31. Iris

My fingers tap against my thigh, the only outward sign of the worry within me. The Blackwood house's opulence is suffocating without Lincoln here with me, each gilded edge and plush velvet cushion mocking my anxiety. Lincoln had a meeting with his coach today to find out what's going to happen since his arrest and the false charges Nicole has put on him.

The double doors burst open with a force that should scare me, but I already know who it is. Lincoln strides in, his presence filling the room like a dark cloud swallowing the sun. That smirk from earlier isn't there now. Instead, his expression mirrors the storm he carries inside, and the tension in those dark orbs tells me things didn't go his way.

"Bad news," Lincoln growls, voice edged with the kind of fury that could set fire to rain.

My heart skips as if it's trying to keep pace with the drumming of my fingers. "Spill it."

"Permanently benched." The words are a gut punch. "Footballs off the table for me now."

"You know your coach knows you didn't do anything to her." We both know her assault allegations have tainted everything, but it doesn't make it any less frustrating.

Lincoln's gaze holds mine, his usual smoldering heat replaced with something colder, steelier. It's a look that says he's ready to go to war, and hell, so am I.

I reach for the folder I've been preparing while he's been gone. The well-organized tabs taunt me, each one a section dedicated to Nicole's past misdeeds, all documented in excruciating detail. My fingers flip open to a particularly damning page; it's a police report about her ex-boyfriend's ‘mysterious' accident.

"Always knew you were sharp as fuck, angel." Lincoln's voice is rough, and I try not to tremble under the weight of his intense eyes on me as he leans over my shoulder to scan the pages.

"You used to hate that about me," I quip back, despite the heat rising to my cheeks. Can't show weakness, even if his unexpected praise feels like a shot of alcohol, warm and intoxicating.

He chuckles darkly, thumbing through the evidence with a focus that's almost predatory. "You've been busy, haven't you?"

"Someone had to be the brains of this operation, unless you wanted to let Penn be in charge," I retort, forcing nonchalance. Inside, I'm all coiled up, ready to spring into action.

"I would rather eat rusty nails than let Penn be in charge of anything. His idea was to set her on fire," he murmurs absently, his hand pausing on a photo of Nicole, looking rather cozy with Nick. "He definitely knows something."

I start to tell him what I found out about Nick, but Lincoln grabs me by the jaw with such gentleness that my words are nowhere to be found. "To be clear, I love how smart you are, actually." The corner of his lips tilts up in that familiar half-smirk, his dark stare is fixed on me, intense and unyielding. The air in the room thickens.

"Seeing you blush," he says, voice low and husky, "it's…irresistible," he says, tracing the line of my jaw as if he's memorizing the shape of me. It's intimate, too intimate for just a moment of admiration over a folder crammed with secrets.

Before I can concoct a sharp retort, his lips find mine. It's soft at first, a whisper of a kiss that contradicts the heat in his eyes. I'm caught off guard by the tenderness, the way it seeps through my defenses like a slow, relentless tide.

Suddenly, his other hand finds my throat, not squeezing but holding with a possessive firmness that sends a jolt straight through me. My pulse thrums beneath his touch, a silent acknowledgment of the power he wields without even trying.

"Lincoln…" I manage, breathless and annoyed at myself for it. His thumb strokes my neck, and I have to bite back a moan.

"Focus, Satan's spawn," I tease, the nickname rolling off my tongue playfully that it's lost all meaning. "We've got a psycho to take down."

Lincoln kisses me again before his lips pull away with a soft pop, leaving the taste of him lingering on my tongue. Lincoln's eyes lock onto mine, dark and fathomless, and for a moment we're suspended in the tenderness of our kiss—before he disrupts the stillness with a playful pinch to my shirt-covered nipple. A sharp gasp escapes me, a mix of pain and pleasure that zings straight to my core.

"We'll finish this later," he promises with a hint of devilry in his touch.

"Asshole," I mutter, but there's no real malice in it. It's hard to stay mad when every touch from him feels like a promise of more delicious torment.

"Come on," he says, all business now. "We've got work to do."

We round up his brothers and Oakley so we can all cram into the fancy living room, which reeks of old money and secrets, just like the rest of the house.

"Listen to what Iris found out about Nicole," Lincoln commands, standing at the head of the table like some kind of brooding king addressing his court. His presence is magnetic, filling the room with a silent authority.

"Nicole's playing dirty, but she's not as smart as she thinks," I interject, my voice slicing through the tension. "She's left a trail, and we're going to use it to clear Lincoln's name."

"She's not going away without a fight," Graham says, his tone rough, as he sits back, arms crossed over his chest like a statue.

"Let's hear the plan then," Jeremiah adds, the strategist among us, his mind already racing ahead, calculating our moves.

"Take a look," I say, hanging him the folder.

The leather of the couch creaks under me as Jeremiah's fingers rifle through the folder I put together. His brow furrows, that mind of his dissecting every word, every implication held within those pages. I can almost see the gears turning in his head, the calculations made with each new piece of intel against Nicole.

"Damn, Linc. Your girl is... thorough."

Oakley, on her tiptoes, cranes her neck like some delicate bird trying to catch a glimpse of the pages. She's looking frustratingly adorable in her efforts to peek over Jeremiah's shoulder. It's a contrast to the brooding bulk of him, dark hair casting a shadow over his intense focus.

Jeremiah scoops Oakley up, tucking her into his side with an ease that speaks of long-practiced familiarity. He sets her on his lap without missing a beat, their heads close together, sharing the space as naturally as breathing.

"Thanks," she breathes out, a smile flickering over her lips as they both dive back into the pages. Her tiny frame fits against his like she's made for that spot, right there, shielded by his strength as they pore over my work.

"She's definitely done this before when she doesn't get her way." Jeremiah taps a particularly damning piece of evidence, a photo that could be the nail in Nicole's coffin.

Jeremiah's focus is lasered on the article about Nicole's ex-boyfriend, his brow furrowed like he's decrypting nuclear codes instead of reading social posts.

"What a fucking wackjob—" Penn starts, his voice laced with that signature drawl that makes panties drop faster than his GPA.

Graham cuts him off with a glare that could freeze hell over, and Penn's lips twist into a devilish grin, the words dying on his tongue. He loves poking the bear, especially when the bear is a six-foot-two wall of muscle and intensity. I stifle a laugh because Graham's ‘shut it' expression is a masterpiece.

"Boys," I interject, the word dripping with mock sweetness, "if you're finished measuring dicks, we have a witch hunt to plot."

Jeremiah's head snaps up, green eyes meeting mine before shifting to Lincoln. "I've got something," he says, and the room stills, hanging on his every word.

"It's Brandon," Jeremiah announces, the name hanging heavy between us.

"Brandon?" I echo, my mind racing as I try to picture the guy.

"He's on our football team," Jeremiah confirms, tapping the photo I saved that Nicole was tagged in from a party. "And now that I think about it, I know exactly why she cozied up to him."

"Because she's psychotic," Graham offers rather unhelpfully, but no one says anything because they're watching Jeremiah as he feels around in pockets, but his eyes are on the photo. Unable to find what he's looking for in his pockets, he whispers against Oakley's ear, asking her for something I can't decipher.

She leaves his side, dutifully following his command, all soft footsteps and golden hair. With a grace that makes my own movements feel clumsy, she walks around the table to retrieve his phone and comes back to stand next to him again. I notice that he doesn't thank her, but instead wraps his arm around her and cups her outer thigh, patting her there.

"St. Charles game footage," Jeremiah instructs, never lifting his attention from the file as he flips through. "Pull up our last game, please." His voice softens on the ‘please' and he looks up at her like she's the only thing he's ever seen in his life.

Oakley is already swiping through the albums.

I watch, fascinated, as the video loads, the screen coming to life with the green of the St. Charles football field, players moving like chess pieces in a grander scheme. And then Lincoln points out Brandon with a scowl.

"Son of a fucking bitch," Lincoln curses.

"Pause." Jeremiah's command slices through the silence. Oakley obliges, freezing the frame on Brandon's mid-strut.

"Jeremiah, you're a goddamn genius," Lincoln says, pulling up the camera footage on his phone from when his car was vandalized.

The room pulses with tension. A flicker of recognition sparks and he leans back, the leather chair squeaking its protest. "I know it's him," Lincoln declares, his voice cutting through the silence like a knife. "He's got the same stupid ass walk."

The thought of that underclassman laying hands on Lincoln's car ignites an ire in me, hot and blistering. I look up at Lincoln and say, "It makes sense that she'd buddy up to someone on the football team. He would have better access to swap the tests and make it look like yours was dirty."

Lincoln nods, his arm coming around to wrap around me, pulling me into his side as if having me close is a comfort that he needs right now. "She probably had him beat her up, too. From what you describe, those bruises couldn't have been self-inflicted."

"I wouldn't be surprised if she doesn't have more than one person helping her. She's not new to this," Graham says, a huff in his tone saying that he would like to be done with all the bullshit.

"Yep," Penn chimes in, brushing his baseball cap back on his head with a confident tilt. His grin is all predator. "Let's pay our dear friend Brandon a little visit, shall we? I'll get my lighter fluid." Penn's smirk grows wider. "That should get him to spill whatever else Nicole had him do."

"No lighter fluid," Graham barks.

"How about we just blackmail him?" I ask, because I can already tell that Graham is ready to lose it.

"We'll call it... persuasive negotiation. But tomorrow cause the freshies are out of town and I've got a dick appointment I'm about to be late to," Penn smirks before getting up and walking right out the front door.

The others murmur and leave as well, and then it's just Lincoln and me.