Page 35 of Intense (Beneath The Blaze #3)
STEPHANIE
T wo hours later and my body is still on fire.
I need release, and it turns out, to do that, I need a doctor. Specifically, Dr. Quinn.
But he turned his back on me and walked out.
Shoving on my clothes, I grab my bag and throw on a cap. With my head down, I make my way to the exit.
A shiver runs down my spine as I fast-walk toward my car, tucked away at the far end of the staff lot.
I toss my bag into the passenger seat and slide behind the wheel.
Before I turn the key, I check my phone.
Nothing interesting.
I don’t know why I expected something from Finn.
It’s not as if that was anything to him other than a damn game.
Shaking my head, I start the car.
But as the engine turns over, headlights flash on across from me.
My heart kicks.
Palms slick with sweat.
After the whole blackmailing saga, I’m always on edge.
Even though I saw what happened to him, I have no idea if Finn let him go.
If that was just a warning.
It’s not as if my boss would actually kidnap a man.
Right?
It’s so dark I can’t even make out what car it is.
Grabbing my phone, I tap his name.
Dr. Quinn.
I might regret this later—but right now, it’s better to be safe.
He answers on the first ring, his deep voice filling my car—and making my thighs clench.
“Hello, love.”
“Don’t call me that,” I snap.
He chuckles. Of course he does, which just tightens the knot of irritation in my chest.
“Look, I didn’t know who else to call, okay?”
“What’s the matter?”
There’s concern in his voice, and that eases my anxiety. He makes me feel safe.
“There’s someone in the parking lot. At the club,” I whisper.
The lights flash in front of me.
My breath catches.
“Flash back, temptress. Don’t ignore me.”
I scowl.
“What the fuck? You scared the shit out of me!”
“I’m sorry,” he says, and for once, it sounds sincere.
“Why are you even still here? You got what you wanted from me.”
“Oh, you think I’m done with you? A very bad observation there, wife.”
I roll my eyes.
“Well, why are you here?”
“To make sure you get home safely.”
My heart picks up speed.
“I don’t need babysitting. I’m perfectly capable of making it home.”
He sighs.
“And that’s why you called me thinking you had a stalker from the club, isn’t it? These places aren’t safe, love.”
He’s got me there.
“Fine. Well, as you can see, I got in my car safely. You may go now, bodyguard,” I huff.
He chuckles again—and my chest squeezes in a way I don’t understand. Or maybe I do.
“I’ll follow you home. Watch you get in. Then my job is done. No arguments, please.”
Part of me—the independent, abandoned part—wants to tell him to fuck off.
But the other piece?
The piece that’s tired.
Tired of fighting. Tired of looking over her shoulder. Tired of doing everything alone.
That piece wants to let him stay.
That piece wants to be protected. I hug myself.
“Thank you, Finn,” I say, and cut the call.
I kick the door shut behind me, dropping my bag in the hallway. The house is silent, just how it always is. It’s how I enjoy life, being alone. Or so I thought.
At least I know I will never let myself down.
I peel off my jacket and head straight for the kitchen.
No lights on.
Just the soft hum of the fridge and the sound of my own breathing.
I grab the bottle of red I keep for nights like this, the ones where I feel lost. And in this case, edged to the extreme.
Leaning over the counter, I put on some heavy metal on the speakers and sip my wine, staring at the black boxes in front of me. Taunting me.
After I finish my first glass, I lean over and grab one of them.
The ones I swore I wouldn’t touch.
Not until the annulment.
Not until I got rid of him.
But I need to see it.
Taking them, with the wine, to the couch, I sit down and place them down beside me. Refusing to open them, because if I do, it might become real. I might start to believe in this twisted fantasy more than I should.
I don’t last two minutes before I peel back the lid.
One that screams money, obscene wealth, and dominance.
The other, quieter, but somehow worse.
It’s the kind of ring you only give someone when you plan to keep them.
My fingers hesitate; it’s like being a kid and trying on your mom’s expensive jewelry when she’s out, knowing she will scream in your face if she catches you.
I shake away the memory. That’s part of the reason I’ve never wanted relationships. What if I end up like my parents? What if I fuck up my kids worse than they did to me? It could be genetic.
Fuck it.
I slide on the rings and hold my breath as I hold my hand out.
The engagement ring catches the light.
The wedding band settles too easily on my skin.
Like it belongs there.
Like I belong to him.
I take a sip of wine and sink deeper into the couch. I should take them off.
I should laugh at how ridiculous this is.
But I don’t.
Instead, I look down at my hand and wonder, what would it be like to have a life with someone?
A husband.
A home.
Maybe even… kids.
Jesus.
I’ve never let myself think that far ahead.
There was never a finish line for me. Just survival.
Because how do you dream about a white picket fence when your hands are stained with the lives of men who used you?
Men who thought pain was love.
Men who taught me how to take it and, eventually, how to give it back.
I’m not wife material.
I’m not even human some days.
I’m a ghost with a scalpel and a vendetta.
But still—tonight, on that chair, tied down while he looked at me like I was a fucking prize…
I wanted him.
I wanted him to finish what he started.
I wanted his mouth on my skin, his body breaking me open.
Not just physically.
Emotionally.
Completely.
And that’s the part that scares me most.
Because I don’t just want the sex.
I want him.
The man who sees all my ugly and doesn’t run. Even when I tell him to fuck off.
The one who could destroy me with a single word, but instead, whispers “wife” like it’s holy.
I down the rest of my wine and pull my knees to my chest, rings still glinting in the low light.
What does it say about me that the first man who ever made me feel safe is the one most capable of ruining me? What does it say that I want him to?
Maybe I am a monster.
But even monsters crave something real.