Page 12 of Intense (Beneath The Blaze #3)

FINN

T he sweet aroma of chocolate floods my airways. The place is crazy with our workers, creating America’s favorite flavors.

They’re paid a lot to turn a blind eye.

And no one except us has access to the back of the building.

Where our drugs and guns get delivered.

Where we play our games.

Where I now torture my victims to death, but in this case, I don’t have the energy for a long, drawn out spectacle. He won’t provide any answers to us that we don’t already have about Arthur. He just simply needs to die.

Pressing my finger up to the scanner and entering the passcode, the door unlocks, and I’m through to my torture chambers.

I step into the white room. Bright lights overhead. The floor is flawless—no cracks, no drains, just marble that gleams like bone under the fluorescents.

A pool sits in the center with a golden fountain, filled with warm, rippling chocolate. The crown jewel of our factory’s tour lies on the other side of hell. No one suspects what’s beneath it.

He’s already here. Tied to a metal chair, barefoot, shaking, eyes wide like he’s finally realized he won’t be walking out of here.

I’m glad Reggie didn’t sedate him. I want him awake. I want his fear. I fucking thrive on it.

“Evening,” I mutter, rolling up my sleeves.

He jerks in the chair, the ropes creaking. He recognizes me now. That makes it sweeter.

This man blindly followed Arthur Bowen to his death.

“I’ve been thinking,” I continue, pacing in slow circles around him. “There’s no satisfaction in slicing you open while you scream. That’s too easy. Too clinical, and you see, I do enough of that at work. I want more. I’ve had quite a day.”

His lip trembles. “Please?—”

I snap.

With one hand, I grip the back of the chair and slam it to the ground. His skull cracks against the marble, and I crouch beside him, watching him bleed.

“You will give me something,” I whisper, “because I need to feel it too.”

I untie the ropes. His wrists are raw. His hands tremble as they realize the mistake, that freedom isn't coming.

The same fate the rest of the Bowen men had. After this man, it’s just Arthur himself left to kill.

“Get up,” I bark. He doesn’t move.

So I grab him by the collar and lift him like a rag doll, shoving him upright. He stumbles and tries to swing at me.

Good.

I take the hit. A weak punch to my jaw. It hurts more than I thought it would.

But not enough. Not nearly enough.

So I return the favor. My fist cracks into his ribs. Again. And again. Until his knees buckle and he coughs blood onto the marble.

“This,” I snarl, hauling him back to his feet, “is for my brother.” I slam my fist into his nose.

His screams are music to my ears. His blood spatters across the floor in bursts of red. Still not enough.

I grab him by the throat and drag him to the edge of the chocolate pool.

“Tell me the truth,” I whisper in his ear, breath heaving. “Was it worth it? Giving your life for a cause that is worth nothing?” I seethe.

He wheezes, blood bubbling at his lips.

“I—I don’t know what you’re talking ab?—”

I plunge his head into the chocolate. He thrashes violently, arms slapping the edge of the pool, fingers scrambling for purchase. I. Don’t. Let. Go.

His air is gone. His screams are muffled. His fear… now that is delicious. I don’t have a sweet tooth really, but I do have a deadly one.

I count the seconds. One. Two. Three. Four.

On five, I pull him up. Chocolate clings to his face in thick drips. He gasps. Chokes.

I stare into his eyes, waiting for something. Pain. Panic. Remorse for nearly killing Conan.

But there’s nothing. Just empty pleading. It disgusts me.

I shove him under again. Harder. Longer. This time, I don’t pull him back.

The bubbles rise, slow and erratic. Then stop. The room is quiet again.

I toss him out onto the floor, and he just lies there still. My fists ache. My chest heaves.

And still—I feel nothing.

No redemption. No clarity. Just silence.

I sink to my knees, hands stained in crimson and cocoa, chest hollow.

And then I laugh. Just once. A low, broken sound that echoes across the white walls.

“I wish that lasted longer.” I sigh, dragging myself up to my feet.

I’m still the only monster in the room.

Reggie cracks open the door like he’s afraid of what he’ll find.

“You good?” he asks.

I nod once.

He steps in further, holding out a phone wrapped in a cloth. “I took this before you had your fun. Figured it’d be fucked in that chocolate if I left it.”

A chuckle escapes my throat. I wipe the mess from my hands onto my pants and take the phone from him.

“You unlocked it?” I ask, rotating it in my palm.

He shakes his head. “Nah. Can’t take credit. Drago hacked it. Said it was amateur shit.”

“Of course he did.” I blow out a breath and unlock the screen.

These stupid fucks never learn.

No aliases. No burner numbers. No effort.

Just Arthur’s name sitting at the top of the contact list, like an open wound begging to be cauterized.

So I press it.

It rings twice before the voice on the other end answers.

“Albert, fuck. Are you okay?”

Arthur.

I smile, letting my Irish accent come through sharp as a scalpel.

“Arthur. Nice to speak to you again.”

There’s a beat of silence.

“Finn,” he spits.

“The one and only. You don’t sound thrilled to hear from me, pal.”

He exhales like he’s trying not to choke on his own fear.

“What do you want, Quinn?”

I click my tongue against my teeth. “Nothing you don’t already know. I’ll be seeing you soon. And I’ve got a bullet with your name on it.”

His laugh is forced.

“Not if I see you first, doctor.”

But his voice gives him away. That pitch—I know he’s bluffing. He knows what I’m capable of. What I do with my hands when I’m not saving lives.

He hangs up.

“I can’t wait to slit that fucker’s throat,” I mutter, handing the phone back to Reggie.

He grins, running a hand over his jaw. “Yeah. I think we’re all waiting for that day to arrive.”