33. Iris

I'm gasping for air, heart pounding like it's trying to escape my chest. The sheets twist around our slick bodies, and Lincoln's breath fans over my damp skin, carrying the musk scent of our desire that seems to cling in the air.

I crane my neck to see his expression. Lincoln shifts, the bed creaking beneath us. His muscular arms, inked with stories and symbols from wrist to shoulder, circle me.

I can't afford to get too comfortable here with him. The sex is phenomenal with Lincoln, but in the end the only one who's going to get hurt is me. I shift to get out of bed. After we get everything settled with Nicole, I'm assuming Lincoln will let me move back to my dorm. There won't be a threat anymore, and we're not exactly enemies at this point, but there's no reason for me to stay or for him to want me to.

"Where do you think you're going?" His voice is gruff, laced with an edge of possession that he doesn't bother to hide. Not that he ever does.

"Nowhere, apparently," I retort, though I don't make a move to leave the cage of his arms. My attempt at deflection does nothing to hide the truth—he knows exactly how much I crave this closeness. "Of all the ways you've surprised me, the fact that you like to cuddle has to be the biggest one."

"It surprised me too," he says, a hint of amusement coloring his tone. "I've found that I'm quite addicted to touching you, angel. Any part of you. I just need to have my hands on you." Lincoln cups my breasts, squeezing softly, and then buries his face in my neck, breathing in my scent.

"Is that so?" There's a challenge in my words, but the energy to follow through is lost somewhere between the sheets and his intoxicating hold.

"Damn straight." Lincoln's fingers trace invisible patterns on my arm, sending shivers down my spine. It's a bold touch.

"Such confidence," I breathe out, letting my body relax further into his protective circle. Lincoln Blackwood always plays to win. And right now, I'm his prize.

"Wrap your arms around me. I want you closer," he murmurs, his hot breath caressing the shell of my ear. Every cell in my body responds, heat pooling low in my belly. The safety I find in his arms isn't just about protection, I think it's ultimately him. No one else could make me feel this way.

The world shrinks to the size of this bed, to the tangle of our limbs, and the sound of our breaths. His eyes, those dark orbs that usually command with an intensity that could start fires, now gaze at me with a softness that feels like a blanket woven from midnight whispers.

"Did you think when you saw me at the wedding that we'd end up like this?" I tease, my voice barely above a whisper, but it's true. Lincoln in rest is a sight to behold, the wild edges smoothed out, if only for a moment.

He chuckles, a low sound that vibrates against my skin, but then he pulls up to look at me so seriously. "Yes. I always knew I'd have you in bed again." I see the triumph in his eyes at my shocked expression, but I believe him. I can see it in the way he's looking at me. It's unsettling how my defenses crumble under his touch, leaving me feeling exposed, yet somehow free.

Lincoln rolls me over onto my stomach, and I feel absolutely boneless. His fingers drift across my back and down toward my ass, tracing the raised scars that I usually hide from him. Each one a mark of past battles, each one a story untold. His touch is curious, reverent even, decoding secrets I've never voiced aloud.

"Does it hurt?" The question breaks from him, the words tinged with something raw.

I confess, the admission scraping its way up my throat, "Not when it's you."

He presses a kiss to the nape of my neck, and I shiver, not from pain, but from the flood of warmth that spreads through me. His exploration is delicate, yet there's a promise in his gentle probing—a silent vow that while he may not understand all my demons, he's willing to take them on with me.

"Lincoln," I begin, my voice faltering as his name becomes a talisman against the memories. But I don't need to say more; he understands the language of my body as if it were his own.

"Shh," he soothes, his hand steadying on the small of my back. "I've got you."

And damn if I don't believe him.

I can feel the weight of his stare, heavy and unblinking, on the roadmap of my past. Lincoln's fingers pause on a particularly gnarled scar, and I brace myself for the inevitable.

"Who did this to you, Iris?" he demands, his voice a low growl vibrating against my spine. There's a heat in his words that wasn't there moments ago, a fury smoldering just beneath the surface. "I want a name."

I suck in a breath, my heart slamming against my ribcage. This is the part where I usually deflect with a snarky comment, but the truth claws at my throat, begging for release. "My father," I spit out, the words tasting like blood and betrayal.

Lincoln freezes behind me, his body a wall of tension. I turn to look at him, searching the dark pools of his eyes for judgment, but all I find is a storm of protectiveness swirling in their depths.

"I want to know anything you're willing to tell me." The possessiveness in his tone should scare me, but instead, it's a twisted lullaby that soothes the feelings inside me. With Lincoln, I'm not just scars and secrets; I'm someone worth claiming, worth protecting. And damn if that thought doesn't send a shiver of want down my spine.

The crack of leather against skin echoes in my mind, a cruel percussion that still jolts me awake at night. In the dim afterglow, I whisper the details to Lincoln, his chest a solid warmth against my back. "He had this belt, thick and black, reserved for when I wasn't good enough,'" I say, my voice a bitter laugh stripped of humor. "Each lash was a word in the language he spoke best—pain."

Lincoln's arms are an iron cage around me, his breath hot on my neck. I can feel him simmering, a beast practically brewing beneath his skin. His fingers trace the ridges of my scars, a silent promise etched in every touch.

"Every strike was to make me better," I continue, "a punishment for not being good enough to carry his last name. To him, each welt raised on my flesh was proof of his care and guidance."

At my words, Lincoln tenses, his body a taut wire strung with fury. His grip involuntarily tightens, like he could shield me from memories with brute strength alone. "More. Tell me," he growls, the word a snarl of protective rage.

I turn within the circle of his arms, facing those turbulent eyes. Anger smolders there. I bite down on my lip, feeling it swell under the pressure, a familiar tactic to ground myself amidst chaos both past and present.

"I truly believe every scream, every plea, it was music to him," I confess, my heart aching as I lay bare the darkest parts of my soul.

"Stop," Lincoln commands, his voice jagged with barely restrained violence. But I don't stop; I can't. It's all spilling out now, the dam broken by his touch, his presence.

"Sometimes," I breathe out, reckless with the truth, "I still hear that belt in my nightmares, still feel its sting long after the marks have faded. But these are mine," I confess, the words tumbling out of me as I stroke the inside of my thighs.

"From high school. It was the only way to... to take back some control, you know? To be the one deciding where the scars go."

"Fuck." The curse is wrenched from his lips, a visceral response to the agony laced through my confession. "He should've been protecting you. He won't get the chance to hurt you again."

And then Lincoln's doing what he does best—reacting. His hands roam over my body, a silent promise traveling through his fingertips, trying to rewrite history on my skin. His anger is palpable, a living thing that wraps around us, fierce and unyielding as his embrace.

Lincoln's body is a living furnace, his heat branding me in ways no scar ever could. His breath skates over my damp skin, sending shivers down my spine that have nothing to do with fear. I'm acutely aware of the weight of his muscular arm thrown across my waist.

"Listen to me, angel," he growls, and there's a dark edge to his voice, one that speaks of promises and threats all rolled into one deliciously dangerous package. "You're mine. No one else gets to touch you. No one else gets to claim you. And no one gets to hurt you ever again."

His words are a molten emblem, scorching through my veins, and I can't help but press against him, my body craving the security his words offer. His ownership isn't suffocating; it's a lifeline, a tether keeping me from drifting into the abyss.

"And your father," he continues, the menace in his tone vibrating against my ear, "if he so much as thinks about hurting you again..." His pause is heavy, laden with violence, and when he speaks again, his voice is hard, "I'll tear him apart with my bare hands."

The promise lingers between us, thick with the scent of sex almost like it's sealing the pact. I don't doubt him. Not when every fiber of his being is tensed like a coiled spring, ready to unleash hell on anyone who dares harm me.

"You're mine, angel. No one touches what's mine," Lincoln whispers fiercely, sealing it with a kiss pressed against my pulse point—a kiss that feels like forever.

Lincoln's chest rises and falls under my cheek, a raging sea, and his heart hammers a furious beat that syncs with the pulse in my own throat. His arms are wrapped around me tight. "You're never seeing that bastard without me by your side."

Anger crackles through him. I breathe deep, inhaling the scent of him and let it fill my lungs, chasing away the demons.

"Baby," I murmur, my voice a soft counterpoint to his hard edges. I press closer, touching him. Silently pleading with him to calm down.

"Trust me," he breathes, and I realize I do. Implicitly. Because in his eyes, dark and dangerous, there's a promise more binding than any word spoken before a judge and jury. He'll keep me safe; he'll be my shield.

"Okay," I whisper, tracing the line of his chest that dips beneath the sheets, my fingers skimming lower, teasing the edge where his abs meet hips.

His hand captures mine, halting its descent. "You're not distracting me this time." I know his lip is pulled into a smile, even if it's too dark to see.

"Wasn't trying to," I lie, my tone laced with feigned innocence. He sees through it, always does. But that's our game, isn't it? Push and pull, a constant test of boundaries we both insist on crossing.

"Your scars..." His words are gentle but carry an edge, one that slices through the haze of lust. He places my hand over my own back, guiding it over the knotted memories etched into my skin.

"They're just stories, Lincoln. Ugly fairytales for girls who don't get happy endings."

"Fuck that," he growls, his protective fury tangible in the darkness.

I nod against his chest, feeling the rumble of his promise resonate within me. The intensity in his embrace tells me everything—Lincoln Blackwood doesn't make empty promises.

"Say it, angel. Say you believe me when I say I won't let him hurt you."

"Every word," I breathe out, surrendering to the sincerity in his voice. My heart hitches at the rawness between us, something far deeper than desire. It's terrifying and exhilarating, a freefall into the unknown with only his arms to catch me.

"Good girl," he says, and there's a finality to it, a vow sealed in the darkness. He shifts, rolling us until he looms above me, his silhouette outlined by the faint light. His eyes lock onto mine, fierce and unyielding. "Because I meant every damn one of them."

The bed creaks as he moves, and when he kisses me, it's a claiming—a devouring that leaves no room for doubts or demons. This is ours, this moment, this connection that defies all the fucked-up rules meant for us. Rules we've already broken.

"Lincoln..." His name is both a plea and a declaration, spilling from my lips as his mouth descends once more, obliterating thought, silencing the past with the sheer force of his presence.

"I'm right here, baby," he murmurs against my skin, his breath hot and heavy with need. Our bodies meld together, sweat and heat fusing us into one entity driven by instinct and a hunger that can't be sated.

Lincoln moves slowly this time, sliding in and out of me with control I didn't realize he possessed. He's shown me gentleness a time or two during and after sex, but this time is different.

This time, he's taking my heart.