Page 10 of Doomed (Blackwood Brothers #2)

Heat floods my body, pooling low in my stomach. I hate this reaction—hate how my breath catches, how my skin prickles with awareness despite having just heard him order violence as casually as ordering lunch.

“You’re crossing a line,” I manage to say, though my voice lacks conviction.

“We both know I crossed that line the minute I walked in,” Knox murmurs, his thumbs drawing small circles on my hipbones. “The question is, how many more can I cross before you admit what’s happening between us?”

I drop my paintbrush, watching helplessly as it leaves a streak of red across the floor—like blood, like a warning.

His mouth finds my ear, his voice dropping to a husky whisper. “You’re so fucking sexy when you pretend not to want me. Can you feel how hard you make me?”

I can. God help me, I can. His erection presses firmly against my ass, hard and insistent even through our clothes. My paintbrush lies forgotten on the floor as my hands grip the edge of the table for support.

“This is what you do to me, Hayes,” Knox growls, his lips trailing down my neck. “Every time you look at me with those fiery eyes. Every time you tell me to go to hell.”

I bite down on my lower lip to stop the moan building in my throat, tasting copper as my teeth break skin. The pain grounds me, but only barely. My body betrays me, melting back against him despite every rational thought screaming to push him away.

His hands tighten on my hips, pulling me more firmly against him. “Feel that? That’s all for you.”

I squeeze my eyes shut, fighting the heat spreading through my body.

This is wrong. He’s wrong for me. Knox Blackwood is everything I should run from—dangerous, arrogant, a criminal.

Yet I want him with an intensity that terrifies me.

The desire pulses through my veins, drowning out reason and caution.

I want his hands on my skin. I want his mouth on mine. I want him to back me against this table and prove to me that he can live up to all his cocky promises.

God, what is wrong with me? He’s an absolute asshole—manipulative, boundary-crossing, infuriating.

I want him anyway.

“Don’t,” I whisper, but there’s no conviction in my voice. I lean into his touch instead of pulling away.

“Don’t what?” Knox’s breath is hot against my ear. “Don’t do this?” His lips brush the sensitive skin below my earlobe. “Or this?” His teeth graze my neck, sending shockwaves down my spine.

I twist in his arms, intending to push him away, but instead find myself facing him, my hands pressed against his chest. His heartbeat thunders beneath my palm.

“I hate you,” I breathe, but the words lack venom.

Knox’s eyes darken. “No, you don’t.” His hand cups my face, thumb brushing over my lower lip. “You hate how much you want me.”

Something snaps inside me. Maybe it’s frustration, maybe it’s surrender. I grab his shirt and pull him toward me, crashing my lips against his.

The kiss is nothing like I imagined—it’s better. His mouth is hot and demanding against mine, tongue sliding past my lips to taste me. I respond with equal fervor, pouring every ounce of my frustration and desire into the kiss.

Knox groans against my mouth, backing me against the worktable. Paint tubes scatter to the floor as he lifts me onto the surface, stepping between my thighs. His hands tangle in my hair, angling my head to deepen the kiss.

I bite his lower lip hard enough to sting, and he pulls back with a surprised laugh.

“Still fighting me, Hayes?” His voice is rough, eyes blazing with heat.

“Always,” I promise, dragging him back to me.

Our mouths collide again, the kiss turning into a battle neither of us intends to lose. His hands roam my body possessively while mine explore the hard planes of his chest. I hate how right this feels, hate how good it seems to be in his arms.

When we finally break apart, we’re both breathing hard. Knox rests his forehead against mine, his lips curved in a satisfied smile. I want to slap it off his face—or kiss it away. Maybe both. He’s still an arrogant asshole, though.

The door to the studio swings open with a bang.

“Bianca? Do you need any—oh?”

Elliot stands in the doorway, his expression shifting from concerned to surprised as he takes in our position—Knox’s hand on my face, our bodies pressed together, lips a breath apart.

Knox doesn’t startle or jump away. Instead, he slowly, deliberately releases me, his fingers trailing down my neck as he steps back. The loss of his heat leaves me disoriented, like stepping from a sauna into winter air.

“Everything’s fine, Elliot,” Knox says, his voice rough. “Just discussing some creative direction for the piece.”

I struggle to catch my breath, my heart hammering against my ribs. My face burns with a mixture of desire and embarrassment. What must Elliot think, walking in on us like this?

“I was just leaving anyway,” Knox continues, maintaining eye contact with Elliot a beat longer than necessary—some unspoken male communication passing between them. He turns to me, his eyes still dark with intention. “We’ll continue this conversation later, Hayes.”

The promise in his words sends another unwelcome shiver down my spine.

Knox saunters toward the door, pausing briefly beside Elliot. He claps a hand on the gallery owner’s shoulder before disappearing into the main gallery space.

I bend down to retrieve my fallen paintbrush, grateful for the moment to compose myself.

“Are you alright?” Elliot asks.

“Fine,” I manage, turning back to my canvas.

That’s when I see it. Nestled within the swirling darkness of my painting are two bright blue eyes—Knox’s eyes—staring out from the canvas with an intensity that makes my breath catch.

I didn’t consciously paint them. They simply appeared under my brush, as if my subconscious had been plotting against me from the day we met, capturing the very essence of the man I’m trying so desperately to resist.

Elliot’s eyes linger on the doorway where Knox just exited before turning back to me.

“That man is trouble,” he says quietly, moving closer to examine the painting. “But I must admit, he has excellent taste in art.”

I busy myself rearranging the paint tubes Knox scattered in his... whatever that was. My lips still tingle from his kiss.

“You don’t need to be diplomatic, Elliot. I know he’s a walking red flag.”

Elliot chuckles, helping me gather fallen brushes. “A red flag that somehow inspired this.” He gestures to the canvas. “I’ve never seen such intensity in your work before.”

I study the unintentional blue eyes staring back from my canvas. “That wasn’t intentional.”

“The best art rarely is.” Elliot hands me a rag to wipe paint from my hands. “Just be careful, Bianca. The Blackwoods have a way of consuming people.”

“Speaking from experience?” I ask, trying to lighten the mood.

Elliot’s posture stiffens. “Let’s just say I’ve witnessed their effect on others.”

We work in comfortable silence for a moment, restoring order to my workspace. Despite having known Elliot only since I began showing at his gallery three months ago, there’s an easy familiarity between us.

“Are you attending the Henderson opening tomorrow?” Elliot asks, carefully wiping a paintbrush.

“God no. Those stuffy gallery events make me want to stab myself with a palette knife.”

He laughs, relaxing. “I’d offer to bring my date as a buffer, but Veronica just canceled. Again.” He rolls his eyes. “Third time this month.”

“Not going well with the society princess?”

“It’s...” He pauses, hands fidgeting with a tube of paint. “Complicated. Sometimes I wonder why I bother.”

There’s something in his tone—a resignation that feels deeper than simple dating frustration.

“Maybe you’re looking in the wrong places,” I suggest gently.

His eyes meet mine, startled. “What do you mean?”

“For connection. The gallery assistants were gushing about that new bartender at Pulse—Marcus? You two seemed pretty friendly at the last opening.”

Elliot drops the paint tube he’s holding. “I—we were just—” His voice rises slightly before he clears his throat. “He was recommending wines. For the gallery.”

“Of course,” I say, pretending not to notice how his ears have reddened. “My mistake.”

I suppress a smile as I watch Elliot fumble with the paint supplies, his ears still crimson.

It’s not the first time I’ve noticed his awkward reactions whenever attractive men are mentioned.

For months now, I’ve seen the pattern—the lingering glances at certain male patrons, the way his voice shifts when talking about “professional relationships” with men like Marcus, the careful construction of heterosexual dating stories that never quite add up.

The “girlfriend”, Veronica, who constantly cancels but whom no one has ever met. The practiced way he mentions women in conversation, as if reading from a script he’s memorized but doesn’t quite believe in.

I gather the last of the fallen brushes, giving him space to compose himself. A part of me wants to just tell him it’s okay, that he doesn’t need to hide who he is with me. But I know that’s not my place—coming out is deeply personal, a journey someone has to make on their own terms.

“You know,” I say carefully, “whoever you’re interested in—whatever makes you happy—I’m all for it.”

His hands pause briefly before resuming their methodical organization of my supplies. “I appreciate that,” he replies, voice neutral.

I wish he trusted me enough to be himself. The art world is hardly the most judgmental place, but I understand that old habits and fears run deep. Maybe he’s not even fully acknowledged it to himself yet.

“I value you as a friend, Elliot,” I add, keeping my tone casual. “Not just as my gallery owner.”

He gives me a quick, genuine smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Same here, Bianca.”

The moment stretches between us, filled with words unsaid. I won’t push. Everyone deserves the dignity of their own story, told in their own way and in their own time. When—if—he ever wants to share that part of himself with me, I’ll be here, ready to listen without judgment.

For now, I return to my painting, those unintentional blue eyes staring back at me. We all have our secrets, after all.