Page 2 of Doomed (Blackwood Brothers #2)

KNOX

T he pounding in my skull feels like someone’s using my brain as a drum kit. I roll over on my bed, immediately regretting the movement when every muscle screams in protest. The metallic taste in my mouth suggests I either bit my tongue last night or...

My shirt sticks to my chest, stiff with dried blood that definitely isn’t mine. The dark stains have turned rust-colored in the morning light filtering through my blinds. I peel the fabric away from my skin with a grimace, tossing it toward the hamper. It lands with a wet thud.

Morrison. Right. Stubborn bastard thought he could play hardball with the Blackwoods.

Flashes of last night filter back through the haze.

Morrison’s penthouse. His cocky smile when he doubled down on his demands.

The look of shock on their faces when we explained why renegotiation wasn’t on the table.

His right-hand man—what was his name? Stevens?

—practically pissing himself as he watched his boss learn the hard way about respect.

Stevens turned out to be smarter than his employer. Begged to take over the operation, swore he’d honor the original terms down to the last penny. Even offered to increase orders by ten percent as an apology for Morrison’s “temporary lapse in judgment.”

Morrison’s in an unmarked grave somewhere outside the city limits now. Stevens is probably counting his lucky stars and trying not to think about what’s left of his former boss.

Your average Thursday night in the Blackwood family business.

I drag myself to the shower, letting scalding water wash away the evidence of our “negotiation.” The blood swirls pink down the drain, and I watch it disappear with the same detachment I’d feel watching paint dry.

By the time I’m clean and dressed in fresh clothes, my phone’s buzzing with a text from Xavier. Three words:

Art commission. Purgatory.

Right. The main floor requires darker, atmospheric pieces to complete the collection. Xavier wants local talent, someone hungry enough to keep their mouth shut about our particular aesthetic preferences.

I grab my keys and head for the garage. Time to play art patron. Finding someone desperate enough to work for us and talented enough to deliver shouldn’t be too hard.

After all, every artist needs a muse. And nothing inspires quite like desperation.

The gallery sits on Fifth Street like a jewel among the concrete, all glass front and exposed brick. Elliot’s always had good taste—it helps when you’re laundering money through overpriced art sales.

I push through the heavy glass doors, and the scent of turpentine hits me. An orchestral classical piece drifts from invisible speakers—a composition that belongs in marble-floored museums rather than everyday spaces.

“Knox.”

Elliot emerges from behind a massive canvas of a boat during a storm at sea.

“Heard you might have something interesting for me,” I say, scanning the walls lined with overpriced mediocrity.

“Indeed, I do. There’s someone I’d like you to meet.” He gestures toward the back corner where a woman stands before an easel, completely absorbed in her work.

Long dark hair cascades over her shoulder as she leans closer to the canvas, adding delicate brushstrokes to what appears to be an abstract piece in deep blues and grays.

She’s beautiful. Not the manufactured perfection you see at Purgatory, but authentic beauty. The kind of beauty that makes you stop and stare because you can’t quite figure out what makes it so captivating.

“Bianca,” Elliot calls out. “I’d like you to meet someone.”

She sets down her brush and turns toward us, revealing hazel eyes that seem to hold secrets I suddenly want to uncover. A paint-stained apron covers what looks like a flowing dress underneath, and there’s a smudge of blue on her left cheek that makes her even more appealing.

“Bianca Hayes, meet Knox Blackwood. Knox, this is our newest resident artist. Quite talented, as you can see.”

I flash my most charming smile, the one that usually has women melting within minutes. “Bianca. Beautiful name for a beautiful woman.”

Her eyebrows arch, and instead of the expected blush or giggle, she merely nods. “Mr. Blackwood.”

Cool. Professional. Completely unimpressed.

Interesting.

“Your work is stunning,” I continue, examining her painting. “What makes it haunting is that balance—dark but elegant.”

“Thank you.” Her voice carries no warmth. She turns back toward her easel as if dismissing me entirely.

Most women would be hanging on my every word by now. This one acts like I’m nothing more than wallpaper.

I step closer to get a better look at her canvas, and my assumptions about abstract blues and grays crumble instantly.

The painting depicts two figures intertwined in an intimate embrace, their bodies rendered in exquisite detail.

The brushstrokes capture every curve, every shadow, the arch of a back, the curve of a hip.

It’s unmistakably erotic, yet there’s an elegance to it that elevates it beyond mere pornography.

“Damn,” I breathe, studying the way she’s captured the tension between vulnerability and power. “You don’t hold back, do you?”

Her hand stills mid-stroke. “I paint what moves me.”

The second canvas beside her easel depicts another couple, this one marked by violent passion. Hands gripping hair, bodies pressed against what looks like a wall. The emotion radiating from the painting is raw, hungry, and almost desperate.

“These are incredible,” I say, meaning every word. “Dark erotica with real artistic merit. That’s a rare combination.”

Before she can respond, Elliot’s phone buzzes loudly. He glances at the screen and frowns.

“My apologies, I need to take this.” He steps away toward his office, already answering. “What’s the problem?”

And then, we’re alone.

I turn back to Bianca, who’s resumed painting as if I’m not standing three feet away. The silence stretches between us until I decide to break it.

“You clearly have a good eye for eroticism,” I say, letting my voice drop to that low register that usually makes women shiver. “I’d love to know where you find your inspiration.”

She sets down her brush forcefully and turns to face me, those hazel eyes flashing with irritation.

“Let me stop you right there, Mr. Blackwood.” Her voice cuts through the air like a blade. “I don’t know what kind of reaction you’re expecting, but you’re not going to get it from me.”

I blink, taken aback by her directness.

“If you can’t maintain a professional demeanor while discussing my work, then perhaps we shouldn’t be working together at all.

” She crosses her arms over her chest, the paint smudge on her cheek somehow making her look formidable.

“I’m here to create art, not to stroke your ego or play whatever game you think you’re starting. ”

The dismissal in her tone hits harder than Morrison’s fist did last night.

The rejection stings. Usually, when someone tells me no, I back off with a laugh and move on to easier prey. Bianca’s attempt to dismiss me, on the other hand, strengthens my resolve to push harder, test those boundaries she’s drawing.

“Easy there, sweetheart.” I move close enough to catch the faint scent of paint and something floral. “I’m simply trying to get to know the artist behind the work.”

“And I’m telling you that’s not necessary.” She doesn’t step back, which I respect, but her jaw tightens. “Please maintain some distance.”

Instead of backing off like a gentleman would, I move even closer. Close enough that she has to tilt her head back to maintain eye contact. The defiance in her eyes only makes her more appealing.

“You know what I think?” I let my voice drop to barely above a whisper. “I think someone who paints passion like this understands it. Lives it.”

My fingers trace the air inches from her cheek, not quite touching but close enough that she can feel the heat.

“I think underneath all that professional ice, you’re burning up inside.”

Her breathing quickens, and for a moment, I think I’ve broken through her defenses. “You think wrong.”

“Do I?” I reach out to touch that paint smudge on her cheek. “Because your art tells a different story. All that hunger, that need?—”

The crack of her palm against my face echoes through the gallery like a gunshot.

My head snaps to the side; my cheek stings from the impact. The taste of blood touches my lip where her ring caught me.

“Don’t. Touch. Me.” Each word comes out sharp and final.

I straighten, bringing my hand to my cheek. The sting radiates outward, and I can’t help but grin. Most people are too afraid of the Blackwood name to lay a finger on me. This woman slapped me like I was nothing more than an overly aggressive drunk at a bar.

“What the hell is going on here?”

Elliot’s voice cuts through the tension as he strides back toward us, phone in hand. His eyes dart between my reddening cheek and Bianca’s flushed face.

“Knox?” His tone carries a warning. “Is there a problem?”

I laugh, the sound echoing through the gallery as I touch my stinging cheek. “Your artist assaulted me, Elliot.”

The words come out light, almost amused, but I catch the way Bianca’s eyes flash at my choice of language. Elliot’s face goes pale, his knuckles whitening around his phone.

“Knox, I?—”

“If you hadn’t touched me without permission, I wouldn’t have had to defend myself.

” Bianca cuts him off. She doesn’t back down, doesn’t apologize, doesn’t even look remotely apologetic.

“Physical boundaries aren’t suggestions, Mr. Blackwood.

When a woman says Don’t touch me. It’s not an invitation. ”

Elliot looks like he’s about to have a heart attack. “Bianca, please, Knox is?—”

“Knox is what?” She turns that piercing stare on Elliot now. “Above basic human decency because he’s a client?”

My grin widens. Most people would be stammering apologies by now, begging for forgiveness, terrified of what the Blackwood name could do to their lives.