touchdown at the fucking Super Bowl. "Heard about your little game with Nicole, Lincoln. Sounds like you played too rough for her liking."

Nicole? My head spins faster than a damn tornado. I haven't touched anyone but Iris. Skin to skin, breath to breath—she's my obsession, my fallen angel. Nothing and no one else comes close.

"Listen, officer…" I start, my voice dripping with sarcasm, "…you've got the wrong playbook. I don't know what fantasy league you're playing in, but I wasn't even near a Nicole."

"Save it for the judge," he snaps back, his tone as bitter as week-old coffee.

"Where is she?" The question comes out sharper than I intend, edged with the fear that's starting to sink its teeth in.

"Well, why would we tell you something like that?" He chuckles, turning back to face the front, leaving me with the view of his smug reflection in the window.

"Better hope your daddy's got deep pockets, Blackwood," the cop taunts as the car pulls away, leaving behind the echo of the crowd and the ghost of freedom.

"Deep enough to bury you," I shoot back, smirking despite the dire situation.

I lean into the hard plastic seat, the scent of sharp cleaner and body odor assaulting my nose. I never thought I'd end up here, not with the way dad throws the Blackwood name around. The dingy linoleum in here is going to cause me to break out.

"Your call, Blackwood. Make it quick," the desk sergeant grunts, sliding the phone across the cold steel counter.

"Thanks, Paul," I sneer, grabbing the receiver. My fingers are trembling—not from fear, but from fury as I dial one of my brothers. "Graham, tell me she's there."

"Lincoln?" Graham's voice crackles through the line, all business, no comfort. "Where the hell are you?"

"Police station. They're pinning some fucked up charges on me." My words rush out like bullets. "Dad's on this?"

"Yeah, he's on it. I'm with him right now. You'll be out soon."

"Make sure Iris is safe, Graham," I say, urgency sharpening my voice like a blade.

"Got it. Just as soon as I find her. Just hang tight," Graham replies before the line goes dead.

The line goes dead before I can argue, before I can demand more answers. The weight of the handset in my hand is suddenly unbearable, and I slam it back onto its cradle. Dads on it. As if those three words should serve as a salve to the burning worry for Iris eating me from the inside out. She's fucking who knows where, and I'm shackled to this godforsaken place. Why the fuck didn't she go with them when she found them?

"Let's go, daddy's little twin," a cop smirks as he manhandles me into the hallway, the cuffs he just put back on biting into my wrists. I don't resist; my body moves on autopilot.

The interrogation room is a cliche come to life; dimly lit, the smell of stale coffee and sweat heavy in the air. Two officers sit across from me, their expressions a study in contrast. Good cop wears a sympathetic smile like a bad disguise, while bad cop has his sneer screwed on tight.

"Welcome, Mr. Blackwood," says one cop, all smiles and sympathy. "We just want to clear things up." His partner looms in the corner, eyes like daggers, eager to carve me up with accusations.

"Clear away," I challenge, dropping into the chair they gesture to. It's a hard, unyielding thing—much like their questions.

"Nicole Sullivan," bad cop hurls the name at me like a grenade. "You know her?"

"Should I?" My heart hammers against my ribs. Nicole? Why does that name scratch at the back of my memory?

"Rape and assault, Lincoln. That's what she's claiming." Bad cop leans in, eyes gleaming with the thrill of the hunt.

"Never touched her." The denial comes fast and fierce, a reflex. But Nicole... a flicker of recognition sparks in the recesses of my mind, quickly smothered by confusion.

"Where were you Thursday night?" Smiley asks, pen poised over his notepad.

"Thursday?" I feign thoughtfulness. "Busy not raping or assaulting anyone. Can say the same for every Thursday, but you already know that."

"Cut the crap, Lincoln," the annoyed one snaps. "We've got a statement from Nicole. Says you were pretty rough."

"Nicole?" I let out a scoff. The name is a bad taste on my tongue. "I still don't know who the fuck you are talking about. Whoever is trying to fuck with me is more twisted than a corkscrew in a pretzel factory."

"Watch your mouth, Blackwood," the bad cop growls. I notice his little tacky ten cent badge says Jenson on it.

"Or what? You'll wash it out with soap?" I shoot back with a smirk.

"Enough," Smiley interjects, trying to smooth the tension. "Nicole Sullivan, senior at St. Charles and a Sports Med intern for the football team. Did you have any disagreements with her? Any reason she might target you?" Shit, as soon as he says that it all comes back to me. I knew this bitch had crazy eyes and was fucking locked in on me too goddamn much.

"Besides the fact she's certifiable?" I retort, leaning back. "Look, esteemed officers of Sunshine Donuts, you've got the wrong guy. If she's pointing fingers, it's because she's playing a game. And I'm not about to lose it all because some jersey chaser couldn't get my attention."

"Seems you already have Blackwood," Jenson says, his voice low and dangerous.

"Day's not over yet," I reply, feeling the heat rise inside me.

"Let's see if you can keep that confidence behind bars," he sneers, standing up.

"Only bars I'll be behind are the ones serving whiskey when this is over," I throw at him as my thoughts race.

Whatever Nicole's play is, I need to unravel it before it knots around our necks.

Then, like a hurricane tearing through the station, the door slams open. Rex Sterling—more shark than man—storms in, his presence a mountain of big dick energy. "This farce ends now," he barks, and it's music to my fucking ears.

"Mr. Sterling, we're conducting an interrogation?—"

"An interrogation based on fabrications and fantasies. You have nothing on him." Rex's voice could cut steel, and I swear I can see it slicing through bad cop's smugness.

"Lincoln Blackwood, you're coming with me."

"About damn time," I mutter under my breath, standing up so fast the chair screeches against the floor like a scream. I can feel the resolve hardening inside me. I'm going to find out what the fuck Nicole's play is, and she's going to wish she never crossed paths with me.

The handcuffs come off, and the relief is short-lived. There's work to be done—the kind that requires cunning and a heavy dose of Blackwood ruthlessness. Rex leads the way, and I follow, my steps fueled by a blend of anger and adrenaline.

We step into the bustling precinct, to the sound of ringing phones and clattering keyboards. Cops hustle about, oblivious to their surroundings. To serve and to protect my ass. But then, there she is—goddamn leech, her eyes latching onto mine like hooks into flesh.

She's leaning against the wall, nonchalant, but her eyes are sharp. Like she's a puppet master holding all the strings.

That smirk of hers creeps across her lips, oozing satisfaction and secrets. It's a look that says she's holding all the cards and enjoys watching me squirm. A shiver rips down my spine, not from fear—Blackwoods don't do fear—but from the touch of betrayal.

"Keep walking, Lincoln," Rex murmurs, his hand firm on my shoulder.

"Plan on it," I reply, my eyes locked with Nicole's for a split second longer. She thinks she's won this round. But she doesn't know who she's playing against.

"See something you like?" Nicole calls out, her voice, a knife wrapped in cheap polyester, cutting through the air between us. But it isn't until she turns into my periphery, dangling that locket like bait, that my pulse grinds to a halt. My eyes narrow on the tiny silver trinket she twirls in her fingers with an expertise that screams practiced manipulation.

I can't help but fixate on the iris flower etched into the metal—delicate petals that mirror the ones gracing Iris' skin in that secret place only I've been privileged to kiss. The locket swings hypnotically, and a dark realization claws its way up my throat, choking me with its implications.

"Nothing worth seeing here," I retort, but it's a hollow victory.

"Enjoy your freedom, Lincoln," she calls after me, her tone all sugar and no soul. "It won't last."

Rex ushers me out of the building, his grip firm but unnecessary. I'm a man possessed, and when I find Iris, I'll make damn sure nothing, and no one ever threatens what's ours again.

"We're wasting time, Sterling," I bark, my steps long and determined. "There's a snake that needs beheading."

As we disappear into the city, the locket's image burns behind my eyelids. Nicole may think she's playing chess, but I'm about to show her how her ass is simply playing Uno.

The engine's growl fades into the distance after dropping me off at the house, leaving me stewing in silence. My fists clench and unclench as Rex Sterling's sedan disappears around the corner. A tang of exhaust lingers in the air.

"Fuck," I spit out, scanning the street with hawk-like focus. Every shadow seems to mock me, whispering secrets. I need to move, need to think. And goddamnit, I need to find Iris before this shitstorm gets any worse.

"Think, Lincoln," I mutter under my breath, before walking back into the house.