Page 5 of Wicked Scorn
“Fuck you too, Lincoln Blackwood,” she hisses, her words muffled by my hoodie.
“Not my type, sweetheart,” he shoots back, as I realize he won’t be any fucking help and walk past him. Thank fuck we drove the Escalade tonight because I have zero patience on waiting on a fucking ride share and she’s sure as shit not sober enough to ride on the back of my bike.
I set her down, leaning against the black exterior of the truck as I dig into my jeans trying to find my goddamn keys while she mumbles about how much of an asshole I am. Yeah, tell me something I don’t already know, bunny.
“Too fucking bad. You’re fucking coming home with me,” I growl, the words fierce and unyielding. “You’re sloppy fucking drunk and can’t be trusted on your own clearly.”
Her eyes, usually so vibrant but are dulled by whatever liquor she drank, narrow as she tries to focus on me. She looks like a pixie caught in a hurricane, just wild hair and stumbling grace. “I only had a couple of sips. Why the fuck do you care now?” Her voice is liquid, spilling over with hurt and accusation before it’s cut off, her body going limp mid-taunt.
“Shit,” I mutter under my breath, realization hitting me like a freight train. She’s been drugged. The signs are all there—the unsteady movements, the sudden pass-out. Rage bubbles up within me, but I tamp it down. Focus. Get her out of here first.
And tomorroweveryoneis getting their ass beat.
I lift her with ease, her weight barely registering against my chest. Her scent—uniquely Oakley—fills my nostrils, stirring memories and emotions I’ve tried to bury. But right now, it’s not about that. She’s light as a goddamn feather, too light, her head lolling against my chest, golden hair cascading over my arm like spilled sunlight as I put her into the front seat of the truck, buckling her in tightly.
“Hang on, bunny,” I whisper, more to myself than her.
Jeremiah Blackwood playing the hero? Something a Blackwood would never be called. The question hangs in the air mockingly, turning my blood to tar. I don’t answer it. Can’t. Because right now, I’m anything but a hero. I’m an addict, and Oakley’s my fix. And as much as I tell myself I’m doing this for her, part of me knows that’s a lie. I’m doing this for me—for the hit of feeling her skin against mine, for the power rush of having her life in my hands.
“God, what the fuck is wrong with me?” I mutter to the sleeping form before me and then shut the truck door. My steps are quick as I round the front and climb in behind the steering wheel.
“You’re mine,” I murmur. “You can hate me all you want, bunny. I’ll love you enough for the both of us,” I tell her softly.
Her breathing is steady, her body turning toward me, seeking me out as if she belongs there. And maybe she does. For now, that’s enough. But later? Later, I’ll find the motherfucker who did this. And they’ll wish they were never born.
Because whether she hates me or not, Oakley Ashford is mine to save.
Mine to protect.
Just fucking mine.
I shoulder the front door open and step inside, the familiar scent of polished wood and leather filling my senses. The house is quiet, everyone else still gone. Good. No interruptions. I take the stairs two at a time, my grip on Oakley firm but gentle. Her soft breaths tickle my neck, and it’s both a comfort and a torment.
Reaching my room, I nudge the door open with my foot and step inside. The room is dimly lit, shadows dancing on the walls. I lay Oakley gently on the bed, her delicate frame sinking into the mattress. Her dress is askew, and I notice for the first time just how vulnerable she looks.
“Goddammit, bunny,” I mutter, frustration and something else—something darker is twisting in my gut. I kneel beside the bed, carefully slipping off her dainty heels. They fall to the floor with a soft thud. My hands move to the zipper of her dress, and I pause, my breath catching.
“Fuck,” I curse softly as I glide her zipper down, watching it yield under my fingers with a sound that is far too loud in the stark quietness of the room.
I hate the way my hands shake as I watch the fabric split, revealing too much and yet not enough. I don’t fucking act like this…not with anyone. But this girl, who was once someone I viewed as a little sister, is now grown up and so much has happened between us.
“Sleep now, okay?” I brush a strand of hair from her face, my touch gentler than I knew it could be. I’m the monster that my family name has made me to be, but for Oakley, I’d walkthrough fire just to see her safe. All I get from her is a sigh of mhm.
“Tomorrow, we deal with this shit between us,” I tell her sleeping form, but I might as well be speaking to the ghosts that linger in the corners of my room, watching, waiting. Tomorrow, the war with Oakley begins because I have no doubt that the last two years have changed her, and I’ll have at least some sort of battle ahead of me when it comes to her. But tonight, I’ll stand guard over this girl who’s carved herself into the darkest parts of my soul.
I slide the dress off her shoulders, letting it pool around her waist before lifting her slightly to remove it completely. She’s left in nothing but her cheeky little underwear, and I reach back and pull my hoodie and shirt off in one pull. This is the first time I’ve seen her partially nude, and it’s taking everything in me not to touch her, kiss her, claim her in ways she could never imagine. She’s out of it, and I want her fully aware the first time I feel her delicate skin. The air is a cool slap against my skin as I pull the shirt out of the crumpled hoodie, tossing it on the floor before slipping the sweatshirt over Oakley’s still form, letting the cotton swallow her small frame. It serves a dual purpose, erasing her curves from my eyesight and putting my mark on her anyway I can.
My hands are steady as they tuck the covers around her, every move like a pledge to myself to keep her safe. Safe from the world. Definitely safe from me.
“Christ, bunny.” The nickname slips out, a reminder of innocence that feels like a knife twist.
I step back, feeling the pull of her even now. My body throbs with need, demanding release.
Fuck, what am I doing? She’s Royce’s sister, and he’d kill me if he knew what I was thinking right now, I’d like to seehim try and fucking blackmail me now. But the sight of her lying there, so innocent and yet so goddamn intoxicating, makes it impossible to focus on anything else. Where the fuck was he tonight, anyway? How did she end up at a random frat party unattended to the point someone spiked her drink? I gave him the courtesy of backing off when our friendship went up in flames, but if he’s not going to do his job and protect her, I will.
Pacing the room, my mind races with images of Oakley. Her body pressed against mine, her soft lips against my skin, her back arching as I wring pleasure from her. The thought of those delicate hands wrapped around me, not even able to fully close, is too much to bear.
I can’t deny myself any longer. Retreating to the privacy of my bathroom, I stand in front of the mirror, the harsh fluorescent light casting shadows across my face. My eyes look blown out and I’m struggling between anger at Oakley for going to that stupid party, anger at whoever slipped her the GHB, and the intense fucking need to claim ownership of her.
