Page 4 of Intense (Beneath The Blaze #3)

FINN

I wasn’t planning on being here tonight.

Not when I have an operating room to dominate in eight hours and a list of patients longer than most hitmen’s body counts.

But then Drago called.

And when the Russian brainiac calls, I answer. And he’s been busy digging on The Preacher. It’s all hearsay at this point, but it’s got me intrigued. And what we’ve found so far ain’t good.

He said one of The Preacher’s men, those twisted, Bible-quoting traffickers, drinks here. Every Friday night. Same booth. Same drink.

I couldn’t let it go, not after what Abigail said. Not after killing that man, Luke. I want to know who our enemy is. And knowing one of these bastards has been stepping foot in Quinn territory makes me sick.

But tonight’s not about confrontation. It’s recon.

Get in. Watch. Identify. Get out.

That’s it.

The bouncer eyes me like I don’t belong here. Maybe I shouldn’t have worn a designer suit, but I flash the card Drago slid me. He nods and lets me through.

Inside, it’s the usual chaos.

Velvet seats. Stale sex in the air. Music vibrating in my spine. Half-naked girls twisting on poles or wrapping themselves around men who don’t deserve the attention.

I hate places like this. Inferno is where I belong. It’s made to our tastes. It’s clean, pristine. Not like this. And our women are protected, looked after.

I order a whiskey, neat, and slide into the booth Drago flagged. It’s dimly lit, with a perfect line of sight across the main floor.

Then I see him.

Booth six. Fat ring fingers. A flat nose that’s clearly been punched into his face. Finished off with a designer watch that doesn’t fit his cheap suit. Here we have it; it’s our guy, Troy Barnes . The Preacher’s logistics man.

He’s not alone.

A woman straddles his lap.

Red hair. Tight black corset and a red thong.

She’s facing him. Grinding. Rolling her hips with the kind of lazy rhythm that drives men to madness.

Barnes looks like he’s in heaven. His hand slides to her ass and she grabs his wrist, hard enough that he freezes.

Even from here, I see her lips move.

She lets go, leans in, and whispers something in his ear that makes him turn pale.

Then she stands.

Turns.

And walks off without taking a dollar from the man.

Like she came for something else.

Like she’s not here to be seen, but to see. That’s what I do. I always assess in a room of people. I like to read them, probably better than they can read themselves.

But now? I’m frozen in place. My brain is fucking glitching.

Not because of him.

Because of her.

That kind of control… that kind of power… it’s rare. And dangerous.

She’s not like the others. She doesn’t move like them. Doesn’t perform for the crowd.

She moved for him.

And owned him.

I take a sip of my whiskey, forcing my pulse to calm.

Who the fuck is she?

My mind races, trying to place her. The hair’s too red to be real. The body. God, that body is sculpted like temptation, but there’s something about her posture. Her command.

A whisper in my brain tells me I’ve seen her before.

But I brush it off.

My grip tightens around the glass.

Whoever she is… she’s playing a dangerous game with monsters.

And I can’t decide if I want to protect her or pin her to the wall and demand answers.

Either way—I need to know her name, so I’ll be back.

Because a woman like that doesn’t just disappear.

She leaves a mark.

And I’ve already got the first one.

Burned into my memory.

For now, I have to sit and watch this ugly fucker get hard over women he could never have and try to figure him out. That’s what I’m good at. Assessing people better than they know themselves.