Page 20 of Intense (Beneath The Blaze #3)

FINN

I don’t go straight into the ceremony room. Not yet. I hide in the shadows. My pulse picks up as Stephanie stomps past me without so much as a glance.

I need a minute.

My hands are still clenched from grabbing that smug fuck by the collar. I should’ve done more than throw him to the ground. Should’ve knocked out a tooth or two. Left a mark. Something permanent.

He touched her.

Looked at her like she was something he could pick off a shelf and play with.

And even though I have no goddamn right, I’m the only one who gets to fuck with her, push her buttons. I don’t own her. But something about it made my vision go red.

She didn’t need me.

She had it handled like the calculated, venomous force she is. But still… I stepped in.

Because men like him never learn until another man teaches them. And no one teaches harder lessons than me.

I step into the hallway and pull out my phone, scrolling through the notes I keep on her. Lines she throws, reactions I provoke. A study of hatred disguised as obsession.

The notepad in my suite—she thinks I started on this trip. She has no idea I have years of phone notes on her.

I open a new one and type:

SAVED HER FROM A SEX PEST. SHE WAS FIRE IN A DRESS. LOOKED ME IN THE EYE LIKE SHE’D SET ME ALIGHT TOO.

WOULD LET HER.

Actually, she never needed saving. She had him on the floor like a dog. Very naughty.

I lock the screen.

By the time I walk into the grand hall, the lights are dimming and the host is rambling on. Champagne flutes clink. A few people glance over, nod, and murmur.

I don’t care.

I’m already scanning for her.

She’s sitting in the front row. Legs crossed.

Chin high. The snake tattoo teasing from beneath her neckline like it’s daring me to come closer.

I must add this little snippet of information to my notes.

This tattoo intrigues me; was it a personal choice or aesthetics?

Or does she love the creature as much as I do?

She hasn’t even looked at me yet. Which means she knows I’m watching her.

I take my seat on the edge.

They call out a few names before mine. Runner-ups. Special mentions. All white noise in my ears.

Then—

“And this year’s recipient for Cardiac Surgeon of the Year… Dr. Finn Quinn.”

Applause erupts around me. I don’t even blink. I stand slowly, button my jacket, and start toward the stage.

Her gaze follows me the whole way.

I don’t look at her until I’m at the podium.

Then I do. And this time my heart hammers.

Right before I speak.

And fuck, I wish I had a camera to capture the way her lips purse and her jaw clenches. You’d think by now, she would be used to this.

Because, much like many parts of our industry, I rigged these awards. In fact, this entire bullshit award ceremony was created and funded by me to purposely piss her off three years ago. I was bored. I wanted to assess how she’d react.

If it’s the rivalry that gets her so angry. Or something else about me.

I’m starting to figure out it’s both. But she thinks I'm a typical rich boy with high-class parents that got me here. Wrong.

My history is actually far worse. More of a horror story than anything.

But yes, she’s right. I forced my way to the top.

Blackmail, threats, money. A fuck ton of money.

Because it keeps up impressions for us here.

The award-winning doctor could never be involved in the mafia.

Could never host games that take women from their abusive families and give them new lives.

He would never, ever, sneak into men's homes and kill them as they sleep.

I wonder what she would think of me if she really knew the truth.

“This award means a lot,” I start, eyes still locked on hers, “but I’d like to dedicate it to someone very special in the room tonight.”

A few heads turn.

Her brows lift a fraction.

“Dr. Stephanie Miller,” I say smoothly. “Your constant… motivation has pushed me harder than anyone else. This is as much yours as it is mine.”

I let that sink in.

Then I wink.

A few people laugh politely. The cameras flash. I hold the trophy high with one hand and press my palm to my chest with the other, all while my eyes never leave hers.

She doesn’t smile.

She’s too pissed.

Perfect.

I step down from the stage, award in hand, and make my way toward the bar instead of my seat. I need another whiskey.

And maybe the distance.

Because if I stay close, I’ll say something I shouldn’t.

Or kiss her.

Or both.

And I’m not sure which one would make her hate me more.

But God, she looks beautiful when she’s seething.

What the fuck is wrong with me? What is this temptress doing to the cold, numb Dr. Quinn?