Page 96 of Intense (Beneath The Blaze #3)

FINN

T aking the bloodied knife from her, I throw it down on the floor and pull out the gun instead.

I study her for a moment. My wife. My temptress.

The woman who stormed her way into my blackened life and now stands here, trembling but unbroken.

The most powerful woman I’ve ever met. Her chest rises and falls like she’s been running for miles, and still she hasn’t looked away from the bastard in the chair.

“Stephanie.” I tilt the gun in my hand, then offer it to her grip-first. “This one’s yours.”

Her eyes widen. I can see the war inside her. The part of her that still wants to heal people and the part that wants to burn every monster to ash. But her hand doesn’t hesitate. She takes it.

James lets out a rasp of a laugh, blood slicking his teeth. He doesn’t have long left anyway, that bullet hole is killing him.

“She won’t do it. She doesn’t have it in her to kill me.”

I step behind her again, my palms bracketing her hips, my mouth brushing her ear.

“Prove him wrong, temptress. Show him what I already know—that you’re stronger than both of us put together.”

Her shoulders tense, then square. She raises the gun, two hands around the grip. She doesn’t flinch when James spits at her feet, doesn’t shake when his one good eye burns into hers with hate.

I’ve never been prouder in my life.

“Breathe in,” I whisper. “Breathe out. Let every memory of what he did to you, of how he touched what’s mine, flow into that trigger finger.”

Her finger curls. A single squeeze.

The blast is deafening in the enclosed room.

James’s head jerks back, and then he’s nothing but dead weight slumped in the chair, blood painting his ruined face. Silence follows, broken only by her ragged gasp as the gun clatters from her hand to the floor.

I catch her before she can collapse, wrapping her in my arms and pulling her tight against my chest. She’s shaking, but she’s here. Breathing. Alive.

And forever mine.

“You did it,” I murmur, kissing the crown of her head. My throat burns, but my voice stays low. “My clever girl. My fearless temptress.”

Her fists curl into my shirt, wetness soaking the fabric where her face hides against me. “I’m scared, Finn.”

I tip her chin up until her tear-soaked eyes meet mine. I want her to see the truth.

“Why?”

“Because I have no remorse. I just shot a man dead and felt nothing but happiness. That isn’t normal, is it?”

I let out a small chuckle.

“No, love. He hurt you so he deserved to die. Don’t ever feel guilty about that. That man causes nothing but pain, you should be happy, you probably saved a lot of lives by killing him.”

She sobs once, and I kiss her mouth like I can pull every broken shard of her into me. Her hands tremble on my jaw, but there’s fire in her eyes.

The kind of fire that tells me she’s mine forever.

I’ve never been so proud.

“Shall we get out of here?” I whisper against her lips.

She nods slowly and I hear the door creak open.

Conan and Declan are the first two in, with Frankie and Zara behind them.

“Theo is holding Arthur, we wanted to wait for you to be done here,” Declan tells me, looking at Jame’s corpse.

I nod.

I look down at my girl and tug her tighter against my side.

“My wife did the honors,” I say proudly.

Conan smirks with approval.

Her head tilts up, meeting every single pair of eyes in the room. She doesn’t hide. Doesn’t shrink.

Conan’s fists unclench at his sides. Declan drags a hand over his face, muttering something about Quinn women always being terrifying. Frankie grins, that sharp Italian approval glinting in his eyes, and Zara moves a step closer, pride written in every line of her face.

“She’s one of us now,” Zara says simply.

I look down at my wife, at the fire smoldering in her tear-soaked eyes, and my chest aches with something I’ve never felt before. Not just pride. Not just love. But certainty.

Stephanie straightens at my side, her arm wrapping around my waist. Even covered in blood, her body trembling with adrenaline, she radiates power. Not the kind I gave her, not the kind I shaped. Her own.

Conan lets out a low whistle. Declan shakes his head with a half-smile that almost looks like respect. Frankie raises his glass like we’re at a wedding toast instead of standing in a slaughterhouse.

Because tonight wasn’t just about vengeance. Tonight, Stephanie proved she belongs right here, beside me, in the dark, with blood on her hands and her crown forged in fire.

And I’ve never loved her more.

“Now, if you don’t mind us. I’ve got a private suite booked to celebrate,” I joke.

“No. You need to go to a fucking hospital, brother.” Declan steps forward, his brows furrowed deep.

“You’re forgetting my wife is also a doctor, Declan. I’ll be fine.”

Stephanie looks up at me, and I can feel the heat of her stare burn into the side of my head. She doesn’t buy my bravado for a second. Truth is, I’m running on fumes, every muscle shaking, and tomorrow I’ll probably feel like death warmed over.

“If I was going to collapse, I would’ve by now. Stop worrying,” I mutter, forcing the grin back into place.

She slides her hand discreetly onto my wrist, and I can’t help but smile as I bend down toward her.

“Are you seriously checking my pulse?” I whisper.

“Yeah. You’re my husband. My responsibility to keep alive.” She smiles sweetly.

“I like her,” Conan chuckles, folding his massive arms.

“Have you heard from Reggie?” I ask Declan, my throat tight as the question slips out.

“The little shit is going to live to see another day. Reggie is going to stay here with Drago until Rowan is fit to fly home. But he’s fine. Theo has offered hospital protection as a precaution.”

A breath I didn’t realize I was holding tears from my chest.

“Thank fuck.”

“Are we really letting Arthur live, Finn? Or am I killing him?” Conan asks, his tone sharp as a blade.

I step forward, clasping his shoulder, grounding him. His own anger scares him, I know that. That’s why they waited for me before he let himself loose on Arthur.

“What do you want to do? He saved my life. He saved Stephanie’s. He was being played by James. We’ve killed the real Bowen threat to us now. But, it’s your call.”

Conan scrubs his hand over his face, torn. I know deep down he wants to rip Arthur apart piece by piece. But when his eyes flick to James’s corpse, to the mangled face of the man he once beat so savagely we believed him dead, I see the war in him settle.

We’re not angels. We’re monsters with second chances. Maybe Arthur deserves one too. For now.

“Let me get my anger out on him and see if he’s still standing. If he does live, the second he steps one foot out of line, I will be on that jet back here.”

“Agreed.” I nod, turning to Declan. “Are you happy with that?”

“As long as I can watch Conan in beast mode on him, I’m good for now,” Declan mutters.

A low chuckle escapes me. The tension breaks, just a fraction.

Arthur is a problem for London. Not for the Quinns anymore. We’ve battled enough. The Bowens are done.

He isn’t a threat to us any longer.

The Volkovs arrive next, Mikhail’s voice muffled through his balaclava.

“We’ve swept the entire building. You’re safe to leave. We’re going to stay behind and help Theo’s guys with the clean-up.”

My chest swells, warmth cutting through the blood and chaos. When we came to America, it was just a dream. An idea. We bled for it, killed for it, built every brick of our empire in the shadow of our father’s ghost.

And here we are now. Not just working for the most powerful mafia families in the world, but standing alongside them. As equals.

We’ve earned this. We’ve carved our place into history.

I’ve always had my brothers at my side. But now, we’ve got family everywhere.

Because that’s what this is.

Not just business. Not just vengeance.

Family.

And we protect our own—fiercely.