8. Iris

The key scrapes the lock, and then a click signaling my return to the cramped dorm that passes for home. It's still better than living in a spacious house with my dad, and I won't be elaborating on that. I heave the door open, muscles screaming from the weight of my backpack—a portable library of textbooks and notes. My feet drag across the threshold, each step a testament to the grueling day's academic gauntlet. The scent of stale pizza clashes with the sharp tang of lemon cleaner that seeps in from the hallway, courtesy of the overzealous janitorial staff.

"Shower, food, bed," I chant under my breath, a mantra for the weary. I'm starving—the gnawing in my stomach a cruel reminder of my skipped lunch—and bone-tired, craving nothing more than hot water to wash away the calculus equations and Shakespearean prose branded into my brain.

With a flick of my wrist, I summon light to my domain. And freeze.

"Lincoln?" It slips out, a half-gasp, half-whisper. There Satan's spawn is, lounging on my twin bed like it's his throne, shrouded in shadows save for the smug curve of his lips catching the light. My pulse kicks up a notch, hammering against my ribs as if trying to escape the sudden tightness of my chest.

"Surprise, angel," he drawls, voice smooth as sin. The sight of him here, in this space so distinctly mine, sends my mind spinning. His eyes are fixed on me, so sharp they could slice through all my carefully constructed defenses. His casual intrusion, an unspoken challenge, sets my nerves alight, sparking with irritation and… something else.

"Got bored waiting." He stretches, tattoos on his arm shifting with the movement, a living canvas of ink and skin. With every breath, his T-shirt clings to the muscles beneath, and I can't help but notice the way it accentuates his athletic build. Damn him. I don't bother asking how he got in my room because he's a damn Blackwood and nothing is off limits for him. Except for maybe me.

"Out," I manage, my tone sharp, but apparently not cutting enough because instead of obeying, Lincoln just smirks, that customary tilt of his mouth suggesting he knows exactly what kind of effect he's having on me. And he's reveling in it.

My eyes are still wide, my brain short-circuiting as Lincoln stands, sweeping up a duffle bag with the ease of someone claiming their own. He tosses it onto my bed—my haven of solitude—and suddenly it's an open suitcase of chaos. A random selection of my clothes are being shoved into that abyss of fabric with his reckless hands, each movement screaming ownership.

"Hey!" The word is sharp, a blade thrown in the dark. "What the hell do you think you're doing?"

Lincoln looks up, his smirk a silent mockery of my outrage. "Packing for you," he says, as if he's doing me a favor. "You didn't really think you could miss my big game, did you?"

"Your game?" I sputter, incredulous. "Since when does your football schedule dictate my life?"

"Since now." There's a challenge in his voice, a taunt that dances in the air between us, waiting for me to lunge and fall into his trap. His nonchalance is infuriating; he invades my space like it's just another end zone to conquer.

"Get out," I demand again through gritted teeth, but he merely chuckles, unfazed by my fury.

"I told you last weekend you were coming with me to St. James, and so here we are. Since you don't seem like you want to cooperate, I will help you out and pack for you." If I could wrap my hands around his stupid jock neck and throttle him, I would be committing murder right now.

"Oh, angel." Lincoln's expression is one of condescension. "You will come to my game, and you will wear my number on your back like a fucking sold sign. You're mine."

It feels like my blood is pounding in my ears as Lincoln rummages through my drawer, his fingers brushing against the delicate fabric of my lingerie. He pulls out a pair of black satin panties, holding them up between his thumb and forefinger. The smug wiggle of his eyebrows sends a shiver down my spine—anger or something more dangerous, I can't quite tell.

"Surprising," he drawls, those thick brows arching even higher. "Never took you for the black satin type, Iris."

I clench my fists, fighting the urge to snatch the underwear from his grasp. "Put those down," I hiss, my voice razor-sharp, but he's already moving on to his next piece of ammunition.

He holds up a bottle of Adderall, one that sure as hell doesn't belong to me. His eyes lock onto mine, intense and knowing, as he utters, "Not surprising." It's like he's piecing together a puzzle I didn't know I was part of, slotting me into a narrative that reeks of scandal and secrets.

"Those aren't mine," I snap, but the words sound feeble even to my own ears. Clearly, I bought them, and my father has no idea.

Lincoln just smirks, that damn expression of his that says he knows exactly what kind of power he has over me—and he's not afraid to use it. With an almost lazy flick of his wrist, he tosses the panties and the bottle back onto the bed, their landing soft but the implication heavy as bricks.

Then he's whipping out his phone, the screen glowing like some sort of modern-day weapon. A click shatters the tension, and I know he's captured it—the damning evidence of my apparent debauchery, laid out for all to see.

"Delete that," I demand, my heart racing, but there's a twinge of desperation in my voice that I despise.

"Insurance," he replies simply, pocketing his phone with a finality that feels like a vise tightening around me. His eyes gleam with triumph, but there's a heat there too, something that speaks of forbidden desires and the thrill of the chase. "Unless you want me to send it to your daddy?"

I swallow hard, trying to ignore the way my body is traitorously aware of his proximity, the scent of his cologne mingling with the musk of exertion. This twisted game of cat and mouse we're playing has rules I don't understand, stakes that seem to climb higher with every breath I take.

"I'm not going anywhere with you. You're going to leave, and I'm going to shower and pass out like I intended before you barged in here," the words slash through the thick silence, my voice as sharp as shattered glass. I square my shoulders and plant my feet firmly on the hardwood of my dorm room, trying to channel all the authority of a queen in her court rather than a student on the brink of losing it.

Lincoln doesn't even flinch. He zips up the duffle bag with a slow, deliberate motion, the sound grating against my frayed nerves. "You can shower at the hotel," he says, hoisting the bag over his shoulder like he's claiming victory—a warrior seizing spoils of war. His gaze locks onto mine, simmering with a challenge. "I can throw you over my other shoulder, and you know I'd fucking enjoy making a scene."

His presence is an unyielding force, like gravity, something you can't fight because it's just there, always. I imagine steam peeling away the grim residue of today, the scent of soap replacing the stink of my sour mood. Denied.

"I'm sure you'd love that," I spit back, the fire in my belly flaring despite the exhaustion that clings to my limbs. My stomach growls, a traitorous reminder that I'm running on empty, but I won't let him see that weakness.

"Come on, Iris," Lincoln coaxes, his voice dropping to that low, gravelly sound that I know he uses when he wants to be persuasive. It's like hearing the purr of a lion—sleek, powerful, dangerous. "Don't make this harder than it has to be."

"Harder?" I throw my hands up, a wild laugh bubbling from my throat. "You barge into my space, mess with my stuff, and have the audacity to talk about hard?" My heart pounds out a rhythm of its own, each beat echoing my frustration, the raw edge of need I refuse to acknowledge.

"Exactly," he says, a smirk twisting his lips. He steps closer, and I'm acutely aware of how the air between us crackles, charged with something far more volatile than anger. "You get it."

I don't want to get it, whatever ‘it' is. His nearness unsettles me, the heat of his body seeping into the cool resolve I'm clinging to. The scent of his cologne wraps around me, a sensory invasion that's part citrus, part spice and all Lincoln. It's intoxicating and maddening all at once.

"Stop playing games," I hiss, despising the way my pulse races, not just with ire but with something much more primal.

"Who says I'm playing?" The question is a murmur against my skin, his breath warm on my cheek.

I shiver, caught in the web of the way he's looking at me. The intensity is absolutely scorching. There's a promise there, a silent vow that this is far from over. Every nerve ending is alight, a testament to the unwanted truth—he affects me. Deeply. Dangerously.

"Fine," I concede through gritted teeth, the word tasting like defeat. "But this isn't over."

"Never said it was," he replies, a flash of triumph in his eyes as he turns toward the door.

I'm left standing amongst the chaos of my violated space, feeling both conquered and combustible. But as he strides out, confident and unrepentant, I realize one thing—I don't play to lose. I just need to figure out where his weak spots are since he's so clearly found mine.

The parking lot's asphalt is a dull, unforgiving black under the harsh glow of the overhead lights. My arm burns where Lincoln's grip tightens, his fingers branding my skin through the fabric of my jacket as he steers me toward the idling sleek black bus. The low rumble of the engine vibrates through the soles of my boots, a foreboding soundtrack to this little escapade.

"Easy, Satan's spawn," I spit out, trying to yank free. "You're going to leave a bruise."

"Can't have you running off," he retorts, and there's that goddamn smirk again. It's like he enjoys seeing me ruffled.

Teammates loiter around the bus, tossing bags into the storage compartment, their banter slicing through the cool night air. They pause as we approach, eyes flicking between Lincoln's iron hold on me and my scowl that could curdle milk.

"Got yourself a shadow, Blackwood?" one of them calls out, catching Lincoln's bag as he throws it without warning and then chucks it in with the others before straightening up to get a better look at us.

"Something like that," Lincoln answers, dragging me up the steps into the bus's belly.

The interior reeks of sweat, cheap cologne and rubber—a mix of angst and testosterone. I want to gag. Instead, I wrestle with the desire to land a solid punch on Lincoln's jaw. But that would mean touching him more, and I'm already suffocating from too much physical proximity.

"Bringing the step-sex toy?" Penn, Lincoln's brother, asks with a grin that rivals even my stupid stepbrother's. Penn's brows are knitted together, moving up and down in an exaggerated manner as we make our way down the aisle.

"Shut the fuck up unless you want to end up through the fucking windshield," Lincoln snaps smoothly, not missing a beat.

Laughs erupt around us, but I see the way Lincoln's other brothers Jeremiah and Graham are looking at me. There's suspicion there, curiosity that's sharper than the broken glass littering the parking lot outside. And pity. I hate pity.

"Can you please pick a seat?" I challenge under my breath, irate that he's dragging this out and putting me on display for his own enjoyment.

"My terms, angel," he whispers back, leaning in so close his lips almost graze my ear. "You're just along for the ride."

I pull away, my cheeks burning with an unwanted flush. It's the proximity, the heat of his body, not… anything else. Definitely not the wicked glint in his eyes that suggests he knows exactly what kind of effect he has on me.

"Right," I huff, sarcasm laced thickly enough to choke on. "Saint Lincoln, Daddy's golden boy always has to be in control."

"Just with you." He's being playful, but there's a hardness behind his tone. The way he's looking at me that tells me he's dead serious about this whole thing.

"Whatever," I mutter, brushing past him to find a seat, desperate to put some space between us. But as I sit, I can feel his presence hovering over me.

"Settle in, sis," he teases, the word dripping with irony as he takes the spot next to me. "It's going to be a long ride."

Gritting my teeth, I watch as the coach gives Lincoln a nonchalant shrug when Lincoln tells him that he's bringing me along. His eyes skim over me like I'm just another piece of equipment—a helmet, maybe, or a water bottle—something that exists solely for the convenience of the team.

"Keep your head in the game, Blackwood," he grunts, voice gravelly and indifferent. "What you do off the field is your business—as long as you bring home that win tomorrow."

The words are dismissive, the subtext clear: players are pawns in his grand strategy, and I'm just collateral damage in his quest for victory. It's disgusting, the way they idolize the scoreboard over basic human decency. But then again, what should I expect from a man whose empathy probably got benched years ago?

I slide into an empty seat, one with enough space to stretch out and escape this nightmare. But before I can even exhale, a hand clamps around my wrist. I'm hauled backward, my body colliding with a wall of muscle and heat. Lincoln's lap becomes my unwanted throne, his firm thighs caging me in place.

"Comfy?" he whispers, lips brushing the shell of my ear, sending a shiver down my spine that has no right to feel so… charged.

"Get off me," I hiss, trying to sound fierce, but there's a tremor in my voice betraying my tumultuous emotions. My skin crawls as I feel his dick, hard and unyielding against the small of my back. A wave of anxiety crashes into me, followed quickly by a surge of white-hot anger. This isn't just about control—it's ownership, his body claiming a space it has no right to.

"Relax, Iris," Lincoln murmurs, his breath hot on my neck. "You might even enjoy the ride."

A bubble of hysterical laughter threatens to burst from my lips. Enjoy? With his pierced dick pressing insistently against me like some kind of depraved compass pointing due south? Hell would freeze over first.

But beneath the disgust and the anger, something else flickers—something dangerous and traitorous that I squash down with all the strength I have left. Because while my mind screams ‘get away,' my body betrays me with a warmth that pools low in my belly, an instinctual response to his nearness that makes me want to scream.

"Never gonna happen," I manage to spit out, forcing rigidness into my posture, though every nerve ending is wrecked with a perverse awareness of him. My boundaries are trampled underfoot, and I feel naked under his penetrating scrutiny. I couldn't relax right now even if he jabbed me in the neck with a horse tranquilizer.

Lincoln chuckles, a sound so rich, vibrating through me. "We'll see about that," he says, his voice dripping with a promise that sounds more like a threat.

The bus engine rumbles to life, the vibration of it melding with the tension that crackles between us. As we pull away from the curb, I close my eyes and focus on the steady rhythm of my heartbeat, trying to drown out the sensation of Lincoln's chest rising and falling against my back.

The weight of Lincoln's arm around my waist is heavy, like chains rather than flesh and bone. I fight the urge to squirm on his lap, painfully aware of the heat emanating from his body. It's not just physical warmth—it's something more charged, a current that sizzles through the small space between us. The thrum of the bus engine isn't enough to drown out the sound of my racing heart.

"Enjoying yourself?" The words are acid on my tongue, but they barely conceal the tremor in my voice.

He doesn't answer, but I can feel him, hard and insistent against me. A wave of nausea hits, chased by an unbidden thought: Does he get off on this, on holding me hostage with his brute strength? Or is it the proximity, our bodies locked together, that stirs something in him?

I'm disgusted with myself for even considering it, for the way my skin prickles with awareness—not all of which stems from revulsion.

"Scared, Iris?" His breath is hot against the shell of my ear, and I flinch.

"Terrified," I admit, sarcasm failing to mask the resentment boiling inside me.

At that moment, my stomach decides to betray me with a pitiful growl, loud enough to be heard over the chatter of the team. My cheeks flame with embarrassment, but then Lincoln's attention snaps to something—or someone—else.

"Hey, you. Give me that burger." His command is pointed at a freshman who looks like he'd happily hand over his firstborn if Lincoln asked. The kid doesn't hesitate, practically throwing the fast food at us.

"Thanks." Lincoln is dismissive as he takes the offering. He holds it out to me, and I'm hit by the greasy, savory smell that makes my mouth water despite myself.

"Didn't peg you for the sharing type," I grumble, eyeing the burger like it's a lifeline and a poisoned apple all at once.

"Haven't you noticed that I'm full of surprises?" he replies with that infuriating smirk of his.

For a split second, I see past the bravado and the tattoos, to something that might resemble concern. But no, that can't be right. Not from Lincoln Blackwood.

"Guess you're not a complete Neanderthal," I say, taking the burger with a shaky hand.

"Only partially," he agrees, amusement lacing his voice.

"Come on, Iris, just eat the damn thing," Lincoln growls, his voice a low rumble against my ear that sends an involuntary shiver down my spine.

"Fine," I snap, taking a bite of the burger to shut him up. The warm grease coats my tongue, and I can't deny the satisfaction that floods me even as I hate myself for giving in. But as I chew, I shift on his lap, a deliberate slide of my thighs against the hard planes of his, feeling the tension coil between us like a live wire.

His breath hitches, and I smirk inwardly, knowing full well the effect I have on him is just as strong as the hold he has on me. It's dangerous and we both know it.

"Enjoying the ride, Blackwood?" My tone is pure spite laced with honey, and I feel his grip tighten on my waist in response.

"Watch it, angel," he warns, but there's a ragged edge to his voice that betrays his cool exterior.

"Or what?" I challenge, tilting my chin up to meet his gaze. His eyes are dark pools of intensity, and something flickers in their depths—desire, anger, possession? Definitely possession. "You're so transparent, you know. You parade around like you own the world, but I see you, Lincoln. I see right through this little power play."

He doesn't respond immediately, studying me with an unwavering stare that would have someone who didn't grow up with my father quaking.

"Admit it," I press on, my voice dropping to a whisper that only he can hear amidst the noise of the bus and the oblivious chatter of his brothers and teammates. "You're obsessed. With the chase, with the game, with me."

"Is that what you think?" Lincoln's retort is a quiet snarl, his face inches from mine. "That I'm some lovesick puppy dog trailing after your scraps?"

"Prove me wrong," I bite out, our lips dangerously close now. It's reckless, this game we're playing, but I can't stop. Won't stop.

The air between us is electric, charged with the unsaid and the undone.

"Careful, Iris," he whispers, his breath hot on my skin, "you might just get what you're asking for."