5. Lincoln

I'm locked in place as the last of Iris's words linger in the stifling air of the auditorium. Though her speech on criminal psychology slices through the room with razor-sharp acumen, I find myself oblivious to the applause that follows. My mother sits beside me, clapping with a fervor reserved for saints and martyrs, but all I can do is burn holes into the side of Iris' face with my stare.

"Remarkable, isn't she?" My mother's voice is a feather against my consciousness, barely registering.

I don't bother with a response. Words are useless currency between us. As soon as the crowd begins to dissipate, I push away from the table, leaving my mother to bask in the glow of someone else's achievements. The taste of bile rises in my throat.

The backstage area is a dimly lit corridor, draped shadows clinging to its walls like desperation. It's empty, save for my bitch of a sister, who's attempting to regain her composure, chest heaving slightly, cheeks flushed from her oratory exertion. I lurk in the doorway, watching the way she presses a hand to her neck, thumb rubbing over the pulse point—a subconscious tell of her vulnerability.

The applause still echoes in my ears, a stark contrast to the silent fury tightening my fists.

"Quite the performance," I snarl as I stalk closer, my voice dripping with malevolence I don't even fully understand myself. "Such a darling of the academic elite."

Iris looks up, her striking eyes wide, but missing their usual fiery spark. It pisses me off more. Is she really that unfazed by my presence?

"Lincoln," she starts, voice unsteady, "what are you?—"

"Thought I'd give you a personal congratulations," I cut her off, muscles tensing as I recall how my mother was enraptured by Iris throughout her entire goddamn speech. She never gave me that kind of attention, not once at any of my games, where I bleed and sweat for recognition that never comes.

"Your little jokes must've hit close to home, huh?" The sarcastic jab slips out, a barbed hook aimed to catch her, to see that familiar defiance flare up in her eyes. I want to watch her squirm, tangle her in this twisted web until she can't tell whether she wants to hit me or?—

"Are you done?" Her voice cuts through my thoughts, a low murmur that does nothing to douse the fire in my veins.

"Far from it," I shoot back, closing the distance between us until I can feel the heat radiating off her body. "You get them all smiling, hanging onto every word. Does it make you feel good, Iris? Being the golden girl?"

Her lips part, a retort teetering on the brink of escape, but it never comes. Instead, a shiver runs down her spine, and I swear I can almost taste the tautness—an intoxicating blend of fear and something darker, something that beckons me closer.

"You've definitely got a knack for getting under my skin, Iris. But then again, we both know that's not the only thing you're good at, is it?" I murmur, my voice low and taunting.

"Lincoln, I don't know what game you're playing, but I don't have time for this," Iris tries to sidestep me, but I'm faster.

"Game?" I echo, cornering her against the wall, my body caging hers. "This isn't a game. This is me making sure you understand the rules."

"Rules?" she bites out, defiance sparking in her stare, even as her chest rises and falls more rapidly.

"Rule number one," I lean in, voice dropping to a sinful whisper, "never mistake my silence for ignorance, my calmness for acceptance. And most importantly, never think for a second that I haven't noticed every single move you make."

I can't control the tremor in my hand as it snakes up Iris's neck, the weight of my anger finding a precarious perch on her delicate skin. She gasps—a tiny, choked sound, almost lost in the thick air between us—and I feel a fierce satisfaction at the tremble that courses through her body.

"Lincoln, what the hell?" she sputters, but her voice is muffled under the pressure of my grip. Not enough to hurt her, just enough to let her know how easily I could if I wanted to. The power crackles in my fingertips, a living thing, and I savor the fear flickering in those striking eyes of hers.

"Scared, Iris?" My voice is low, a growl that vibrates against her throat. "You should be."

Her back hits the wall with a dull thud as I shove her, pinning her with the force of my body. There's something heady about the way she squirms beneath me, her breath coming in short, desperate bursts. It's intoxicating, watching her fight the instinct to push me away or pull me closer.

"Lincoln," she tries again, this time her voice steadier, but still tinged with an underlying panic. "Stop it."

"Stop? Oh, angel, we're just getting started." The words drip from my lips, each one laced with ire. I lean closer, relishing the rapid rise and fall of her chest against mine. Her scent envelops me—something floral mixed with the tang of fear. It's fucking delicious.

"Lincoln, please," she pleads, but the plea only stokes the flames. My heart pounds against my ribcage, a wild hammer urging me on. This game, this dangerous game we're tangled in—it's the only thing that's making me feel alive right now.

"Please what?" I taunt, watching her struggle for control. "Please keep going? Or please stop before you realize how much you like it?"

"Fuck you," she hisses, and there it is—the spark I've been looking for. It ignites something primitive within me, a craving I hadn't even known was there until now.

"Maybe later," I whisper against her ear, my words a promise, a threat, a temptation all at once. Her shiver tells me everything I need to know.

This. This right here is where I thrive—in the chaos, the control, the sweet surrender of power. And Iris, with her high cheekbones and sharp tongue, she's the perfect storm I'm all too willing to chase.

Her body trembles against the cold wall, but there's a defiance in her eyes finally—a challenge. I expect fear, submission, tears maybe. I get those and so much more as Iris surges against my hand, pressing into the chokehold like she's daring me to squeeze tighter. A jolt of arousal hits me, hard and unexpected. My breath hitches as I feel my cock harden, the fabric of my joggers suddenly too constricting.

"Enjoying this, Iris?" I growl, close enough to feel the warmth of her breath. Her lips part, but it's not surrender that flashes in her eyes. It's something wilder, something that says she's playing with me too.

I lean in closer; my voice is ice as it slices through the oppressive tension between us. "I can make your life hell," I whisper, each word a drop of poison aimed at her soul. "Don't think for a second I won't enjoy breaking you."

Her pulse flutters under my fingers, a pretty poison-filled bird trapped in a cage of my making. My breath fans her neck, and I can almost taste the salt of her skin from the anxious sweat that gathered from her ‘breathtaking' speech.

"Understand this," I continue, the tone of my threat hard like steel, "cross me, and you'll regret it." The promise hangs heavy, a silhouette that clings to her, to us, enveloping the moment in its chilling embrace.

My grip remains firm—the only sign of my control in this twisted play we are caught in. She's not fighting back, not like she usually does with those sharp-tongued retorts that get under my skin. I lean in, the heat from her body mixing with mine.

"Where's the fire, Shelby?" My voice is low and mocking, serrated edges hidden beneath the silk. "No mommy jokes today? Or have you finally run out of uppers to keep you on the edge?"

Her breath hitches, and for a moment, the mask slips—a glimpse of the real Iris, raw and vulnerable. The scent of her mingles with the residual adrenaline from her speech, and it's intoxicating. It takes everything not to draw in deeper, to savor the chaos I've stirred within her.

"Go to hell, Lincoln." Her words are barely a whisper, but they're tinged with an icy rebellion that only serves to ignite me further.

That's when the interruption comes—footsteps, invasive and unwelcome. The door swings open, and there stands the embodiment of Iris' deepest ache. A mother, or rather, her stepmother. In a heartbeat, I switch gears; the predator receding into shadows as I release Iris, stepping back with a practiced ease.

"Brilliant work up there, sis," I say loud enough for my mom to hear, my voice a masterful blend of sincerity and charm. "Truly captivating."

Iris straightens, her eyes darting between me and my approaching mother, confusion and relief warring in those depths. She's trembling, but she's trying to hide it, trying to regain her composure before she's forced into another role—the dutiful daughter.

"Thank you, Lincoln." Iris manages a smile, but it doesn't reach her eyes. It never does.

My mother sweeps in, all concern and maternal affection, pulling Iris into an embrace that looks more like a lifeline than a gesture of love. I stand back, watching the scene unfold, a grimace tugging at the corner of my mouth. They're both oblivious to the rage that's brewing just beneath the surface. In this moment, I can honestly say that I hate them both.

"Mom, I gotta jet," I say, my voice heavy with a forced lightness as the facade of the conscientious son stretches thin over my simmering anger. "Big game coming up, you understand?"

She gives me this nod, the kind that's more reflex than recognition, her eyes already drifting back to Iris like she's the one who threw touchdowns and not just academic jargon into the air. The dismissal stings, a familiar burn in my chest that fuels the fire in my veins.

"Of course, Lincoln," she murmurs, her words absent, like they're being pulled from some deep, distracted part of her that can't spare a damn moment to see me for who I am or what I do.

I watch her, this woman who's supposed to be my biggest fan, fawn over Iris like she's the prodigal child returned. It's like I'm invisible, a ghost on the sidelines of their little admiration show. The anger bubbles, hot and dangerous, threatening to spill over.

"Gotta make sure I rest well," I continue, the sarcasm rolling off my tongue, a serpent hidden in the grass. "Wouldn't want the star player running on fumes."

Her lack of response is almost comical, the way it fans the flames, making my blood sing with a visceral need for retribution, for something to quench this thirst for acknowledgment. My eyes lock onto Iris, catching the tail end of her startled look, and it's enough to slap a chilling smirk across my face.

As they turn away, I can't resist one last parting shot, one last assertion of the power I hold. I catch Iris looking at me, holding me there with an intense stare that says more than words ever could. "I'll be seeing you soon," I mouth silently, and the promise in my eyes sends a shiver down her spine.

Turning on my heel, I exit the backstage area, the echo of my footsteps a taunt in the silence I leave behind. The darkness welcomes me back, an old friend that hides me. I feel alive, electric, every nerve ending screaming for release.

Blackwood house calls to me—the sanctuary where my brothers and I reside. There, I can indulge in thoughts of Iris, at the memory of her pressed against my palm fueling my need.

I'm going to enjoy this.

I stride away, the clash of my boots against the echoing corridor the only sound in the tense silence. Turning back, I catch her looking at me.

She stands motionless, the locket at her throat catching the dim light as if it pulses with her quickened heartbeat. I savor the sight of her, the way her chest rises and falls, more rapid now, her lips parted ever so slightly. I can almost taste her anticipation—it's intoxicating.

Backing away, I keep our connection taut like a wire stretched to snapping. I don't waver until the corner looms up, and with one last smirk, I slip around it, leaving her alone in the quiet aftermath.

The cool night air hits me as I exit the building, and the world comes alive again—a sensory overload. The distant sounds of campus life are a dull roar in my ears, the faint smell of autumn decay lingering on the breeze. But it's what's roiling inside me that pulls into sharp focus.

I feel charged, every nerve ending alight with a forbidden energy. The power I wield over Iris. How easy it is to get under her skin, to make her tremble—it's a fucking rush. A primal hunger twists in my gut, an urge to fuck, to claim, to dominate.

"Jersey chasers…" The thought flickers, tempting. I could have any of them, their bodies willing and pliable under mine. Yet, it's not enough—not tonight. No, tonight I crave something different, something illicit.

My house beckons me, a sanctuary where I can indulge this gnawing need without prying eyes. The thought of dipping into that well of pleasure using the silk of Iris' panties, the memory of stealing them from her in Cannon's room, sends a jolt straight to my groin. That thin fabric, a barrier she'd worn, was now going to be part of my release.

"Fuck," I growl into the silence, my breath hitching as I surrender to the sensation, the memory of her fueling my desire. It's raw, it's real—it's fucking alive.