7. Lincoln

Ican't shake the feeling that tonight's underground party at St. Charles is going to be a clusterfuck of epic proportions, but here I am, walking in with my three brothers like we own the place, which, let's face it, we do. The air reeks of sweat and cheap booze, and the bass from the music vibrates through the soles of my shoes. It's the kind of scene that makes your blood rush—partly from excitement, partly from the sheer anticipation of trouble.

I scan the crowd, spotting the usual suspects. Frat boys and Soror girls. A member of every sports team on campus, most of them rocking their Spartan gear. Every year represented and every group. It's a fucking melting pot like we were fucking LA or New York in here.

There's little Oakley Ashford, drowning in a sea of pulsating bodies, her golden hair catching stray beams of light as if she's some wayward angel lost in hell. She's a damn contradiction wrapped in a floral dress, looking like springtime in a den of debauchery.

"Jeremiah," I nod toward her, knowing full well he's about to lose his ever-loving shit. Jeremiah's always had this sixth sense for bullshit, and Oakley's presence here is definitely going to set off some weird alarm he has for her.

"Shit," he mutters under his breath, and I watch as he strides over to her, each step measured, purposeful. The crowd once again parts for him like he's a god.

"Oakley, what the hell are you doing here?" Jeremiah's voice cuts through the noise, his tone more incredulity than anger. She's the only person that could cause the volcanic explosion that's about to erupt from my brother.

"Jeremiah Blackwood," she slurs, her eyes wide with a drunken innocence that doesn't fool anyone. "Fancy seeing you here."

Their spat unfolds like wreckage in slow motion—you want to look away, but you can't. Oakley's anger flares, her cheeks flushed with alcohol and indignation. She's swaying on her feet, spitting fire and vitriol, and I can't help but smirk at the spectacle.

"Come on, we're leaving," Jeremiah says, trying to wrap an arm around her, but she shrugs him off with a fierceness that's almost admirable for someone of her size.

"Fuck off, pretty boy," she snaps, and I stifle a laugh. Little Oakley Ashford, all five-foot-nothing of her, thinks she can take on my brother who tackles guys twice her size for breakfast. The way she spits the nickname she's always called him, lets me know that she's actually still angry at him and not just drunk.

But Jeremiah's patience has run out. Before she can protest further, he hoists her up and tosses her over his shoulder like a sack of rebellious potatoes. Her legs kick, her hands smack against his back, but it's no use. Jeremiah's got this handled with a palm planted at the bottom of her ass to ensure her dress doesn't ride up and flash the entire party.

"Put me down, you Neanderthal!" Oakley screeches, but Jeremiah just tightens his grip, his jaw set in determination. I trail behind them, soaking in the entertainment and the scent of desperation that clings to the air like a second skin.

"Jesus, Jere, you sure know how to pick ‘em," I say, unable to hide my amusement.

"Shut up, Lincoln," he grunts without turning back. "And help me get her out of here before she pukes on my shoes."

"Your knight in shining armor," I quip to Oakley's upside-down face, which is now a shade of red that clashes horribly with her outfit.

"Fuck you too, Lincoln Blackwood," she hisses, her words muffled by Jeremiah's hoodie.

"Not my type, sweetheart," I shoot back, watching them disappear into the throng. I shake my head and turn back to the party, ready for the next round of madness to hit me.

Tonight's just getting started.

The bass thuds against my chest, a relentless heartbeat mirroring the rush of blood in my veins. I scan the writhing mass of bodies, each one an obstacle in my hunt. It's like searching for a shadow in a pool of ink, but then—a flash of chestnut waves cuts through the haze.

"Found you," I mutter under my breath as Iris' laugh trickles into my ears, discordant to the rhythm I'm tuned to.

I slide through the crowd, a predator parting the sea of prey. She's leaning against a wall, her striking green eyes locked on some basketball player who's probably spouting stats like he's the next fucking Kobe.

"Hey!" I bark, and it's satisfying how quick they both snap to attention. "Take a fucking walk, hoops."

His hands fly up, defensive. "We're just friends, man. Same major, that's all." He backs away, leaving her exposed—just Iris and me and nothing else between us.

"Go practice your jump shot, Air Mike," I sneer, not giving him a second glance. My focus is all on my pretty poisonous stepsister.

"Blackwood," she spits out, the edge in her voice trying to cut me, but I don't give a fuck.

"I want you at the game against St. James," I demand, low and hard.

Her laugh is bitter, jagged edges hidden behind full lips. "I want nothing to do with you, Satan's spawn. And fuck all to do with football."

"Is that right?" I step closer, our bodies almost touching, the heat from her skin calling to mine. "We'll see about that."

"Maybe you forgot," I lean in, my voice a low growl that vibrates between us, "but we've got unfinished business, Iris. Consider yourself my new favorite person."

She stiffens, the line of her body a taut string I'm itching to pluck. "What do you want, Lincoln?"

"Obedience would be nice," I say, smirking as I watch the muscle in her jaw twitch. "But for starters, how about you stop playing bitchy barbie and show up at my game?"

She scoffs, but her eyes betray a flicker of uncertainty. It's like a beam to me; I can see the cracks where I can wedge myself in and break her wide open.

"Or maybe," I continue, my words dropping like stones in still water, "I should have a chat with dear old daddy. About what his little angel gets up to when the lights go down. Especially on nights before family weddings."

Her breath catches, and I know I've struck the right chord. Her eyes darken, storm clouds rolling in fast.

"Go to hell," she hisses, but there's an edge of desperation now, one I savor like the finest whiskey.

"Been there," I shoot back. "Daddy dearest kicked me out for bad behavior." My smirk widens as I step closer, trapping her against the wall with the cage of my arms. "And you love every sinful bit of the hell I bring."

Her chest rises and falls rapidly, and I'm tuned into every shallow breath. She's a live wire under my touch, all coiled energy and fire. I'm ready to strike the match, watch the blaze.

"Keep pushing me, and everyone will know just how dirty you can get, angel."

The music pounds in my ears, a chaotic fucking melody to this little tit for tat we have going. She's glaring at me now, stubbornness etched into every beautiful feature. But beneath it all, there's that unmistakable glint of panic. Fear of exposure, fear of losing control—fear of me.

"Fuck you," she spits out, but her voice quivers, and it's the most exquisite sound.

"Later," I promise, my voice dripping with each and every monstrous intent I have. "For now, just remember who holds the leash."

I let my gaze roam over her, taking in every inch. I commit the sight to memory—the way her chest heaves; the anxiety coming off her in waves, the vibration of her anger mixed with a hint of something more animalistic.

"See you soon," I say, pulling back. I've laid my cards on the table, and now it's her move. But no matter what she does, I've already won this round.

The sting of her palm against my cheek sizzles through my skin, and the sharp crack of the slap slices through the thumping bass of the party. Her eyes blaze with a wildfire that could burn down cities—eyes that are trying to burn me down right now. I didn't see it coming, didn't expect her to lash out like that.

"Asshole," she hisses, breath hot, close enough for me to taste her wicked fury.

"Angel, you hit almost as hard as you hate." I smirk, despite the smarting red mark I can feel rising on my skin. My heart hammers with a mix of rage and something dangerously close to respect.

"Go fuck yourself." She spins on her heel, brown hair whipping like a flag of revolt, and storms through the sea of bodies that part for her like she's royalty—or a bomb.

I rub my jaw, the sensation of her touch a lingering phantom, and I can't help but smile. The slap was bold, public, a damn declaration of war. It makes my blood race, the prospect of taming that kind of spirit. The thought sends a current of excitement straight to my core, half-anger, half-lust.

"Fuck," I mutter under my breath. I'm pissed she felt brave enough to try that little stunt in front of everyone, but damn if it doesn't turn me on as well. That sass of hers—I want to wrap my fingers around it, control it, own it.

And ownership has always been a heady experience for me.

The crowd swarms back into the space she vacated, unaware that they just witnessed the latest skirmish in a war of wills. But I'm hyper-aware. Every nerve ending thrumming with the shock of that contact, with the realization that goody two-shoes Shelby is more than a challenge; she's a craving, and I'm an addict who just got a taste.

"Looks like the princess has claws," Graham remarks, finally making his way back to my side.

"Claws are just tools for me to sharpen," I shoot back, voice low and threaded.

"Legal eagle sure has you tangled up, doesn't she?" Penn sidles up beside me, that perpetual sly grin etched across his face as if he knows the world's dirtiest secret. He leans back against the graffiti-smeared wall, eyes sparking with mischief under the strobe lights.

"Fuck off, Penn," I snarl, but it's half-hearted. I can't deny the truth in his words. The air is thick with sweat and sin, yet all I can focus on is the ghost of Iris's fury, feeling the phantom sting on my cheek.

"Isn't it hot in here, or is it just your temper?" He drawls, the bastard. I want to rip that stupid, backward cap off of his big fat head.

"Penn, don't you have someone to go stick your dick into?" I snap back, but my voice is like gravel, all rough edges because he's under my skin, knows exactly what buttons to push.

"Touchy, touchy," he says, and there's that fucking smile again. "Maybe you should try my method for cooling down. A little fire play. It's quite… therapeutic."

"Only if it's your ass on the line," I retort, my words like daggers. "Then I might get some actual enjoyment out of it."

"Come on, brother," Penn chuckles, pushing off from the wall, amused. "Admit it. You're not just looking to break her. There's something…between you two. Like fire and gasoline. Got you out here acting like a low-key simp."

"Simp, my ass. I don't simp for anyone." I scoff, forcing a dismissive smirk. The taste of danger lingers on my tongue, sweet as hellfire.

"Lincoln, you both have fucking issues," Graham interjects as he strides past us, his voice cutting through the music and chatter. His piercing eyes are devoid of humor, and there's a tension in his shoulders that screams he's about to go blow off some steam in typical Graham fashion.

"That's the pot calling the kettle black, Graham," I retort, watching him disappear into the throng. Good for him. Less interference for me.

"Looks like you need a new plaything, now that Iris stormed off," Penn observes, too casually.

"Shut up," I bite out. The memory alone is enough—a flash of green eyes, a challenge laid bare. I want her, hate her, crave the fight she gives.

I consider following her, chasing the high that comes with our collision course. But then there's the other hunger, darker, more dangerous. The urge to crush that spirit, to watch her crumble and know I was the one to break her.

"Going after her, big bro?" Penn's voice cuts through my thoughts, sly as ever.

"None of your business," I snarl, but it's hollow. He sees right through me.

"Whatever you say." Penn backs away with a knowing look. "Just remember, obsession is a one-way ticket to damnation."

"Then buckle up," I reply coldly. "Because I'm taking the express lane."

The party roars around me, but it's white noise now. My new stepsister is the only sound I hear, the only face I see.

"Fuck it," I mutter to myself. "I'm out."

I'm teetering on the edge, ready to bolt from this cesspool of sweat and sin, when she sidles up to me—the blonde with the too-tight dress and too-eager eyes. She's a smudge in my peripheral vision, all glossy lips and hands that reach for something I'm not selling.

"Hey, Lincoln," she purrs, her fingers skating over the ink that snakes up my arm, as if she can tease out my secrets with a touch.

"Back off," I snap, voice low, laced with the kind of danger that should send her scurrying.

But blondie doesn't take the hint. Her giggle cuts through the bass thumping against my skull, and she leans closer, booze on her breath like a promise she can't keep. "Come on, don't be like that. I've seen you watching me."

Every word out of her mouth is grating, and I can't suppress the growl rumbling in my throat. I shake her off, my movements sharp, brutal honesty in every jerk of my muscles. "You've seen wrong. Get lost."

Her face crumples, shock, and embarrassment warring for dominance—she's a spectacle now, a sideshow attraction surrounded by a halo of onlookers hungry for drama.

"Asshole!" she spits out, but I'm already turning away, leaving her to puzzle together her dignity from the dirt.

With a last glance toward the same door Iris disappeared through, I shove past writhing bodies and out into the night. The air is cooler here, but it does nothing to extinguish the fury inside me. I want her beneath me, above me, against me. I want to consume her until there's nothing left but ash.

But not tonight. Tonight, I walk away.

For now.

The air is thick as I shove through the crowd. It's intoxicating, maddening. The need to dismantle her piece by piece consumes me.

She thinks she can stand against me? I want to rip her poise to shreds, leave her exposed, vulnerable. I want to strip down her pride until there's nothing left but the raw, quivering truth of her need for me.

I want her, in every way a man can want a woman—a craving beyond flesh, a hunger to possess her soul.

Tonight, though, I retreat because even predators know when to bide their time. But make no mistake, Iris Shelby is mine for the taking—and I never lose.