Wicked Fury (WICKED BROTHERS OF SCU #1) by Havoc Wilde EPUB & PDF – eBook Details Online
- Status: Available for Free Download
- Authors: Havoc Wilde
- Language: English
- Genre: contemporary romance
- Format: PDF / EPUB
- Size: 3.2 MB
- Price: Free
Lincoln
“Look at you, big bro,” he smirks, leaning against the doorframe with
that irritating ease of his. “All dressed up and ready to play loving son
for a day.”
“Shut up, Penn,” I snap without heat, my focus zeroed in on the
rebellious tie that refuses to knot right. “It’s not funny.”
“Come on, man,” he chuckles, pushing away from the woodwork and
striding over. “You know you’ll have all those bridesmaids swooning. Just
watch yourself, eh? Wouldn’t want your tinkle tassel to get caught in
anyone’s IUD.” He winks, obscene and unrepentant, before fixing my tie
and walking away. Leaving me alone once again.
I’m standing in front of the mirror glaring at the picture staring back at
me, adjusting my tie with more force than necessary. The silk resists,
suffocating around my neck like the very idea of this wedding. It’s all a
show, a farce dressed in white and pastels, and I can’t stomach it—the
hypocrisy of vows that mean nothing. I don’t know why people put
themselves through this shit all the time. How exhausting. My reprieve
from stress last night was short.
I grab my jacket before throwing it to the side. I need a little ‘fuck you’
to my mother, so no penguin jacket. For an extra point in the terrible son
column, I roll up the sleeves of my starched dress shirt until just below my
elbow. I am thriving on being a fucking degenerate today.
“Pathetic,” I mutter, thinking of Iris. The way she shrugged off my
touch, as if I hadn’t just unraveled her with my hands, my mouth. Her
dismissive little smile is etched behind my eyelids—a brand on my ego.
How dare she walk away from me, Lincoln Blackwood, as if I were some
mere forgettable fuck?
The memory festers, bitter as old coffee grounds. She’s got nerve,
treating me like I’m ordinary. A smirk twists my lips; nobody dismisses me,
especially not a girl like her. With her sharp tongue and those piercing
verdant eyes that could cut glass, she’s a challenge. And I live for
challenges. They fuel me when everything else feels bland, like potatoes
with nothing added. Screw the rules. I’ll have her again. This time, it won’t
just be her body under my control—I want her every thought consumed by
me.
The ancient clock tower strikes as I swagger into the church, each gong
a testament to my deliberate tardiness. The heavy oak doors groan their
protest, and all eyes—a sea of decorated hats and somber suits—snap
toward me. I drink in the attention like a shot of bourbon, letting it burn.
“Typical,” I mutter under my breath.
A wedding in a church, with its stained-glass windows casting
judgmental glances and the incense clinging to the air like a desperate lover,
is not my scene. But here I am, dressed to the nines—jeans traded for
slacks, jersey for a tailored shirt—out of sheer obligation. I find an
unoccupied pew at the back and slump into it, arms stretched out, claiming
territory.
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