Page 30 of Intense (Beneath The Blaze #3)

FINN

A s my little watcher runs, I carefully make my mark on my next victim’s face.

The blade slices clean, and blood trickles down his cheek.

I bite my lip. I could fight him, break his ribs. Take his teeth out one by one, just how my brothers would.

But I prefer mostly to assert power in other ways.

“Shove him in the Range Rover and take him to mine. Don’t touch anything. Just tie him up and shut him up.”

If he is—as Drago’s confident he is—high up within The Preacher’s cult, then he ain’t going to speak.

They’re loyal.

Just like I would be for my brothers.

Our secrets go to the grave.

But I’ve got something they don’t. A specialty.

I’m not just violent. I’m a psychological menace. With one trick up my sleeve not many others have.

Reggie and Rowan nod and haul the bleeding man out like a broken puppet, leaving me behind in the dark. I stalk back toward the club.

The girl from the first night. It was her. I know it.

That red hair.

Sinful curves.

Plump lips that could make a man lose his soul.

Nothing could beat having Stephanie’s lips on mine.

But this woman...

There’s a pull. A tension. A question.

Who is she?

And what will I have to do to keep her quiet?

She recognized me. And now she’s a threat.

I storm through the hallway, each step heavier than the last.

Stopping outside every door, I wait.

Letting my gut choose for me.

And then, I find it. A gold star on the door. A desperate little warning.

The changing room.

I grin as I grip the handle, but it doesn't budge.

Even better.

I scan the corridor.

Empty.

No cameras.

I made sure of that the first time I came here. No one’s watching. Of course they aren’t. Everyone knows what happens back here, the naughty things that the world doesn’t want to believe still goes on.

What these sick bastards make these women do, dangling wads of cash in front of their noses to push them to make choices they don’t want to.

A strip club is not a sex club. In Inferno, we have rules. The women know and willingly play. They are trained, consensually, to do so. It isn’t about money. It’s about desire. About being able to have your wildest fantasies come to life without judgment.

It is not about a drunk perv getting his dick wet with a barely legal girl for fifty bucks. This is why I go after these kinds of scum.

I don’t think a lot of people realize the psychological warfare that goes on in a victim’s head for the rest of their fuckin’ lives.

But I do. I live it. And I will continue to hunt these monsters down in their sleep.

I pull out a safety pin from my coat pocket and work the lock. I swear I can feel the fear bleeding through the wood.

When the door swings open, my breath catches.

She’s perched on the table. Her back to me, it’s the mirror that does it.

I see her watching me.

Her profile.

Her eyes.

The stuttering rise and fall of her chest.

I know that fucking face. I know that smell. And those lips. My body reacts exactly how I expect it to.

I shut the door behind me and lock it.

The silence fills the room. Yet, she doesn’t move, and neither do I.

Fuck this.

I cross the room, eyes never leaving hers.

Every second closer confirms what my blood already knows.

The curve of her jaw.

The freckles across her nose.

The quiver in her breath.

Familiar. Like I’d spent years studying her for this fuckin’ moment.

I stop just in front of her just as she turns herself to face me. Without a word, I close my eyes and breathe her in.

That scent. Floral and innocent, yet underneath it’s laced with sin.

Something dark and beautiful that’s lived in my bones for six years.

I exhale.

A war between anger and lust battles within me.

Then my hand wraps around her throat. Hard. Not to hurt. Just to hold. To confirm it’s really her.

My grin spreads slow and sharp across my face. Our eyes lock. Those brown contact lenses can’t hide the true blue beauties beneath them.

I slide my hand along her body, every curve committed to memory.

It’s almost as if I’m trying to prove myself wrong. That this cannot be my Stephanie.

And then, right there. The spot where I held her yesterday.

My fingers dig in, and her breath catches.

The shoe fits. Or in this case… the hand fits.

Perfectly.

“So, are you going to tell me what my wife is doing in a place like this?” I ask, keeping my voice low.

She licks her lips as I pull her face closer to mine.

Fuck.

The outfit. Her bare skin, begging to be marked. Those long legs wrapped around my neck. As she moves her hand to place it on my chest, I freeze, snatching her wrist to stop and shake my head.

Don’t.

Not there.

The tattoos hide the worst of it. But the scars? They run deeper than my skin. Beneath the ink, I’m still bleeding. Always will be.

Her eyes widen.

I pin her with a glare.

She doesn’t know. Can’t know. That even now, I’m still waiting to be hurt again.

Before, back in Vegas, I was drunk. Unarmored. I let her touch me because I wasn’t really there.

Now? I’m sharp. I’m clear. I’m in control.

And I don’t fucking do touching.

She rips her hand back like I just burned her, but I don’t release my grip on her throat.

Not yet.

She’s fascinating like this.

Caught. Exposed. Still trying to figure out whether to run or submit.

I run my fingers through the fake red hair and slowly pull it off her head, those dark locks in a ponytail beneath. I pull out the hairband and let it fall over her shoulders.

“Here she is,” I mutter.

Her breath catches as I lean in, running my tongue along her jaw, her legs inching wider so I can step between them.

Her head tips back.

“W-what were you doing with that guy?”

I dig my fingers into her thigh.

“Did you see me, really?” I whisper.

She brings her chin down, a darkness creeping behind her eyes. A mischievous smirk teasing her plump lips.

“I did. And you know exactly what I want in return for my silence.”

My heart kicks. Slams against my ribcage like it’s trying to break out of my chest.

I’ve never wanted someone this badly.

Not like this.

Not where it hurts.

It’s not just sex. It’s the fire in her eyes. The challenge. The sharp tongue and brutal wit. The way she fights me without ever actually walking away.

The teasing. The competition. The craving to win her over and destroy her in the same breath.

She’s chaos.

And I’m addicted.

On that hospital roof, I let her see it. Just for a second. A flicker of the real me.

I thought it was enough to shake her. Thought maybe she’d finally understand what this is.

An obsession.

A sickness.

But I was wrong.

She still thinks this is a game.

Still thinks she has the upper hand.

I shake my head, the urge to kiss her warring with the need to tear her down.

No.

Not yet.

I’ve got more work to do.

Clearly.