Page 56 of Intense (Beneath The Blaze #3)

FINN

Song- Worst In Me, Bad Omens

B y the time I take my last drag, my head feels clearer, but my chest is still tight.

I hurt her. Even if I didn’t mean to, that’s not the point. I could’ve killed her.

I knew the risk and still took it selfishly. And if anything ever happened to her because of me, I’d never be able to forgive myself.

I shake my head, lock the door, and down a glass of ice-cold water.

Falling asleep with her in my arms was the safest I’ve ever felt. The most at home.

Maybe I should talk to someone about my past. Omit the parts I can’t share. But what would it even achieve? I can’t undo what they did to me. Can’t change the fact I sacrificed everything to save a friend and failed.

She died anyway.

And I was ten years old.

Now I’m not even sure I can save myself. And it’s not Stephanie’s job to fix me.

I rub my hands over my face. I saw the way she looked at me earlier—pleading without words for me not to leave her. That silent plea hit straight to the bone. She’s been abandoned. Hurt. Afraid.

So have I.

What we have is too strong to just let go.

I head for the bedroom. But as I pass the bathroom, I see it, a soft glow leaking from the room next to it.

Curiosity hooks me by the throat.

She never mentioned this room. The door’s locked. I frown. She hasn’t left my sight all night. She didn’t lock it while I’ve been here.

A slow grin pulls at my mouth. You only lock something you don’t want found. I know, half my house is locked down for a reason. The Decadence Trials. Although, delayed or not, the games haven’t been part of my thoughts for a while.

She’s just like me.

I find something small and thin in the kitchen and jiggle the lock until it clicks open.

The light comes on to reveal a plain, windowless office. The glow is from the computer monitor. No photos. No art. Just a desk and a cupboard. It’s bland and boring.

I try the computer. Password protected. Figures.

First drawer: empty except for a small key.

Second drawer: locked. The key doesn’t fit.

My gaze shifts to the cupboard. This is like a puzzle.

Inside is a metal safe. The key slides in perfectly.

My breath stops when I open it. There are rows of vials. All hospital stock. All lethal in the wrong hands.

My pulse climbs. This isn’t shit you take recreationally. That’s not what she’s doing.

I know exactly what I’d do with them.

At the back, a second key. I try it on the locked drawer. It works.

Inside is a red leather box.

I set it on the desk and open it. Jewelry. Men’s jewelry.

Silver and gold rings. Watches. Chains. At least fifteen pieces.

One watch freezes me cold. A vintage silver watch with emerald stones on the face and a marbled back. Rare. Worth a fortune.

I’ve seen it before. Complimented the old guy wearing it… before I took him into surgery.

My stomach knots.

I pull the drawer out further, revealing a slim black notebook. My gut tells me not to open it. My hand ignores me.

First page: a date from two years ago. A name I know.

The sex trafficker Stephanie saved. I remember cunts like that.

And in her handwriting:

He took something from me when I was eighteen, so I stole it back.

My chest tightens.

I flip through. More men. More dates. Short, brutal notes.

He paid to have sex with me when I was a teenager.

Is this a kill journal?

She understands me because she’s like me. No, because she’s been doing the same damn thing.

And her past aligns with mine in a way. I hate that for her.

I’m glad she kills these motherfuckers. Because if she didn’t, I fucking would for her.

Except she’s reckless enough to keep it written down.

I keep going until I hit the last entry, only days ago. The bastard from the club. He had his hands on her.

If she wasn’t there, I would have shot him in the head.

I go back one page. My blood runs cold.

That name. That date. That fucking expensive watch.

Right before I was arrested.

My hands are shaking when I pull out my phone. I call Drago, not caring it’s three in the morning.

“Finn?” His voice is thick with sleep.

“I need you to get the file from the Commissioner, tell me the exact name and date of the patient I was accused of murdering.”

I want to be sick.

“Uh… yeah, sure, one minute.”

“I don’t have a minute.”

I pace, jaw tight, rage boiling under my skin but kept on a leash. It’s the hurt that’s killing me, not the anger.

Drago finally reads out the name and date.

I stare down at the identical entry in her journal.

My chest seizes. I can’t breathe. I can’t speak.

“Finn? You okay?”

“No.”

I hang up and pinch the bridge of my nose.

She fucking did that.

Is that all I’ve been to her? A pawn? Was she working with The Preacher this whole time? Is that why she’s here, why she suddenly fell for me?

It wasn’t trust. It wasn’t love.

She still hates me.

She’s worse than a traitor.

She broke my black fucking heart.

And with that, the last sliver of hope I’d been holding onto dies.

The empathy goes with it. So does every trace of feeling.

I close the book. My mind goes still.

The man I used to be slides back into place with the ease of muscle memory. The one who feels nothing, who hurts for no one.

I am dead inside. Again.

And she’s to blame.

Putting everything back into its perfect place, making sure it looks untouched, I rifle around the kitchen drawers until I find it. The key to lock the office door.

And then, I slip back into bed beside her.

Watching the steady rise and fall of her chest.

The way her lips part and little soft moans escape.

Is she dreaming about me?

About that future we started to plan together?

Or is she dreaming about taking me down?

A smile spreads across my lips as I stroke her hair away from her face.

“You’re about to enter into your own nightmare,” I whisper and press a soft kiss to her cheek.

She turns to face me, wrapping her arms around me and snuggling closer.

While I just lie here.

Calculating my next move. All whilst being fucking dead inside.