Page 29 of Intense (Beneath The Blaze #3)
STEPHANIE
T oday has been one of the longest days in history. Replaying that damn kiss in my head all day until I finally dragged my ass to the club. A distraction is what I need before Finn consumes me.
“Oh, I thought you’d quit,” one of the girls says as I put my bag down in the changing room.
“Nope. Just been away,” I say politely.
I’m still technically one of the new girls. I haven’t quite been fully accepted in this club.
But I’m not here to make friends.
I’m here to keep them safe.
And to scratch the itch the only way I know how.
The other dancer, Steph, creeps up behind me.
“That guy, the one who you weren’t sure about, he’s here again. Same booth.”
I swallow. “Thanks,” I say quietly.
Fuck.
The girls all leave, and I stare at my reflection in the mirror before popping in my brown contacts for the night.
Who am I?
I look... lost.
I think I have been for a long time.
I’ve never really found my place.
I thought the hospital—that was my calling.
But then Finn happened.
And after yesterday, I can still feel his lips claiming mine.
The way his hands owned me.
And I can’t stop thinking... what if I went after more?
What if I stopped denying that I crave him in ways I shouldn’t?
I think he was right. We are similar. Maybe that’s why we clash so hard—two bombs in the same room.
But I can’t help wondering... what the fuck happened to him?
That pain in his eyes I felt it deep in my core, like I’d lived it with him.
We’re both hiding who we are.
What if we dropped the act?
Maybe I am meant to be more than this.
I sigh, picking up the brush and running it through the soft red strands of my wig.
By the time I’m ready, I have a face full of makeup and a thong that shows off every inch of my ass. And as always, the snake tattoo that runs down through my breasts is covered completely.
I’m hot.
But I’m not Stephanie.
I’m Angel.
I’m a fucking monster.
No one would understand why I do what I do.
Why I need it.
The door cracks open.
“Angel, you’re up.”
Nerves tingle through me.
That guy—the one who I think blackmailed me into setting up Finn—is back.
What does he want now?
To frame Dr. Quinn again?
Kill more people?
I’m not a hitwoman for hire. I’m a surgeon. And I’m now someone’s wife.
With every ounce of confidence I can muster, I walk out into the room with my head held high and move straight to the main stage.
Eyes track me as I grip the pole, swinging my hips in circles, pushing my ass back as I squat low to the floor.
Cash starts to rain around me.
But this heat crawls up my spine.
Like I’m being watched.
Not by strangers.
By the one man in the world I can’t face. It’s like I can feel Finn here, even if I can’t see him.
No. It’s not real.
It’s my mind playing tricks.
As I climb the pole and bend backward, I tug my bra playfully, biting my lip.
Slowly sliding down, I grab the pole and split my legs.
Fuck, I’m getting too old for this.
It was easier when I was eighteen.
Thirty-three?
Not so much. I’ll be paying for this tomorrow.
But the longer I’m up here, the safer I am.
The less likely that blackmailing creep will summon me; my boss doesn’t let anyone off the stage mid-shift.
I dance for maybe forty minutes before I’m beckoned over to the bar.
That same gnawing tension is still there.
I scan the room through the haze of lights and shadows.
But when I glance at booth six, he’s gone.
Three men rush past me, brushing my arm, and my world stalls.
That smell.
As I look up, their heads are tucked under flat caps. One of them, wearing leather gloves, is pushing my blackmailer toward the staff exit.
“I’ll be back, just need a tinkle,” I tell my boss.
I slip through the back door, heart hammering.
The cold air bites my skin.
And there, in the dark alley behind the club, he’s got my blackmailer pinned to a brick wall.
A knife glints at his throat.
The guy in the long coat turns his head slowly, blade still in place.
Even in the bad lighting, those pale grey eyes hit me like a bullet.
That smirk.
That fucking smirk.
He presses a finger to his lips to silence me.
I stumble, the door slamming behind me, echoing like a gunshot.
My lungs squeeze tight.
He’s going to kill him.
And my boss, my husband, Dr. Quinn, is doing it at my fucking club.
I don’t breathe.
I just run.
Straight back into the changing room.
Locking the door and pressing my back to the cold wall.
This can’t be real.
This can’t be happening.
My boss—or husband, or whatever the hell he is— is about to murder someone on my turf.
And I don’t know who the bigger monster is anymore—me or him.
But one question burns in my veins… What the hell does Finn want with the man blackmailing me?
What does he know…
Who is my husband, really?