Page 28 of Doomed (Blackwood Brothers #2)

KNOX

“Run, princess,” I call after her, enjoying the view of her retreating form. “I’ll find you soon enough.”

The anticipation is delicious, knowing she’s waiting somewhere in this labyrinth, moving toward our next playground. Her destination remains clear in my mind—the perfect spot already chosen for our next encounter.

When I push open the door, she’s there, standing in the center of the room looking thoroughly debauched—her hair a wild tangle from my hands, her dress torn at the bodice where I’d impatiently yanked it down to taste her skin.

Her mask sits slightly askew, and her chest rises and falls with anxious breaths.

Beautiful. Wrecked. Mine.

“Do you like it?” I ask, gesturing to the room as I step inside and lock the door behind me.

Her eyes travel around the space, taking in the art supplies, the bed, and the lighting, which is designed to highlight every curve and shadow of a body in repose.

“Did you have a hand in designing this room?” she asks.

I approach slowly, circling her like the predator I am. My fingers reach out to trace the torn edge of her dress, seeing her shiver at my touch.

“Every detail,” I confirm, pride evident in my voice. “I designed this room specifically for you.”

She looks at me, suspicion and curiosity in her eyes. “But why all this?” Her hand gestures toward the art supplies. “These don’t seem like the Blackwood style of entertainment.”

I circle behind her, my breath warm against her neck. “Because I wanted to see the artist become the art.”

My fingers trace the exposed skin of her shoulders, and I feel her tremble beneath my touch. The scent of her—sweat, arousal, and that hint of sweet almond from her shampoo that always clings to her—it taunts me until my control begins to fray every time she’s close.

“Tonight isn’t about fucking you, Bianca,” I whisper, watching goosebumps rise. “It’s about claiming your soul.”

She turns to face me. “And what makes you think I’ll let you?”

I laugh, low and dark. “You already have.” My fingers brush her torn bodice. “You signed the papers. You’ve been running slow enough to be caught.”

I stalk closer to Bianca, my eyes never leaving hers as I reach for the straps of her torn dress. “Let’s get you ready for your artistic debut.” The silk slips down her curves, pooling at her feet. She stands proud despite her nakedness, chin tilted up in defiance.

“Perfect,” I breathe, taking in every curve, every shadow. I guide her toward the easel, positioning her just so, her back to the canvas. “Arms up.”

She hesitates, but complies. I bind her wrists to the top of the easel frame with silk scarves, testing the tension. Tight enough to hold, loose enough not to mark—not yet anyway.

“What are you doing?” she asks, voice trembling slightly.

I select paints from the table nearby, uncapping jars of midnight blue, crimson, and gold. After seeing the crimson, I decide on purple instead and swap them out, smiling to myself.

“Making you my masterpiece.” I unzip my pants, my dick from its confinement, enjoying how her eyes widen as I prepare. “Don’t worry. We’ll keep the paint where it belongs.”

The first stroke of the brush against her collarbone makes her gasp. I paint a swirling pattern across her chest, down between her breasts, carefully avoiding her nipples though they harden in anticipation.

“You’re beautiful like this,” I murmur, stroking myself lazily as I admire my work. “Bound. Soon to be fully marked. Mine.”

Her breathing quickens as I trace the brush lower, painting intricate patterns across her ribs, her stomach. The blue contrasts beautifully with her flushed skin. I switch to gold, highlighting the curves of her hips, the slope of her shoulders.

“Please,” she whispers, though I’m not sure what she’s begging for.

Careful not to smudge my artwork, I trail my nose along the column of her neck, breathing in her sweetness. The brush in my right hand traces down her spine, making her arch toward me, her nipples almost pressing into me.

“Art should hurt, shouldn’t it?” I murmur against her neck. “Beauty through suffering. Isn’t that what pretentious types always say?”

She moans as I add purple to her skin, creating patterns that flow seductively across her tits. The vulnerability in her eyes drives me wild. I stroke myself harder, watching her watch me.

“You’re enjoying this,” I accuse, painting a line down her inner thigh. “Being my canvas. My creation.”

Bianca gasps, “Knox, what are you doing to me?”

And it’s a good fucking question. What the hell am I doing?

I pause, brush hovering over her skin, paint dripping slowly onto the floor between us. My cock throbs painfully, demanding I take her right now. Still, a foreign restraint holds me back—an unfamiliar sensation I don’t recognize in myself.

This isn’t me. Knox Blackwood doesn’t give safe words.

Doesn’t create intimate artistic spaces for women.

Doesn’t spend weeks obsessing over someone who repeatedly tells him no.

I take what I want and discard what bores me.

That’s who I am. Who I’ve always been. Bianca’s ability to alter that with so little effort confounds me.

But goddamnit, I’ve been fucking enraptured with her from the moment we met.

That day in the gallery, when she looked at me like I was another rich asshole to tolerate—Christ, no one looks at me that way.

And when she slapped me? I should’ve been furious.

The only fury in my body was from my cock as it strained against my zipper, demanding entry to her body immediately.

Her indifference to me set my blood on fire, and that fire burns hotter every time I touch her.

The paint drips between my fingers as I stare at her, bound before me, half-covered in colors I chose specifically to complement her skin. Blue for her fire, gold for her worth, crimson for what she does to my blood.

“I don’t know,” I admit, the words surprising me as they leave my mouth. “This isn’t—I don’t do this.”

Her eyes widen slightly at my confession.

I’ve shown her my true self more than once now, and it terrifies me.

The urge to retreat behind my carefully crafted, stoic cruelty, to make this just another fuck, pulls at me.

But looking at her—her fierce eyes challenging me, even while bound—I can’t bring myself to cheapen the effect she’s had on me.

I set the paintbrush down, my breathing ragged as I stare at the colorful patterns adorning her skin.

Her earlier words echo in my mind—the way she compared her desire to ocean tides and brushstrokes, the poetry that fell from her lips as she begged for me.

No woman has ever spoken to me like that.

Never made me feel valued beyond my appearance, status, or family name.

Bianca, she couldn’t care less about those things.

She fought her attraction every step of the way.

“Fuck,” I mutter, my hands trembling as I reach for the silk scarves binding her wrists.

I unfasten one wrist, then the other, my fingers lingering on her pulse point. She watches me with brilliant eyes that see too much, that pierce through the mask I wear. The real mask, not the one from the Hunt.

Without speaking, I scoop her into my arms. The paint smears between us, marking us both as I carry her to the bed. I lay her down carefully, positioning myself above her, between her thighs. Her skin glistens with sweat and paint, a living canvas, one that responds to my touch.

When I slide inside her this time, it’s different. Slower. More deliberate. I watch her face as I fill her, searching for intimacy.

“What are you doing to me?” I whisper. It’s not rhetorical anymore—I genuinely don’t understand what’s happening.

Her eyes lock with mine, wide and clear, effortlessly seeing everything I’ve always kept hidden. And fuck me, there it is—that same confusion, that same fall, reflecting back at me. She feels it too. This thing neither of us expected.

I’m falling for her. And judging he way she’s looking at me, the way her pussy welcomes my cock, she’s falling too.

We move together in a rhythm that feels too intimate, too real. My brain is screaming at me to pull back, to protect myself, but my body, or maybe even my heart, won’t listen. I’ve never felt this—this ache that goes beyond wanting to fuck someone.

Then suddenly, she rises up and captures my mouth with hers.

For the first time since we met, Bianca is kissing me. Not responding to my kiss, not yielding to my demands—she’s offering herself to me out of her own desire.

Her lips press against mine with a hunger that matches my own, her hands clutching at my shoulders like she’s afraid I might disappear.

The kiss is desperate, passionate. Her tongue slides against mine, and I groan into her mouth, overwhelmed by the sensation of being wanted—truly wanted—by this woman.

I break the kiss, needing to see her face, needing to make her understand what’s happening here.

“You’re mine,” I tell her, my voice rough with emotion I didn’t know I possessed. “Not just for the Hunt. Not just for the twelve months that fucking follow.”

I grip her face between my hands, forcing her to look at me, needing to make my intent crystal clear.

“Forever, Bianca. You’re mine forever. I will not let you go.”

The words should terrify me. I’ve never wanted to be with anyone forever. But with her, it feels like the only truth I know.

For a moment, she stares at me, her eyes wide and searching. I brace myself for rejection, fearing she will laugh at my declaration or push me away.

Instead, she slowly caresses me from my chest to my neck, her soft hand stopping at the nape, her thumb gently strokes there before she pulls me back down to her and kisses me again—deeper this time, slower, like she’s trying to crawl inside me and make a home there.

Her response is given in action alone, only the beautiful arch of her spine and a kiss that declares she’s claiming me as completely as I’ve claimed her.