39. Iris

The air shifts the moment Lincoln and his brothers stride into the house. Lincoln leads the pack, his athletic frame cutting a formidable silhouette against the grandeur of the entrance hall. The swagger in his step is almost tangible, a lion prowling his domain with a confidence that verges on arrogance.

His intense eyes sweep the room, missing nothing, asserting his presence without uttering a word. Those thick eyebrows of his are slightly raised, as if daring anyone to challenge him. The twist of lips that suggests he's both trouble and temptation—all wrapped up in jeans and a fitted t-shirt that shows every sinewy inch of him.

His brothers flank him, each mirroring Lincoln's rebellious aura. They're a unit, bound by blood and forged in the fires of a household that's clearly never been a stranger to conflict. Their collective demeanor speaks of solidarity. I almost feel bad that Jeremiah had to stay here with us. He looks conflicted also, as if being left out of helping end this corrodes some part of him. Hopefully, Oakley can help him get his head on right.

"Miss me, angel?" Lincoln's voice demands my undivided attention, deep and smooth—a caress wrapped in steel.

I roll my eyes, feigning disinterest. "I don't know, did you miss me?"

He steps closer, the scent of him teasing my senses, a mix of cedar and spice that somehow suits him perfectly. "Thought you might want this back." His hand extends toward me, revealing my locket—the one I thought was gone forever. I never thought I'd get it back from Nicole to be honest.

For a second, I'm speechless, caught off guard by the rush of emotions that flood through me. My mother flashes in my mind, the memories clinging to that tiny piece of metal overwhelming me. My throat tightens, and I swallow hard, fighting the vulnerability clawing its way up. "How? I don't understand."

"Let's just say, not all thieves cover their tracks well," he says, a glint of something unreadable in his gaze.

I reach for the locket, the cool metal grounding me as I snap it open to see the faded photo inside.

"I can't believe you thought to get this back for me," I mutter, looking up at him, trying to convey how much this actually means to me. "Really, thank you so much. I—" I take a deep breath and he's just looking at me, his thumb stroking across my cheek. "This is really important to me."

"Careful, angel," he warns, leaning in so close I can feel his breath against my skin. "You might start thinking I'm not such a bad guy."

"Perish the thought," I quip, matching his tone and smile as I snap the locket closed with a click. As our eyes lock, something unspoken passes between us.

My fingers toy with the edges of my locket, the familiar contours offering a meager shield against the onslaught of questions battering my mind. The air in the Blackwood house is heavy, thick, and I want to know what they did tonight.

"Lincoln," I start, my voice a serrated edge cutting through the tension. "What happened with Nicole?" My eyes fix on him, demanding, hungry for the truth that he cradles like a guarded treasure.

His eyes flicker, an unreadable storm brewing within their depths. "It's not for you to worry about, angel," he replies, his voice low and steady—a tone meant to ward off further inquiry.

But it only serves as fuel. "I think it is." My words are clipped. "We've been in this together since the beginning."

"The less you know the better," Lincoln insists, the protective timbre of his voice wrapping around me with an intensity that knots my stomach. He steps closer. His presence engulfs me, invading all of my senses. "You don't want to know what we had to do."

"Like hell I don't," I spit back, defying him, though his warning sends a shiver skittering down my spine.

Lincoln's hand finds its way to my arm, grip firm but not painful—an anchor tethering us together. "Trust me," he says, and God, I want to. "Nicole won't be bothering either of us again. That's all you need to know." His voice is a smooth threat, promising safety yet hinting at what lurks beneath his surface.

I wrestle with the impulse to push him, to peel back the layers of mystery until the raw truth lies exposed.

"Okay," I relent, the taste of defeat bitter on my tongue. "For now."

"Good girl," Lincoln murmurs, a wolfish grin slicing across his expression, and I bristle at the condescension.

"Don't ‘good girl' me, Lincoln Blackwood," I warn. "I play nice until I don't."

His chuckle rumbles deep, sending a jolt of heat through my veins. "You like when I call you good girl in bed. I didn't know it was situational."

My whole body heats at his words, but luckily his brothers and Oakley don't seem to be paying attention to us. Thank fuck, I can't handle Penn calling me good girl as a joke and then Lincoln breaking the table with his body because it wasn't funny.

"Come on, baby," Lincoln announces abruptly, a cryptic edge to his voice that forces my mind into overdrive. "We've got something else to take care of." His words hang in the air, and I can't help but feel the pull of intrigue tugging at the corners of my curiosity.

"Something like what?" I ask, struggling to keep my tone even, to mask the crackle of interest that threatens to betray me. But he's already turning away and without thinking, I'm following.

"Get on the bike, Iris," is all he offers when we get outside, the command short, non-negotiable.

The ride is a blur of streetlights and shadow, time twisting until we're standing before the house that haunts my nightmares—the place where sometimes I wanted to die. My father's house looms before us, its facade a mocking testament to false fronts and hollow insides. The smell of wilted gardenias assaults me, sickly sweet, as if trying to cover the stench of past sins.

"Lincoln, why are we here?" The question is sharp and loaded, fired into the thick tension that surrounds us.

"To tie up some loose ends," he answers simply, though it's anything but. His eyes capture mine in the dim light, orbs with an intensity that swaddle me in a strange sense of safety despite the fear clawing at my insides.

Just being here has memories flooding in unbidden—shouts, crashes, the sharp sting of a belt. I swallow hard, bile rising in my throat.

"Remember, I've always got you," Lincoln murmurs, close enough that I can feel the heat of him, a living barrier between me and the ghosts of this place. His arm brushes against mine, electric, grounding, reminding me that this is now, not then.

"Let's do this," I whisper back, feigning a bravery I don't feel. As we step inside, the past wraps around me, a cold embrace. Every corner, every shadow whispers of the girl I used to be, the one who had nothing but scars to show for her pain.

But I'm not her anymore. I'm the girl who bites back. And I have Lincoln—a man whose darkness plays with my own, a twisted knight in tarnished armor.

The scent of aged wood and old money fills my nostrils as we breach the threshold. Lincoln's strides are sure, a panther poised to claim his territory as he knocks loudly.

"Come in," I hear my father call. My father stands at the foot of the grand staircase, his lips curling into what might pass for a smile on someone less contemptuous. "Lincoln Blackwood," he says, each syllable dripping with disdain. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

Lincoln retorts, "We're not here to exchange pleasantries."

The air crackles with tension. I watch as two formidable men—one who raised me in tyranny and one who threatens to unmake me with every searing look—clash.

My father scoffs, a vain attempt to mask the flicker of fear in his eyes. "You think you can just walk in here and lay claim? She is my daughter."

"Was," Lincoln corrects him, the word slicing through the room like a knife. "She's under my protection now."

I should be outraged by the possessiveness in his tone, but instead, there's this unruly heat coiling in my belly. Damn him.

My father's eyes narrow, calculating. "What if I pull my funding for her schooling? What then? You want to be a lawyer, don't you, Iris?"

Lincoln's laughter is rich, warm honey laced with cyanide. "I've already made the call to pay her tuition at St. Charles. Iris is brilliant and she will be whatever it is she wants to be. But most of all, she will be my wife. She will be a Blackwood."

"Is that so?" My father's voice is a viper's hiss.

"Dead ass," Lincoln replies, the fire in his stare searing into my skin. "She's got more strength in her little finger than you have in your entire portfolio."

I'm caught, breathless, watching the interaction unfold. Lincoln's unwavering stance is so fucking sexy, and my body is responding before my mind can catch up. He's fighting for me, and it's the most erotic thing I've ever experienced.

Lincoln's hand finds the small of my back, a touch that sends a jolt straight to my core. "You will never hurt her again. I needed to bring her here so that she can see for herself that you hold no power any longer."

Lincoln's mother walks into the foyer, her eyes wide for a moment before they narrow on me. "Don't involve yourself," my father mutters, but his voice is hollow, defeated.

I feel something shift inside me. The tendrils of fear that have held me captive for so long begin to shrivel and die in the heat of Lincoln's conviction.

"I've seen the scars you left on her," Lincoln growls suddenly, his voice low and laced with malice that sizzles through the heavy air. "The only reason I'm letting you live is because Iris is good. You're still her father, and I don't want her to look at me every day and think about how I snuffed you out. Even if I do think it would be better if she was a fucking orphan." His hand hovers just inches from my spine, as if the very memory of touching my scars might send him over the edge. Once Lincoln has been set off, there's no reeling him back in, and he's trying to prevent that.

My father looks pallid. His mouth is a thin line, cornered by Lincoln's smoldering wrath. "Stay away from her," Lincoln warns, muscles taut beneath his fitted shirt, tattoos peeking out like dark secrets. "If you so much as think about hurting her again, she will watch me cut your fucking hands off. Got it?"

I can almost taste the fury rolling off Lincoln. My body involuntarily leans toward him, drawn to the fire in his protectiveness.

"Like you're any better?" The snide tone slices through the tension, and we all pivot toward Lincoln's mom, draped in designer clothes from head to toe, eyes glinting with hate.

"You're just like your father," she continues, lips curling around each syllable like they're dipped in poison. "A monster wearing a hero's mask."

"Lincoln is NOTHING like his father," I spit the words. I don't know Mr. Blackwood well at all, but I know Lincoln is not the monster she's trying to portray him as. He's a monster. He's a villain to the core, but he's my monster, my villain. He protects me in ways I'd never even dreamed of, and I'll always be grateful to him for that.

"Shut up, you little bit?—

Lincoln's jaw clenches, and I see it—the boy who had to grow up too fast, the man who fights against the darkness that's been chasing him since birth. It's raw, this anger that contorts his handsome features, but it's not the kind that destroys. It's the kind that builds barriers, shields those he deems worth saving.

"You think I'm a monster? Talk to her like that again and you disappear. Dad should have made that happen a long time ago." He steps closer to her, a predator challenging a rival. "You have no idea what monsters look like, Mom. You whored yourself out until one finally agreed to marry you."

Lincoln's voice is steady, each word striking invisible wounds onto his mother's facade. Yet, I feel the tremors of his rage, the aftershocks of hurt that vibrate within the walls of this cursed place.

I watch as Lincoln stands between me and the man who should have been my protector. That's Lincoln's role now, and God help anyone who tries to tear him away from me.