35. Iris

Idon't know what the Blackwood brothers did last night, but I know I didn't sleep once they all left the house in unison. As if Oakley and I wouldn't hear their boots clomping through the house. Between the lack of sleep, the physical exertion and all the anxiety and drama in my life my body feels like it's running on fumes today except for now.

The library doors close behind me, and every nerve in my body hums with anticipation. I'm almost running now, but who can blame me? Each step on the worn cobblestone path is one closer to Lincoln. I don't know what we are and for the first time in my life I'm not racking my brain to figure out the equation. I just know that I feel relief that I'm about to be wrapped in the arms of my own personal brand of addiction.

I draw in a sharp breath, the cool air biting at my lungs. It's like this every damn time. The ache when he's not around is a gnawing thing, fierce and unrelenting. No one's ever made me feel like I'm walking a tightrope between insanity and ecstasy.

The scent of late autumn mingles with the crispness of impending winter. My footsteps sound sharp on the pathway, echoing my racing heart.

"Going to meet the tattooed covered bastard?"

That voice—it's not the gravelly timbre that sets my skin ablaze. It's not the one I'm aching to hear. It's a cold splash of reality, chilling me from the inside out. I freeze mid-step, my breath catching. There, beneath the twisted branches of an ancient oak, stands my father, his silhouette imposing against the fading light.

"What—what are you doing here?" My words feel like they're slogging through molasses, heavy and slow. I stupidly thought maybe he was going to back off since he stopped calling and texting me to berate me.

"Let's talk about your appalling choices lately," he snarls, each syllable dipped in hate. He steps closer, and I can see the familiar fire of condemnation in his eyes. "He's using you to hurt his mother. He sees how weak you are and how easy you jumped into his bed."

"Lincoln is not up for discussion." My tone is steel wrapped in velvet, but it trembles. Damn it, it trembles.

"Of course he is. Everything you do reflects on me, Iris. Your…association with that boy is unacceptable." His voice cuts through the air, sharp as the November breeze.

"Association?" I scoff, disbelief coloring my laugh. "You make it sound so clinical. Lincoln and I are?—"

"He's your stepbrother." He looms over me now, and I can smell the bitter cigar smoke that's always reminded me of restrictions and expectations—cloying and suffocating.

"Really, Dad?" I arch a brow, forcing bravado into my stance. "Because he happens to be related to the gold-digger you decided to marry instead of running through her and leaving like you usually do?"

He steps closer, invading my personal space. "I will not allow?—"

"Allow?" I interrupt, incredulous. "Last I checked, you don't ‘allow' me anything. I'm not your property to smack around because I can't read your mind or adhere to your unrealistic expectations."

"Is that what he tells you?" he spits out, his tone dripping with derision. "Fills your head with ideas like that so he can take control? That's all he wants, Iris. He wants to control you to get to me."

"Unlike you, Lincoln doesn't tell me what to think or feel." My voice is confident, sure, and the tone breaks the illusion of calm. "He doesn't need to leash me with expectations."

"You're making a mistake, Iris." He's close enough now that I can count the threads of silver in his hair—a crown of control atop his head.

"Maybe," I concede, my expression fierce. "But it's mine to make. Not yours."

"Remember who pays for your education," he warns, his threat unsheathed.

"Always dangling that carrot, aren't you?" I retort, rolling my eyes. "Well, chew on this—I'd rather starve than live off your terms."

The silence stretches between us, thick with unspoken ultimatums and the weight of a gilded cage. I can almost taste the tang of iron and resolve in the air. This is not how I envisioned tonight unfolding—instead of kisses and whispered promises, I'm dancing with old ghosts in familiar cages.

"Speak to me like that again, and?—"

"And what?" I cut him off, my voice low and dangerous. "You'll do what you always do? Punish me? Try it. I fucking dare you."

There's a flicker of something dark in his gaze, like the first whisper of an encroaching storm. But I'm done being afraid of thunder.

I pivot on my heel, the soles of my sneakers kissing the pavement with a sharp sound. The night air clings to my skin, a cool contrast to the heat flaring in my chest. I've had enough of his vitriol, enough of being consumed by guilt and twisted daughterly duty.

"Where do you think you're going?" he barks, the familiar note of command slicing through the distance I put between us.

"Away from you!" I toss over my shoulder, my words laced with the anger of years suppressed. Each step is a small victory, a declaration of independence from the man who thinks he owns my will.

But then it happens—his fingers clamp around my arm like a vise, yanking me back into a world where I'm never quite free. His grip is like steel; it's possessive, it's painful—it's everything I loathe.

"Let go," I grind out, my voice a sharp edge, as I try to wriggle free. It's a destructive fight of push and pull, the kind that leaves bruises beneath the surface.

"Listen to me," he growls, but all I can focus on is the way his thumb digs into the soft flesh near my elbow, threatening to leave a mark that won't fade by morning. I do something then that I've never done before.

"I'll never listen to you again," I hiss, adrenaline and disgust mingling in my veins. I twist, ignoring the spike of pain as I fight against his hold. "Touch me again, and I swear?—"

His laugh is a low rumble, devoid of humor. "You'll what? Run to Lincoln?"

"Maybe I will," I snap, defiance flashing in my eyes. "He's more of a man than you'll ever be."

"Is that so?" he sneers, but I don't give him the satisfaction of seeing me flinch. Because even now, with his hand gripping, I'm already tasting the freedom that waits for me in Lincoln's arms. And nothing—not even this—can take that away.

My joints lock, muscles coil. It's now or never. With every ounce of confidence I possess, I jerk my arm back. It slips from his fingers—a fleeting victory—and the stinging sensation where he clutched me fuels my anger.

I spit the words, my voice a serrated whisper, "I'm done letting you hurt me."

He recoils, as if slapped, his lips twisting into a sneer. "Bold words, Iris." His voice drips with derision. "Do you really think Lincoln can offer you what you need? Protection? Love?" He scoffs, the sound grating against my resolve. "He's just a boy with more brawn than brains who thinks toying with you will get him the reaction he wants."

"He's never taken his belt off and beat me with it because I got a ninety-eight instead of one hundred percent on a test," The retort leaps from my lips, a snarl full of sarcasm. My heart hammers against my ribs, a wild urging to flee, but I stand my ground. I won't let him see fear in my eyes—not now, not ever again.

"Your bond with Lincoln is nothing but a farce," he taunts, his eyes gleaming with cruel satisfaction. "A little college fling spun out of control. And when you fall, Iris, remember I warned you."

His words are meant to wound, to rip open old insecurities and leave them bleeding. But I've bled enough for one lifetime. I've grown thorns in place of tears, and I will not be pricked by the likes of him.

"Keep your warnings," I snap, my pulse throbbing at the base of my throat.

Out of nowhere, a shadow looms over us, heavy with an unspoken threat. My breath catches as I pivot toward the intrusion, and there he is—Lincoln Blackwood. His presence slashes through the tension.

"Get the fuck away from her," he commands, voice low and laced with a promise of retribution. The ground seems to tremble under his words, the air charged with his fury. They're not just words; they're a war cry.

"Lincoln," I breathe out, my heart skipping a beat then pounding double-time. He doesn't glance my way, his focus locked on the man who's haunted my nightmares.

"I won't tell you again," Lincoln continues, stepping forward until he's a fortress between me and my father. "Your intimidation ends here."

"Ah, the valiant playboy," my father sneers, but the arrogance in his eyes falters. "Playing hero for your little conquest? Did your father put you up to this?"

"Conquest?" Lincoln chuckles, dark and humorless. "Iris isn't a prize to be won. She's a force you'll never understand, let alone control." His fists clench at his sides, and I know that can't mean anything good for my father.

"Blackwood," my father says the name like a curse. "Don't think your family's legacy gives you any power here. I'm not intimidated by your last name. Not anymore."

"Legacy?" Lincoln arches an eyebrow, his smirk all teeth. "This isn't about legacies. It's about respect. Something you lost the right to claim the moment you laid hands on Iris."

"Your threats don't scare me," my father retorts, but his voice lacks conviction.

"They're not threats," Lincoln counters, stepping closer, his towering frame casting a shadow that swallows my father whole. "I will literally fucking kill you if you touch her again. Because you know the Blackwood name so well, you know I can do that, and you'll never be thought of again. There will be no consequences. You will cease to be remembered by anyone."

His words are a caress and a strike—all at once. Lincoln Blackwood, my forbidden savior, my stepbrother—the one man who can make my father flinch.

"Understand this," Lincoln leans in, his voice a velvet growl. "You hurt her, you deal with me. And I swear, I will bring hell down upon you."

My skin prickles with heat, each word from Lincoln igniting something wild within me. And God help me, I want more.

A fist clenches inside me, knuckles white with the effort of holding back the scream that's clawing at my throat. Lincoln's stature is a fortress in front of me, his back a shield against the onslaught of my father's hurtful words.

"Enough running your mouth, Blackwood," my father sneers, voice laced with contempt. "You think you can protect her? She's nothing but?—"

The rest of his sentence is cut off by the sharp sound of Lincoln's fist connecting with his jaw. It's a visceral noise that resonates in the suddenly silent space between breaths. My heart hammers against my ribcage erratically.

Finally, someone hurt him back.

Shock ripples through me, cold and swift like a winter stream. Lincoln stands over my father, his chest heaving, eyes blazing with unspoken promises of violence if provoked further. "Talk about her like that again, and it won't be just a punch," Lincoln growls, his voice a low rumble.

I should feel horrified, appalled by the violence. Instead, there's a thrumming deep within me, that syncs with Lincoln's wicked fury.

"Don't make me hurt you in front of her," he spits out, standing tall, every inch the protector that my father never was.

My father stumbles back, hand pressed against where Lincoln hit him, disbelief etching lines into his forehead. He looks smaller somehow, diminished. I'm torn between wanting to dance on the ashes of his authority and the fear that claws at my insides, whispering warnings of repercussions

Lincoln's stare meets mine, feelings swirling within there. His eyes anchor me, a lifeline in the midst of my world capsizing. It's raw and intense, that look, speaking volumes without a single word uttered. I see it all there—the fervor, the rebellion, the quiet oath that he'll burn the world down before letting harm come to me again.

"I've got you," he mouths, barely audible over my ragged breaths, not a promise but a statement, as if I ever doubted. The corner of his mouth twitches upwards; that smile of his that's infuriatingly endearing.

Out of nowhere, my father swings on Lincoln and is unsuccessful. Lincoln catches the punch and hits my father square in the face with a punishing blow.

"You turned my daughter into a fucking whore. When I get her back, I'm going to do worse than she's ever seen. Iris! You will obey me," my father bellows, and it's too much. I need air. I need space. I need Lincoln. But not like this.

I wrench my attention from Lincoln's big body hovering over my father as they fall to the ground. I can hear Lincoln's fists bashing into my father's bones. "Don't you fucking say her name," Lincoln growls, and I turn on my heel, fleeing toward the football field. My sneakers slap against the pavement, each step echoing the frantic beat inside my chest. The night swallows me whole.

The scent of wet grass and earth fills my nostrils as I push myself faster, driven by an urgency I can't name. My breaths come in sharp bursts, slicing through the silence that blankets the campus.

I skid to a stop at the edge of the field, the stadium lights casting long shadows across the turf. A shiver ripples down my spine, and it's not just from the chill in the air. This field is his domain, where Lincoln reigns supreme, and for a brief, foolish moment, it makes me feel safe.

"Fuck," I mutter under my breath, squeezing my eyes shut. I can still feel Lincoln's eyes burning into my back, searing through layers of fear and doubt. And damn if that doesn't kindle something else entirely—a heat that buzzes under my skin, coiling tight in my belly.

"He'll find me. I want him to catch me," I whisper to myself.