Page 59 of Intense (Beneath The Blaze #3)
STEPHANIE
Song- Madness, Ruelle
T he room is cold, the kind that seeps through skin and straight into bone.
Clinical.
Too much like work.
But the worst part isn’t the temperature. It’s Finn.
He’s turned to ice.
I’m tempted to sneak a peek beneath my blindfold, but I don’t. I know him well enough to understand his rules aren’t suggestions. Breaking them would be failing before we’ve even started.
The door unlocks and I hear his footsteps. His aftershave cuts through the sterile air as he re-enters. Metal scrapes across the floor.
My breath hitches when his fingers graze my cheek. The blindfold slips away, and light floods in, sharp enough to sting my eyes.
When I focus on him, my heart stumbles.
His grey eyes are glazed, manic, just like the night his brother was rushed into the hospital.
He’s hurting.
And that makes no sense. What happened to the Finn who made love to me a few hours ago?
“Finn,” I whisper.
He takes the seat opposite me, leaning back, arms folded. “Stephanie.”
From his jacket pocket, he pulls out folded papers and a pen. He pops the cap off with his mouth, spitting it onto the floor.
“Before the games begin, I need you to sign something. A formality.” His smile is thin.
He passes me the papers. His face stays hard, unreadable.
“Read it. Then you’ll sign in pen… and blood. I’ll do the same.”
It has to be part of the trial. Another push, to see how far I’ll bend before I snap. This whole setup suits him. Exerting the power he has over people. Organized and clinical, yet probably sadistic.
“I’d rather not bore myself with legal documents and just get on with the games,” I say, forcing confidence I don’t fully feel.
His thumb drags slowly along his bottom lip.
“You’re already ignoring my rules. Not a great start, is it, Stephanie?”
I sigh and look down at the page headed with “The Decadence Trials of Dr. Stephanie Quinn and Dr. Finn Quinn.”
Everything is a blur of words on a page as I skim through. Formalities. I know how contracts work. And it hurts that he doesn’t just accept my consent. That he needs it in writing.
It covers everything. From cutting to spanking to taking trial medicines. It even covers the death of both parties. Listed like it’s nothing.
I trust him. I know the risks with anything in life. I could walk out in front of a car and die. I take risks every single day with other people's lives.
This doesn’t faze me. And it’s not telling me anything about what is in the trials. It’s not telling me what happens when I win or lose. It’s pretty basic with terrifying wording.
But then, my eyes catch on the final clause. The part that is a kick in the teeth.
If I fail the games, this document will annul our marriage.
“You want this marriage to be over?” My throat tightens, heat threatening my eyes.
He reclines in his chair, ankle over his knee. “I never did. You did. Here’s the out you’ve been wanting.”
His eyes are shards of ice.
“I–I don’t want that. Not anymore.”
“I wouldn’t be so confident, love. I’m not the man you think I am. Sign it, and I’ll reintroduce you to the real Dr. Quinn.”
A shiver runs down my spine. My fingers shake around the pen.
It’s a game. It has to be. He wouldn’t actually hurt me. Not really.
But the contract says death.
A game of survival.
And if I don’t sign, I fail.
“You wouldn’t really kill me, would you?”
His smile blooms, and somehow he becomes more dangerous.
“That’s a risk you take, love. Do you trust me with your life?”
He leans forward, elbows braced on his thighs, gaze steady and unblinking.
He’s always been a mindfuck. This is just another one.
“Yes,” I say, honestly.
So I sign. Mrs. Quinn.
I hold the pen out. His fingers brush my wrist, and a jolt sparks through me.
He signs beside my name, then reaches for a scalpel from the tray.
“Anywhere in particular you want me to cut?” he asks, completely void of emotion.
“I… kinda preferred it with the whole pleasure part.”
His brow lifts. “You won’t sign without that?”
I shake my head.
“Fine. One hand for me to cut, the other you can use to pleasure yourself.”
My stomach dips. Not what I’d meant.
“I want you to do it.”
He stands, towering over me, his hand clamping my jaw.
“I am in control of your pleasure. Your pain. Your whole fucking life in here. You don’t make requests. You don’t make demands. Do you understand? You’re lucky I’m being this nice.”
“Nice? You think this is nice? Chaining me in a cold medical room, waving a creepy contract in my face like some kind of?—”
He lets go, stepping back and placing the signed document neatly on the tray.
“This isn’t a game, love. It’s a trial. The man you think I am and the man I actually am? Not the same. You’re lucky to have this much grace. Men in your position wouldn’t. But you—” his voice hardens— “you took part of my heart.”
My pulse thrashes.
This isn’t theater. This is real.
“If I’ve pissed you off, I’m sorry,” I breathe.
His laugh is low, humorless.
He kicks my legs apart and steps between them, his voice almost gentle now.
“Now… are you going to give me what I want?”
“Do I have a choice?”
His jaw tightens. He doesn’t answer.
I place my hand in his. He takes my ring finger, slicing the tip. I hiss at the sting.
He presses the paper to my blood. “Atta girl.”
He does the same to himself, then tucks the document away in his pocket.
“Are you ready to play?”
“Yes.”
He grins. “Game one comes with a choice. Choose right, and I’ll tell you who I really am. A little bonding session before we continue.”
I’ve always known there’s a dark streak in him. That something carved him into this cold shape.
What else has he hidden from me?
He rolls the first metal table between us and sits. Two pills rest in the center—one red, one white.
The collar around my throat tightens when I shift.
“Is there anything you could learn about me that would change your opinion of me?” he asks, tapping the table.
“Not unless you abuse children… or women… or animals. Then I’d leave you.”
He studies me for a long moment. Then nods.
“Let’s play.”
His hands clap together, sharp in the silence, and I flinch.