36. Lincoln

I'm a caged beast. Every muscle in my body tensed as my fists pummel into the flesh that dares to bruise her. Iris' dad is beneath me now, his face bloody from my rage. He gasps for air, but I don't relent. I'm lost in the fury, in the vision of him manhandling her, the way his filthy hands looked against her pale skin.

"Gotta protect what's mine," I grunt between punches, the taste of vengeance heavy on my tongue.

He spits blood and vile words, trying to goad me further, but I know this isn't about him anymore. It's about her, about the way she looks at me.

"Never again," I promise through gritted teeth, my voice low and deadly. "I won't let you touch her again."

My cross swings wildly from my neck as I lean closer, making sure he hears me over the sound of his own groans. "She's not yours to break."

I straighten up, rolling my shoulders back, feeling the adrenaline coursing through me. My knuckles sting, a mix of sweat and blood that seeps into the splits in my skin, but it's nothing compared to the rush, the power surging within me, urging me toward my fallen angel.

I watch Iris take off, her long waves catching the last light of day as if they're taunting me, beckoning me to follow.

I can't help but groan; the thrill of it all kicks my heart rate up a notch. Every step she takes fuels my instincts. She needs this—the rush, the escape from her own twisted thoughts. She needs a way out. Damn, she needs me. And I'll be the sanctuary she's looking for, the escape from the chains her old man's locked around her life. I'll be the hunter, the one who brings her back when she's too far gone in her own mind.

"Run, Iris," I mutter to myself, tasting the anticipation on my tongue. "Make me work for it."

Dan Shelby groans behind me, his body struggling against the concrete. He's nothing but a road bump, now just a memory fading fast as I set my sights on the only prize that matters. My muscles coil, ready to spring into action, every fiber of my being screaming for the pursuit.

"Sorry, old man," I say without turning back, the words laced with a coldness I don't bother to mask. "Daddy's little girl has other plans tonight."

"Lincoln, don't you dare—" Dan tries to warn, but I'm already gone, my feet pounding the pavement.

"Too late," I call back over my shoulder, the sound swallowed by the night.

I'm stuck between the urge to find her quickly and the knowledge that dragging this out will make it so much sweeter for both of us. No one is around to see as I dart around objects until I cross into the tree line of the woods that separates this parking lot and the rest of campus.

"Run faster, angel," I call out, my voice a low, taunting echo in the night. "But remember, I always catch what I'm after."

I know my taunt reaches her somewhere in the trees because I hear her legs hitting the ground harder. My little stepsister never quite learned how to run soundlessly. I'm about to hit the other side of the tree line and slow down, savoring the euphoria that's pumping in my veins.

The back of the football stadium looms ahead, and something in my gut is telling me that's where Iris is headed. It's perfectly us. The place that means almost everything to me. It'll be empty, everyone gone for the night.

"Lincoln, you're insane!" Her laughter rings out. Oh, how she knows how to push my buttons, to stoke the fire.

"Insanity's only a fifty-yard throw from genius," I shoot back, the glee audible in my voice. I navigate the corridors behind the stands, each turn a step closer to her.

The field opens up before me, an expanse of emerald under the nighttime floodlights. The stands rise like silent guardians, their emptiness echoing our solitude. I swear a gust of wind carries the scent of lavender—the scent that drives me mad.

"Gotcha," I whisper to myself as I see her silhouette dart across the thirty-yard line, her form a fleeting wisp.

"Give it up, angel!" I roar, my voice filled with equal parts amusement and arousal. The sound of her name on my lips is a sacred mantra, one I intend to chant against her skin in whispers and screams alike.

The chase thrums in my veins, every beat of my heart screaming her name. I'm closing in now, every muscle coiled, ready to spring.

"Never, Blackwood!" she yells back, defiance fueling her speed.

Her breaths come in ragged gasps that cut through the stillness of the night like a knife. My footsteps pound against the grass, rhythmic, relentless—hunting her down with a precision. The distance closes between us, yard by yard, until I'm upon her.

"Thought you could outrun me?" I taunt, my voice a low growl as I tackle her to the ground. She falls beneath me, and I straddle her back, pinning her down with a grip that takes no argument. Her pulse races under my fingers, syncing with mine.

"Lincoln, damn you—" she spits out, but her words evaporate into the night air as I wrench her shirt apart, the fabric tearing with a satisfying rip. Power surges through me, raw and intoxicating—I am in control here, and we both know it.

"Shh, angel," I whisper, my mouth close to her ear, my breath hot on her skin. "Fight all you want, baby. Let me take your pain and shame. Let me own it."

I pull out the switchblade, its blade catching the moonlight with a gleam. The metal whispers promises of pain and pleasure as I slide it across her exposed back, tracing the constellation of scars that map her history—a history only I have the right to rewrite.

"Only me," I murmur, pressing the edge into her flesh, just enough for her to feel the bite. "Only I can touch you like this."

She doesn't fight me. The tension in her body melts away under the pressure of the blade, and I carve new lines with practiced ease—each one a testament to our wicked fury.

"I want to be the one who slaughters every demon that's haunted you. I want to carve your scars with my own marks until every memory you have is of me."

"Linc..." she breathes, and there's something like reverence in the way she says my name. It's all the invitation I need, all the power I crave.

"Remember, angel," I say, my lips brushing against the shell of her ear as I mark her once again. "Every scar, every line—it's all mine. You're mine."

She sinks into the grass of the field, hands gripping at the strands, "Yours. Always yours."

"Good girl," I murmur, my lips curving up as I feel her give in.

With the switchblade still in my grasp, I carve my name across the expanse of her back, a signature of ownership on her scarred skin. Each letter etched with precision, a declaration that she's mine in ways no one else could fathom.

"Feel that?" I hiss, leaning over her, my breath scalding against the shell of her ear. "That's power, Iris. Your power."

She shivers, and I know she's listening, hanging on every word like a sinner seeking absolution.

"You decide your own story," I continue, pressing closer, my words laced with decadence and sin. "Let these scars be your chapters. Only you get to say how they define you."

The air between us crackles with the unsaid, with the understanding that while I may wield the knife, it's Iris who carves her destiny. And damn if that doesn't turn me on even more.

I peer down at the leggings clinging to her form, a barrier I'm about to obliterate. My fingers hook into the fabric seam, tearing through it like tissue paper. The sound of ripping threads punches through the night air. Her flesh greets me, wet and ready, and a low growl rumbles in my chest.

"Fuck..." she moans out, a challenge and an invitation all at once.

I don't respond with words. Instead, I shove my joggers down, just enough to free my cock that's been straining for release since I took off after her. There's nothing gentle about this moment—it's pure, unbridled hunger as I position myself against her exposed heat.

"Ready to play?" I taunt, knowing full well the answer is etched in the arch of her back, the way she pushes against me, silently begging for more.

The football field stretches around us, an empty coliseum under the watchful gaze of the moon. The grass beneath us is dewy, I can feel it seeping into the knees of my pants. A shiver courses through me—not from the chill, but from anticipation. This is where I always find my greatest victories.

"Ready for you to stop running your damn mouth and give me an orgasm," she demands, that smirk audible in her voice even without seeing her face.

"Patience, angel," I reply, drawing out the moment. "You'll get whatever the fuck I give you."

I keep one hand pressed against the back of her neck as I drag the tip of my cock through your folds, up and down and pressing the bar of my piercing between her cheeks. Her heavy breathing and gasps are feeding my soul, what little of one I have.

"Look at you, half-dressed, as I'm about to fuck you through a hole in your leggings. My pretty little hole for pleasure, aren't you? My name across your back, my cock rearranging your guts, and your cream covering me." I'm sick of waiting, of teasing and trying to drag this out. It consumes me, this feeling to crawl into her body and attach myself to her. Vein to vein, muscle to muscle.

I slide in, parting her lips and sinking to the hilt because this is home. More than the house I share with my brothers, or my brothers themselves. She fucking grabbed me by the balls that first night, which feels like forever ago. My one-night stand turned stepsister. My enemy turned into my obsession.

"Fuck, you have the prettiest cunt I've ever seen. She wraps around me so snugly. You should see how your lips stretch around me and how they tug as I pull out of you. It's so fucking hot." I can't help but let my own moan escape as I do just that. Still pinned down, she's immobile and I can fuck myself in and out of her body to bring us both closer to the edge.

The wet, sloppy sounds of her slick cunt envelop me and mix with the guttural sounds that escape both of our throats.

"Fuck, Iris," I grunt, every muscle in my body straining toward the edge. "You feel incredible."

Her response comes in the tightening grip she has on me, pulling me deeper, marking me as hers just as much as I've marked her.

"More," she whispers, pushing back against me with a ferocity that matches my own.

"Greedy girl," I snarl, obliging her with a pace that's both punishing and exquisite.

We fuck hard and fast, and I have no doubt grass stains and turf burn is going to cover the front of my angel.

And when we finally shatter, it's with a force that leaves us gasping, clinging to each other. We collapse onto the grass, spent, and twisted up together, her labored breaths mixing with my own.

"Damn, Blackwood," Iris murmurs, her voice laced with satisfaction and adoration. She chuckles as she jokes, "You sure know how to make a touchdown."

"Only the best for you, angel," I retort, my laugh mingling with hers into the night, knowing that I just played the best I've had on this field.

"Let's get out of here," I say, already plotting getting her into the shower and into my bed, pulling out of her and forcing myself to my feet. I easily tuck myself back into my joggers.

"So, you gonna give me something to wear or am I'm walking through campus with my shirt and leggings shredded, your cum dripping down the fabric and your little handiwork on display," she asks, her smirk telling me she's prepared to do just that and knows I didn't think this one through.

"Fuck, no," I rasp out, my voice a guttural whisper against the hush of the stadium. My hands, those traitors, tremble slightly as they frame her face—this enigmatic girl who holds my damnation and salvation in her eyes. "C'mon, I have the access code to the locker rooms and there's shit in my locker. Not a single fucking eyeball, but mine gets to see you like this."

A smirk plays on her lips, the same one that's been driving me mad since the day I laid eyes on her. "Such poetry, Lincoln," she chides, her tone dripping with sarcasm. "Who knew the quarterback was so romantic?"

"Romantic, hell," I snarl, the words tasting like acid. "It's survival. You're under my skin, Iris. Infecting every goddamn thought."

Her fingers trace the inked lines on my arm, a touch that sears and soothes all at once. "And you think I don't feel the same?" Her voice is low and sultry and dances along my nerves. "You think I don't crave the chaos you bring?"

"Say it, then." The command comes out harsher than I intend, but the hunger to hear the words consumes me. "Tell me I'm not alone in this fucked-up thing we have."

"Alone?" She laughs, a sound that shivers down my spine. "With you constantly in my orbit? Impossible." She looks at me, fierce and unyielding. "You've got me, Lincoln Blackwood. Body and soul, twisted as they are. I love you."

"I don't know what love is. I love my brothers; I'd die for them. I know what that love is. But you, I'm obsessed, consumed by you. If all the things I feel for you are what love is then call me lovesick because baby, I love the fucking hell outta you. I'll kill for you." Our breaths mingle, hot and desperate, as I capture her mouth with mine, sealing her words as if we just made a pact between us. I know that whatever lies ahead, Iris is the one string I refuse to sever.