Page 91 of Intense (Beneath The Blaze #3)

STEPHANIE

B lood drips from my nose and I bite down on my tongue. My whole body throbs, but I don’t dare let him see the weakness. He’s unraveling—his temper a live wire—and I know with every bone in my body that if Finn doesn’t find me soon, this man will kill me.

I’m not alive because he wants me alive. I’m alive because I’m a pawn. A piece in his game for power against the Quinns. That’s the only thing keeping me breathing.

He drags a chair across the carpet and straddles it backward, leaning his arms against the top. Just watching me, wearing that wicked grin like he’s already won.

“You’re pretty,” he says.

I scrunch my nose, glaring at him as he rips off my gag.

“I can see why the doctor went for you.” He props his cheek against his hand. “Open your legs for me.”

I shake my head sharply. “I can’t. My dress is down to my ankles, dickhead.”

He bursts out laughing, the sound manic.

“And she’s sassy. Fuck, Finn did hit the jackpot.”

My stomach knots as he pulls a flip knife from his pocket, the metallic click echoing through me.

“I can cut you out of it. Make you more comfortable?”

“I wouldn’t.” My voice is sharp.

“Why? Because your husband’s going to kill me?” He runs a finger along the blade.

“Probably, yeah.”

He shakes his head. “No. Because if my plan works the way I want it to, I’m not getting the blame for this.”

A chill rips through me. “What is the plan?” I ask sweetly, trying to buy time.

His dark eyes snap to mine. “It involves you dying. Someone else holding the gun. Just long enough for me to swoop in and hand them over to your husband. Play the hero. Win their trust. And then I’ll take London back piece by piece as a ghost again.”

I nod slowly, masking the fear that claws at me. He’s going to kill me.

“Or,” I counter, forcing a smirk, “you could not kill me. And I just keep my mouth shut, pretend this never happened.”

He chuckles. “Good try. But I need the dramatics. Wait—what’s your name?”

“Angel,” I lie, voice steady despite the thundering of my heart.

His eyes narrow, and he presses the knife point into the chair between us.

“My cousin, Ben, ran a strip club in America for me while I was pretending to be dead. He used to talk about an Angel that worked for him. Red hair. Fine ass. But he was always fucking some blonde chick. Until he got himself caught and I got his head delivered back to me.”

Ice crawls through my veins.

Holy shit.

Ben. The sleazy asshole who employed me. The club. All of it is tied to this. And here I am—back in their orbit. It was always leading me to Finn.

“I’m sorry about Ben,” I say quietly, my voice trembling in spite of myself.

“Yeah?” His lip curls. “Ask your husband how he died.”

Good. I think viciously. At least one of them is gone.

Tears prick at my eyes. What if I don’t even get the chance to ask Finn about it? What if I never get to tell him I love him again?

He said it once. Those words. They meant everything. Enough to bury all the pain in me. Enough to make dying feel almost worth it, if it comes to that. Because I was loved—fiercely, completely. The kind of love people search a lifetime for.

I just wish I’d had more time. To see him as a father. To see the life we could’ve built.

“What’s the matter, Angel?” he mocks.

Before I can answer, his phone rings. His eyes light up like a kid at Christmas.

“It’s almost showtime.”

My throat tightens as he stands abruptly, pacing like a madman.

“Arthur. We have a problem. Has anyone seen you come in yet?” His tone carries just enough fear to be convincing. “Good. Good. I’m in the systems room behind the cinema. Left door before you go in. Code is 4-5-2-3. First door on the left. Don’t be seen.”

He pauses, listening, then laughs. “What have I done? I’m getting us our empire back, brother. Like I’ve been doing for years. But I need your help, okay?”

His hand trembles, a vein bulging on his forehead as rage flashes in his eyes. “Just get here now.” He snaps the call shut.

The breath shudders out of him. He slams his fist into his laptop keyboard, the crack of plastic echoing.

“These motherfuckers,” he mutters.

“W-what?” My voice cracks.

“They’ve locked me out of the security feeds.”

His eyes close, his chest rising and falling as he fights for calm. Then his lips curve into that grin again.

“But it’s okay. Arthur’s coming. It’s going to work out.”

Relief flares in my chest. If they’ve hacked the systems, it means they’re onto him.

And if I know my husband, he’ll already be hunting for blood.

This bastard will pay for taking me.