27. Iris

Ipace the length of the Blackwood's living room, the heels of my boots clicking against the dark wooden floors in a rhythm that would drive me crazy if I wasn't already so preoccupied. Lincoln's arrest is a serrated blade twisting in my gut, and no amount of opulent luxury can dull the edge.

"Dammit, Lincoln," I mutter to myself, trying to shake the image of the intense way he looks at me sometimes. I'm not supposed to care this much—it's irrational, it's dangerous, it's...

"Hey, Iris. You okay?" Oakley's voice cuts through my turbulent thoughts. I spin to see Jeremiah, Oakley, and Penn clustered together like a trio of strength amid the chaos. Jeremiah's hand rests on Oakley's shoulder, a silent vow of protection. Penn paces too, his brow furrowed in concentration, his movements a mirror of my own restless energy.

"Thanks for letting me stay," I say, though my voice sounds more like a challenge than gratitude. It's my default setting—snark over softness.

Oakley meets my gaze, her crystal blue eyes offering a glimpse of solace. She smiles at me, and it's like someone threw a blanket over me—it doesn't fix everything, but for a second, it makes you forget the cold.

"Lincoln would murder everyone in this house if his brothers didn't look after you," she says softly. "We're all in this mess together, aren't we?"

I lean against the wall, pretending the cool, intricate wallpaper soothes the heat under my skin. It doesn't. I look from Penn's restless strides to Jeremiah and Oakley. Jeremiah is like a shadow to her, his presence a silent promise of safety, green eyes scanning the room as if he could ward off any threat with just a look.

Oakley, bless her heart, is the epitome of warmth in this mausoleum of a home. She moves with a subtle grace, her hand reaching for a wayward curl that falls over her eye—Jeremiah's there before she is, tucking it gently behind her ear almost as if he's subconsciously aware of every single aspect of the girl next to him. There's a tenderness in the gesture that makes something twist uncomfortably inside me because it makes me think of Lincoln.

I hold Lincoln's phone and keys in my hands and decide that I need something to keep my mind off of his absence. Spiraling right now is not going to help any of us or bring Lincoln home sooner. Observing them more closely now, the air around Jeremiah and Oakley crackles with an unspoken energy. They share glances loaded with meaning, their hands brushing in passing—a touch here, a look there—and it's like watching a private conversation unfold without words. The subtlety of their intimacy is lost on me.

But it's the way Oakley laughs, soft and melodic, that pulls at my attention. Her laughter kind of sounds like the old wind chimes outside of the library my mother used to take me to.

"Seems like you've got your own guardian angel," I say to her, cocking an eyebrow.

"Or a very dedicated gargoyle," Oakley replies with a playful spark in her crystal blue eyes. There's an allure to their connection, something raw and real that stirs a longing I refuse to name.

When Oakley gets up to go over to the bar, my curiosity claws its way out despite the turmoil brewing inside me. I decide to do what I always do, shove down what's really worrying me right now, and focus on something else. I follow her, watching as she sets out four whiskey glasses. I see the way she hesitates on the third and fourth glasses, biting her bottom lip before she looks up at me and says, "I'm used to making these for the guys." Oakley slides those glasses away from the other two and I realize then that they're for Lincoln and Graham who aren't with us for obvious reasons. She pulls another one from under the bar and asks, "What do you like?"

I wave her off, "I'm okay, thanks, though." Oakley just smiles and then she's at work, putting tiny balls of ice in one glass and mixing liquor like it's an order she's been making her whole life.

"Don't forget my umbrella," Penn yells, which immediately results in Jeremiah looking up from his phone and smacking Penn on the back of his head like it's something he's done his whole life.

"I would never forget your umbrella, Penn. Or your ice," she calls over her shoulder and Penn grins at Jeremiah who is not even trying to hide the fact that he's trying to glare holes into his brother's head. Presumably instead of murder, Jeremiah settles for yanking Penn's baseball hat around to face forward and yanks it down over his brow bone roughly. Oakley giggles, but it's a soft, demure sound as she shakes her head and adds a bright orange drink umbrella to Penn's iced out cocktail.

"So, what's the deal with you and Jeremiah?" I ask quietly enough that the guys won't hear. The question is as blunt as a bat to the head because inserting myself in her messy relationship will take my mind off the fact that I'm willingly waiting in the Blackwood house for the guy I swore I hated because I'm worried about him.

Oakley flinches, like I've stepped on her toes during a waltz, but there's a glint of resolve in those crystal blue eyes. "Jeremiah was my brother's best friend. I mean, he was kind of my best friend, too. He was always looking out for me." Her skin blushes the most pretty hue of pink when she says, "When I couldn't sleep, he'd always come by and take me for a ride on his bike, even if it was 2 o'clock in the morning. He never cared or seemed like I was a bother. Anyway, Rem and Royce were inseparable until…" Her voice trails off, heavy with a story that's etched into her delicate features.

"Until?" I prod, because patience isn't a virtue I'm known for.

"Until they got into a huge fight and I defended Jeremiah," she finishes, a shadow falling over her expression, the kind that no amount of sunshine could chase away. "And then they both left. I didn't see Jeremiah for—" she cuts herself off, swallowing hard like she's trying not to get emotional and now I feel like a royal bitch. I assumed she was going to tell me that she grew up with them or something.

"Shit, Oakley, I didn't—" I start, but Penn's voice cuts through the somber note hanging between us.

"Careful, Iris, you should see what Jeremiah did to the last person who made Oakley cry," he quips, his smirk stretching like he's got the punchline to an inside joke we're all privy to.

The emotion of pure surprise etched on Oakley's face tells me that she doesn't know what Penn is talking about.

Jeremiah pins Penn with a glare, but Penn is just grinning like he doesn't give one fuck. "You're a better man than I am, Jerebear. I'd flaunt that shit, let her know everything I did for?—"

"I will kill you and put your head on a stick and give it to her if you don't shut. The. Fuck. Up." Jeremiah pushes his hand through his hair and then rubs his hand over the bridge of his nose. The man is stressed, and I can't help but find the banter comforting. I could watch Penn get his brothers riled up all day. He's the only one who doesn't seem shakable, and I wonder why that is.

The heavy oak door groans open, slicing through the tension like a cold draft. I pivot on my heel, heart thudding against my ribcage, as Lincoln strides into the Blackwood house. Graham trails behind him, his posture rigid, eyes scanning the room with a honed precision.

My breath catches. There's something about seeing Lincoln, free and unshackled, that sends an electric shiver down my spine. His eyes sweep the room before they find me. We lock gazes, and the world narrows to the space between us. The relief that seems to wash over him is almost palpable, like he was worried that I wouldn't be here when he got home.

"Where have you been? You almost missed dinner, QB," Penn's voice slices through the tension, and I don't know how he keeps a straight face or how his brothers haven't had a meeting and voted on locking him in the cellar.

"Shut it, Penn," Graham snaps, more ice than I expect. The severity in his voice yanks us back to reality. "This isn't a joke. Lincolns in some deep shit if we don't figure this out."

Penn raises his hands in mock surrender, but the smirk doesn't quite reach his eyes. He knows well enough when to play his cards and when to fold. This time, he folds.

Lincoln flicks a hand, a silent command etched in the motion. I'm striding toward him before my brain registers the movement—a magnet to him. I'm halfway across the room, grabbing his keys and phone off the couch where I left them.

"Are you okay?" I start, but the words choke off as his fingers wrap around my wrist, an unyielding vise pulling me flush against his side. The contact burns, a brand through the fabric of my sweater, and I'm acutely aware of every point where our bodies meet. Lincoln intertwines our fingers and this time it's not a show he's putting on for anyone's benefit or to get a rise out of me. He's seeking comfort, and at this moment, I want to give him whatever I can to soothe him.

"Nicole is behind everything," he growls the words and he's vibrating with anger. His voice is a blade, slicing through the tension that's coiled tight in the room.

I stiffen, not just at the assertion, but at the ripple of muscle I feel under his shirt as he gestures emphatically with his free hand. "Nicole? The girl I tutor?" Lincoln looks down at me through dark lashes and nods, bringing his hand up to brush my hair away from my eyes. I feel numb and can't even articulate how I feel about this news.

"Nicole?" Penn's eyebrows shoot up like he's surprised.

"I humiliated her in front of everyone at that party a while ago," Lincoln says, scorn tainting his words. Each syllable is laced with a dark certainty that makes me shiver. "She wouldn't leave me the fuck alone, and I was in a bad mood that night. Not to mention in the locker room after talking to Coach." Lincoln shifts his feet, pressing closer against me.

"Shit," Jeremiah mutters as concern shadows his eyes.

"Right, because public humiliation always ends well," Graham quips, unable to stop the sarcasm from dripping off his tongue despite the gravity of Lincoln's revelation.

"Point is," Lincoln barrels on, ignoring Graham's jab, "ever since then, it's been one thing after another. I saw her at the police station. She had Iris' necklace that was missing when her room was broken into. All of this has been carefully constructed, and we need to have a solid plan if we're going to prove that she's a psychotic bitch."

I swallow hard, the taste of unease bitter on my tongue. "The first day I was assigned to tutor her, she asked me about you. Said she saw us talking the day of my speech…remember when your mom came? Never mind, that doesn't matter. I just assumed she thought you were cute, but now I'm wondering if she orchestrated getting set up with me for tutoring," I confess, looking up at Lincoln. "She showed up to our last session with bruises she couldn't explain. Acted like she didn't want to talk about it. I didn't know you'd even met her, so I never said anything to you."

"She's been setting this up for a while," Lincoln breathes out, his voice low and gravelly. It reverberates in the air between us, leaving goosebumps marching down my arms.

I fight off the chill creeping under my skin and reach out, my fingers brushing the warm skin of his arm. A shiver courses through me as I feel the thrum of his life beneath my fingertips.

"We just need to get her to confess, right?" My question is barely above a whisper, but it feels like it echoes through the entire room. The need to protect him claws at my insides, fierce and unexpected.

He looks down at my hand on his arm, his smirk softening into something surprisingly tender. The heat of his stare says he wants to eat me alive right now despite everything he's going through. That ignites something deep within me, and I bite back a groan. We've got bigger fish to fry than whatever this inferno building between us is. But damn if the sizzle doesn't feel like it could burn down the whole mansion.

Penn's usually light-hearted demeanor is nowhere in sight, his usual smirk fading into a thin line. Jeremiah's hand hovers over Oakley's back, protective as ever, but there's a tremor to his touch that wasn't there before.

"Are we seriously talking about a revenge plot?" Graham can't seem to help the sharp edge in his voice, his words slicing through the heavy silence. "This isn't some teen slasher flick."

"Feels like one," Penn mutters, running a hand through his hair, the motion jerky. "I do happen to own a Ghostface mask, if we need it." He raises his eyebrows suggestively and I can only imagine what debauchery has happened in that mask.

"Of course you do," Lincoln says, rolling his eyes.

"Enough," Graham interjects, his tone brooks no argument, and I watch as the others straighten up, eyes locked on him. His authority is a tangible force, pressing down on us, reminding me that beneath the posh exterior of the Blackwood brothers is a bedrock of steel and survival instincts.

"We need to figure out who helped Nicole, get them to crack so we can push her over the edge," Lincoln says, voice grim, and it sends a shiver down my spine. His eyes meet mine, and something unspoken passes between us not unlike a silent vow that we're in this mess together.