41. Iris

My palms are sweaty, and my heart's doing this annoying little tap-dance against my ribcage as I push open the door to my advisor's office. The hinges squeak—a cliché warning of my arrival—and I muster up what I hope passes for a confident smile. It probably looks more like a grimace.

"Good morning, Mrs. Haversham," I say, my voice betraying none of the whirlwind inside me.

The woman behind the desk is the epitome of academic austerity, her glasses teetering on the brink of her nose like they're contemplating a dive into the piles of paperwork that serve as their landing pad. She peers over them with a look that suggests she knows exactly why I'm here—like she's got psychic powers or something, which let's face it, would be pretty badass.

"Miss Shelby," she greets, her tone cooler than the other side of the pillow. That eyebrow of hers arches so high it's practically flirting with her hairline, and I can tell she's already judged the situation before I've spat out a single word of my well-rehearsed spiel.

"Unexpected pleasure," she continues, her words dripping with a skepticism that says she'd find a three-headed monkey in her chair less surprising than me wanting to chat about my academic future.

"Isn't it?" My smirk is all teeth, no mirth. I don't do meek, and I sure as hell don't back down.

I lean back in the hard chair, crossing my legs at the ankle and tossing my hair over one shoulder. The air is stale with dust and dry paper. My lips part slightly as I break the silence that's settled between us.

"Mrs. Haversham, I'm changing my classes." The words come out laced with a certainty that makes my heart pound harder than when Lincoln is chasing me to fuck me in whatever position he desires.

"Changing your classes?" she echoes, drawing out each syllable like they're sour on her tongue. Her fingers pause, suspended over the keyboard, as if she's conjuring up every academic horror story to scare me straight.

"Yep," I say, popping the ‘p' for emphasis. "I want to explore. I mean, really explore—different subjects, other opportunities that weren't an option for me before." A smirk plays on my full lips, teasing the seriousness of the situation. "You know, find my true passion and all that jazz."

"Your father has carefully selected your schedule." Her voice is a mix of concern and a pinch of irritation, something that's become all too familiar coming from professors and staff at St. Charles.

"Ah, yes, dear old Dad and his master plan." I roll my eyes, my body language screaming rebellion. "But it's time I start being an adult and making my own decisions." I bite my lip, feeling the edge of my locket pressed against my skin.

"Structure is crucial, Iris," Mrs. Haversham insists, leaning forward. "A rigorous curriculum prepares you for the challenges of law school and beyond. It is not something to be taken lightly."

"Neither is my sanity." The laugh that bubbles up is dark, flavored with years of repressed desires and the sharp tang of impending freedom. "Trust me, I'm all for challenges, but let's make them ones I actually give a damn about."

She sighs, the sound heavy with resignation, and I can tell she's torn between the rulebook and the wild glint that must be in my eyes. "Exploration at the expense of your future is a perilous path."

"Then consider me an adrenaline junkie," I quip, the tension coiling tighter, a serpent ready to strike. "Because the only thing more dangerous than change is staying the same, right?"

Mrs. Haversham finally relents with another deep sigh, tapping away at her keyboard. I savor the moment, the sweet scent of victory mingling with the musty books lining the office walls.

"Very well, Iris," she murmurs, doubt still shadowing her features. "But remember, this is your choice, your responsibility."

"Wouldn't have it any other way," I reply, a feral grin spreading as I stand, feeling the rush of control surge through my veins. Maybe in some ways I've already become a Blackwood.

Another sigh and she says, "Can't I encourage you to speak with your father?—"

"Look," I begin, my voice slicing through the tense air like a well-honed blade, "I'm not here to ask you, I'm here to tell you what I'm doing. My father no longer has any control or access to my file. He's not even paying my tuition anymore."

She adjusts her glasses, peering at me over the rims with a skepticism that's almost palpable. Her hands hover hesitantly over her keyboard. I can tell she's weighing her own doubts against the stubborn set of my jaw.

"An easier schedule doesn't mean I'm taking the easy way out," I press on, leaning forward, my fingers gripping the edge of her cluttered desk. The scent of lemon polish grates on my senses, too clean, too sterile for this moment of rebellion.

"Freedom isn't free, Iris," Mrs. Haversham counters, her voice laced with the weary wisdom. But there's a crack in her resolve; I can hear it, a subtle shift in tone that tells me she's close to breaking.

"Neither is peace of mind," I shoot back.

The clacking of keys fades to the background, a dullness to the racing thoughts in my head. I lean back, the chair creaking under me—a sound that should annoy but somehow soothes. My gaze drifts past Mrs. Haversham, through the window where autumn plays out in all her gorgeous hues. The leaves fall without fear, liberated from their branches, and I find myself envying them.

I'm doing it. Really doing it. The thought tiptoes across my mind, a whisper at first, growing louder with each passing second. I've always tried to be daddy's little girl—academically brilliant, socially poised, and perpetually under his thumb. But not anymore. A surge of relief washes over me, so intense it's almost a physical caress.

"Your father will hear about this," Mrs. Haversham intones, her voice a mixture of disapproval and reluctant acceptance.

"Oh, I'll see that he does," I retort, my words clipped with a feisty edge. "I'm not his puppet."

Her eyes flick up to mine, and there's an unspoken understanding between us.

I shove open the heavy door, the feeling of victory on my heels. I almost trip over my own feet as I catch sight of Lincoln propped against the sleek body of my car like he's part of the paintwork. His bike, that beast of metal and rebellion, lurks close by, gleaming under the autumn sun. The sight of him sends an illicit thrill down my spine.

"Hey, quarterback," I breathe, half-laugh, half-gasp, already closing the distance between us.

"Angel." His voice is a low hum, a thread of amusement weaving through the words.

My pet name on his lips feels like a dare, and I can't resist. My steps quicken into a run and when I'm finally within reach, I throw myself at him, and damn if he doesn't catch me with those arms, pulling me into the solid wall of his chest. His scent—musky mixed with the crisp outdoors—wraps around me, a blanket of familiarity and heat.

"Missed you," I mumble against his shirt, the cotton soft and warm from his body heat.

"Missed class, you mean?" Lincoln's chuckle vibrates through me, and I swear it strokes every nerve ending awake. He holds me tight, as if he might absorb my wildness into his own storm. "Fuck, I missed you."

"Smartass," I retort, pulling back just enough to meet his eyes, my grin a mirror to his. The sunlight catches the ink on his skin, and I'm momentarily distracted by the urge to trace the lines with my fingers, or better yet, my tongue.

"Always." He raises an eyebrow, his grin wicked. "So, why aren't you playing the dutiful student today?"

"Because life called for a little rebellion," I shoot back, rolling my eyes at his feigned shock. "And besides, I know you've got my timetable memorized, down to the minute. Which is why you're here…spying on me."

"Guilty," he admits, the corners of his eyes crinkling with genuine delight. "Gotta keep tabs on my favorite angel."

"Favorite, huh?" The word sends a zing straight to my core. "That's a dangerous title to hand out, Blackwood."

"Only the best for you," His hands roam to my waist, fingertips inching beneath the hem of my shirt, grazing skin in a promise of more.

I press closer, craving the contact. Lincoln's presence is a drug, intoxicating and potent, and I'm hooked on the high.

"Careful, Linc," I whisper, tilting my head up to his, our breaths mingling. "Keep this up, and you might actually make me believe you."

"Believe it, Iris," he murmurs, and his lips hover over mine, teasing the line we've drawn a thousand times but never crossed. "You're the only game I play for keeps."

The wind tangles my hair as I lean back against the cool metal of my car, Lincoln's heat radiating like a furnace beside me. "I did it," I say, a smirk playing on my lips. "I dropped my major. No more puppeteering from dear old dad. From now on, I'm coasting until I figure out what I want to do."

"Is that so?" His eyebrow arches, and there's an approving glint in his eyes.

"Yep." I give him a defiant tilt of my head. "I'm going to explore, find what sets my soul on fire. Who knows? I might just discover I'm meant for something wild, untamed... maybe a little scandalous."

"Scandalous, huh?" His voice drops to a growl, and it sends shivers dancing down my spine. "Like being my kept woman?"

The suggestion is ludicrous, outlandish, but it leaps from my mouth before I can stop it. "What, like I'd be lounging around your house wearing nothing but one of your team jerseys, waiting for you to come home from practice?"

A laugh is what I expect—a sharp, barking sound that would cut through the sexual tension with its sheer absurdity. But Lincoln doesn't laugh. Instead, he takes a step closer. The air between us crackles.

"Actually," he says, the playful seriousness in his tone making my heart hammer, "that sounds damn fucking good to me. When can you start?"

All he's doing is looking at me, and the whole world tilts. The thought of being his, truly his, in every way imaginable thrills me more than it should. The forbidden fruit always tastes the sweetest, after all.

"Lincoln Blackwood," I breathe out, the words laced with equal parts temptation and warning, "you play too much."

"Look around, ain't no one playing right now, Iris." His fingers brush against mine, a touch so fleeting. My body aches to close the distance, to feel the full force of him. "I hate that you don't have my last name yet. We need to remedy that."

The edges of his smirk cut through my defenses. "You're not just dropping your major, Iris," Lincoln says, his voice a low rumble that vibrates in my chest. "You're signing up to be my wife."

"Your wife?" The words stumble out, tripping over a laugh I can't contain. It's ridiculous, this idea of being kept, and yet, the way he stands there, all dark intensity and inked promises, it doesn't sound half bad.

"That's all I want." He steps into my space. "I want to take care of you."

"Going to take care of me, huh?" I quip, trying to keep the tremor out of my voice as his thumb traces the chain at my throat. "And what exactly does that entail?"

"Everything you need," he murmurs, and his lips graze my earlobe, sending a shiver down to my toes. "And everything you want." My breath hitches.

"Careful, Lincoln Blackwood," I warn, but it's a whisper lost to the pounding of my heart. "I'm not exactly the domestic type."

"Who said anything about domestic?" His grin flashes white against the stubble on his jaw, and then his mouth is on mine, claiming, insistent. There's nothing gentle about the kiss; it's all hunger and need, a conversation laced with every unsaid word between us.

I melt into him, my fingers tangling in his hair, tugging him closer. His body responds with a roughness that matches what's inside me. We're perfect together. I don't know exactly when things flipped for us, turned us on our side and showed us that we're two puzzle pieces matched for one another, but I'm so thankful for the outcome and most importantly, for Lincoln.

"Tell me you want to be my wife. Tell me you're mine." Lincoln's hands roam, igniting wherever they touch. My skin feels too tight, every nerve ending screaming for release that I know he's just as eager to give me. The taste of him—sin and salvation all rolled into one—is addictive, and I dive deeper, drowning willingly in the depths of him.

"I want to be your wife," I breathe against his lips, a plea, and a prayer. He's a key unlocking parts of me I keep hidden from the world. But here, with him, I don't need to hide.

"Say it again. My wife," he growls, his teeth grazing my lower lip in a delicious pain that has me arching into him.

"Your wife. I want to be with you, Lincoln. I want to have your last name," I repeat.

"I'll always take care of you, and you'll always be mine," Lincoln promises, his hands skirting down my back to grip my ass in a claiming gesture. "I love you, angel," and it feels like our own quiet oath, one I never planned to make but can't imagine living without.