Page 17 of Doomed (Blackwood Brothers #2)

BIANCA

I signed those damn papers the same day I stormed out of Knox’s office. I don’t know if it was out of spite or a result of anger mired in idiocy. Still, I filled out every line, initialed every page, and dropped the envelope directly to Xavier’s assistant before I could change my mind.

Five days later, I’m questioning my sanity. Every time I close my eyes, I feel Knox’s hands on me, his mouth claiming mine with that arrogant certainty that makes me want to slap him again—or worse, kiss him harder.

“Earth to Bianca!” Michelle waves her hand in front of my face. “You’re doing it again.”

I blink, realizing I’ve been staring at my blank canvas for who knows how long. “Sorry.”

“You’ve been like this all week.” She flops onto my bed, narrowly missing my sketches. “This is about that Hunt thing, isn’t it? And Mr. Bad News Blackwood?”

“No,” I lie, then immediately cave under her knowing look. “Maybe. Okay. Okay. Yes.”

Michelle sits up. “Look, it’s Saturday night. We need to get you out of this apartment and somewhere that isn’t your studio or Purgatory.”

“I don’t feel like going out.”

“Which is exactly why you need to.” She springs off my bed and heads to my closet. “There’s a new place downtown, The Blue Note. Live music, decent cocktails, and zero chance of running into your criminal crush.”

“He’s not my crush,” I protest weakly.

Michelle tosses a burgundy dress onto my bed. “Then it should be easy to forget about him for one night.”

She’s right. I need space from all of it—the Hunt, the Blackwoods, and especially Knox with his infuriating smirk and hands that somehow knew exactly how to touch me.

“Fine,” I concede, picking up the dress. “One night of normal people doing normal things in a normal bar sounds perfect.”

Michelle grins. “That’s the spirit. And who knows? Maybe you’ll meet someone who doesn’t make you want to commit assault.”

“Very funny.” But I smile despite myself. Maybe this is exactly what I need—a reminder that there’s a world outside of Knox Blackwood’s orbit.

Michelle transforms getting ready into an event. She cranks up music on her portable speaker while rifling through my makeup collection, grabbing products I’ve forgotten I own.

“Hold still,” she orders, wielding an eyeliner pencil with surgical precision. “If we’re doing this, we’re doing it right.”

I surrender to her expertise, letting her line my eyes with a smoky wing that makes the hazel pop. The burgundy dress hugs my curves perfectly, making me feel sexy without trying too hard.

“There.” Michelle steps back, admiring her handiwork. “Definitely not giving off ‘I’m obsessed with a dangerous club owner’ vibes.”

I laugh genuinely for what feels like the first time in days. “Shut up and pour the wine.”

We finish a bottle between us, dancing around the apartment to 90s pop songs, taking ridiculous selfies, and for blissful periods, I don’t think about Knox or his hunt or the way his hands felt on my skin.

The Uber arrives at nine, our driver nodding along to the radio while Michelle recounts her latest workplace drama. I watch the city lights blur past the window, feeling lighter than I have all week.

The Blue Note is thrumming with energy when we arrive—a converted warehouse with exposed brick, crystal chandeliers, and a jazz quartet playing on a small stage. It’s worlds away from Purgatory’s debauchery.

“Bianca! Michelle!” A voice calls from a corner booth. Jess from Michelle’s marketing team waves us over, surrounded by familiar faces from previous happy hours.

Michelle hugs everyone while I slide into the booth next to David, Michelle’s coworker, who always wears interesting socks and actually asks questions about my art that aren’t just polite conversation.

“I was hoping you’d come tonight,” he says, sliding a cocktail menu my way. His dark curls fall shy of his eyes, and his smile is warm without any hidden agenda. “Michelle mentioned you’ve been buried in commissions.”

“That’s one way to put it,” I reply, grateful for the simple interaction. “How’s the app launch going?”

David launches into a story about their latest disaster, complete with animated hand gestures that make me laugh. His knee occasionally brushes mine under the table. When he offers to get me a drink, his eyes linger on mine a beat longer than necessary.

David’s hand brushes mine as he passes me a gin and tonic, his eyes hopeful. He’s attractive, smart, and genuinely nice— everything Knox isn’t. I should feel a reaction, any reaction. A spark. A flutter. But there’s nothing.

“I’ve been meaning to ask if you’d like to grab coffee sometime,” David says, leaning closer. “Just the two of us.”

I open my mouth to respond when my phone vibrates on the table. Unknown number. Normally, I’d ignore it, but with several commission deadlines approaching, it could be a potential client.

“Sorry, I should take this,” I tell David, sliding out of the booth. “Hello?”

“You look good in burgundy, princess.”

My blood freezes. Knox.

“What do you want?” I whisper, moving away from the table.

“I want you to stop batting your eyelashes at that pathetic excuse for a man.” Knox’s voice drops lower. “Unless you want me to end his miserable existence and dump him in a ditch somewhere. I don’t share what’s mine, and you know I have a proclivity for violence.”

My heart pounds against my ribs. “I’m not yours.”

“Keep telling yourself that.” His laugh is soft. “Look around, Bianca. You won’t find me, but I can see everything.”

I scan the bar frantically, searching for that familiar smirk, those piercing eyes. Nothing. I’m surrounded by strangers enjoying their Saturday night, oblivious to the predator watching us.

“How did you even know where I am?” I hiss into the phone.

“I make it my business to know everything about you.” His voice softens, almost intimate. “Your dress clings to you perfectly, by the way. But I’d rather see it on my floor.”

“You’re insane.”

“Maybe. But I’m also the only one who makes your pulse race like it is right now. Tell your friend you’re leaving. Now.”

I glance back at our table, where David watches me with concern, completely unaware that Knox Blackwood has marked him for death simply for buying me a drink.

“You have thirty seconds to make your excuses,” Knox says, his voice dropping to that dangerous tone that sends a chill down my spine. “Or I’ll come in there and drag you out myself. Your choice.”

“You wouldn’t dare,” I whisper, but the certainty in his voice tells me he absolutely would.

“Twenty seconds, princess. Test me.”

I glance back at our table, knowing that if Knox makes a scene here, David could get hurt for being near me. The thought makes me sick.

“Fine,” I hiss into the phone.

I press the phone against my chest, forcing a smile as I approach our table. Michelle raises an eyebrow, instantly sensing my unease.

“Everything okay?” she asks.

“It’s Elliot,” I lie, the words tasting bitter. “Emergency at the gallery. One of the installations is malfunctioning, and he needs me there right away.”

Michelle’s eyes narrow with suspicion. “On a Saturday night?”

“Art doesn’t keep business hours,” I say with a shrug that I hope looks casual. “I’m really sorry to bail.”

“I can drive you,” David offers, already reaching for his jacket.

“No!” I say it too quickly. “I mean, I already called a ride. It’s fine.”

Michelle grabs my wrist as I turn to leave. “Bianca, what’s really going on?”

“I’ll tell you later,” I promise, giving her hand a squeeze before walking away.

Once outside, I put the phone back to my ear. “There. Happy now? What the fuck do you want, Knox?”

“Right here,” Knox’s voice purrs in my ear, but suddenly it’s not through the phone anymore.

The phone slips from my grip as strong hands grip my hips from behind. I gasp, tensing as Knox’s chest presses against my back, his heat radiating through the thin fabric of my dress.

“Let go of me,” I hiss, but my voice lacks conviction, even to my own ears.

“You know I can’t do that.” His breath tickles my neck, sending an unwelcome shiver down my spine. “Not when you’re out here tempting other men.”

My anger flares. I try to wrench away, but his grip tightens, fingers digging into my hipbones, holding me firmly against him.

“You don’t own me,” I snap, heart hammering against my ribs. “You had no right to follow me here.”

“And yet,” Knox murmurs, his lips brushing the shell of my ear, “here you are, trembling in my arms instead of with that weasel.”

I hate how right he is, how I respond to his touch despite my fury. Adrenaline courses through my veins, making every point of contact between us hypersensitive. My skin feels electric, alive with a dangerous current I can’t control.

“I left because you threatened an innocent man,” I say, trying to keep my voice steady. “Not because I want to be with you.”

Knox’s dark chuckle vibrates against my back. “Keep telling yourself that, princess.” One hand leaves my hip, brushing my hair aside to expose my neck.

I try to hate the way his touch makes me feel—I want to hate it—but the adrenaline flooding my system blurs the line between anger and arousal until I can’t tell where one ends and the other begins.

Knox steps away from me and gestures to his unmistakable, neon-blue Aprilia.

“Get on,” he commands, pulling a helmet from the back compartment.

I cross my arms over my chest. “You’re out of your mind if you think I’m going anywhere with you.”

“You will.” There’s no question in his voice. He holds the helmet out to me, but when I don’t take it, he steps forward and slides it over my head himself. His fingers brush my skin as he fastens the strap, the casual intimacy of the gesture making my stomach flip.

I notice my phone is on the ground where I dropped it. Knox follows my gaze, bends down to retrieve it, and slips it into my pocket, his hand lingering a moment longer than necessary.

“Why would I go anywhere with you?” I demand. “You threatened an innocent man for talking to me, forced me to leave my friends, and now you expect me to hop on your bike and ride off into the night?”

Knox’s eyes darken as he steps closer. The streetlight catches the blue in them, making them appear almost luminous.

“Get on, Bianca.”

The steel in his tone—not quite a threat, but a promise of consequences if I refuse—makes me swallow my next retort. I glance back at the motorcycle, considering making a run for it. Still, the intensity in Knox’s eyes tells me that would be a mistake.

With a frustrated huff, I climb onto the back of his motorcycle, hating myself for complying, hating him for making me. I especially hate the thrill that runs through me as he swings his leg over and settles in front of me.

Instead of wrapping my arms around his waist, I grip the edge of the seat beneath me with both hands, my fingers digging into the leather.

Knox glances over his shoulder, helmet in his hands. “You might want to hold onto me unless you’re planning to become roadkill tonight.”

“I’m fine right where I am. If being roadkill is a concern, I can just go back inside with my friends.

You know, where I planned on spending my night,” I say through gritted teeth.

The helmet feels heavy on my head, and I’m acutely aware of how ridiculous I must look in my burgundy dress perched stiffly on the back of his flashy motorcycle.

He revs the engine, the vibration traveling up my spine. “Your funeral, princess.”

“Just drive,” I snap, tightening my grip on the seat. “And stop calling me that.”

Knox glances over his shoulder at me as best he can. “This isn’t a joke, Bianca. At the speeds I drive, you’ll fly off if you don’t hold on properly.”

“I’ll take my chances, thank you very much.” I lift my chin defiantly. “I’d rather eat pavement than be any closer to you than I absolutely have to be.”

“God, you’re something else.”

“Fuck off, Knox.” The words come out sharp and clear, exactly how I intend them.

His laugh is genuine and deep, rumbling through the night air, making my stomach twist. “As you wish, princess.”

Before I can process what’s happening, Knox twists the throttle, and the bike lurches forward from the curb with force.

My carefully maintained distance collapses instantly.

A startled yelp escapes my lips as I slide forward, my pride going out the proverbial window as my arms instinctively wrap around his waist, fingers clutching desperately at his leather jacket.

I feel his muscles tense beneath my hands, and even without seeing his face, I know he’s wearing that infuriating smirk of his.

“Shut up,” I shout against his back.

“I didn’t say a word,” Knox replies, shaking slightly, the sound of his laughter masked by the engine as we accelerate into the night.