Page 4 of Doomed (Blackwood Brothers #2)

BIANCA

T he brush trembles in my hand as I add another layer of crimson to the canvas. I’ve been working on this piece for hours, but my concentration keeps fracturing. My attention drifts to that black business card propped against my easel for the tenth time in as many minutes.

Knox Blackwood.

The silver lettering catches the gallery’s overhead lights, seeming to mock me with its elegance. I force myself to focus on the painting—a woman’s silhouette dissolving into wispy trails of vapor. The memory of his touch on my cheek burns hotter than the sting to my palm after slapping him.

“Working late again, I see.”

I nearly drop my brush as Michelle’s voice cuts through the silence. My roommate pushes through the gallery’s front door, her scrubs wrinkled from a long shift at the hospital.

“Jesus, Mish. You scared me.”

“Clearly.” She dumps her purse on the reception desk and studies my canvas. “This is gorgeous, but shouldn’t you be home by now? It’s almost nine.”

“Lost track of time.”

“Uh-huh.” Michelle’s gaze shifts to Knox’s business card, then back to me with a knowing smirk. “Busy day?”

“Nothing unusual.” I mix paint on my palette. “Elliot had some clients come through.”

“Clients?” She picks up the card, squinting to examine it. “Knox Blackwood. What did he want?”

“Paintings. For some club.” I gesture vaguely at the paintings surrounding us. “Apparently, my work fits their aesthetic.”

Michelle raises an eyebrow. “Their aesthetic? What kind of club are we talking about?”

“I don’t know yet,” I admit. “He said his brother needs to approve everything first.”

“And you’re okay with not knowing?”

I pause mid-brushstroke. Am I okay with it? Everything about today felt wrong—the way Knox touched me without permission, the way he photographed my work, the way I physically responded to his attention despite my brain telling me he’s a walking, talking red flag.

“I should probably research them first,” I say finally.

“Probably?” Michelle laughs, but there’s concern in her voice. “Bianca, you always research everything. You spent three hours googling that coffee shop before our first time there.”

She’s right. I research paint brands, gallery policies, and potential buyers. I don’t make impulsive decisions.

So why am I considering this one?

“Michelle.” My voice comes out sharper than intended. “What do you know about the Blackwoods?”

Her teasing smile vanishes, and she sets the card down like it might bite her.

“Honestly, Bianca.” Her voice carries a warning I’ve never heard before. “You want to stay away from them.”

“I said I’d consider it if his brother approves.” The words sound pathetic. “What’s wrong with that?”

Michelle runs her hands through her blonde hair, leaving it disheveled. “The Blackwoods aren’t simply wealthy, B. They’re dangerous. Like, seriously dangerous.”

My stomach drops. “Dangerous how?”

“They run this city’s underworld. Drugs, intimidation, who knows what else.

” She paces the small space between exhibits.

“My dad used to warn me about them because I went to the same school as Knox, although he was two years ahead of me. Said they had their fingers in everything—politics, business, law enforcement.”

I stare at the card, Knox’s name looking more ominous than elegant. “But he seemed so...”

“Charming?” Michelle’s laugh is bitter. “Of course he did. Men like that don’t survive by looking like monsters.”

My chest tightens as fragments of our interaction replay in my mind. The way he moved through the gallery, as if he owned it. How Elliot bowed to him. The casual authority in Knox’s voice when he said Xavier would approve.

“How do you know all this?” I ask.

“Because I’ve lived here my whole life.” Michelle stops pacing and faces me directly. “The Blackwoods have been notorious for years.”

I think about that moment when Knox touched my face. The predatory gleam in his eyes when I slapped him.

“I don’t want to research them,” I whisper. “I’m scared of what I’ll find.”

Michelle’s expression softens. She moves closer, placing a gentle hand on my shoulder. “Then don’t take the job, B. There are other opportunities. Safer ones.”

But even as she says it, I know it’s not that simple. Knox Blackwood has already gotten under my skin, and pretending otherwise won’t make that feeling disappear.

“You know what?” Michelle straightens up. “Forget about all this Blackwood drama for tonight. Let’s go back to the apartment, get freshened up, and hit the town. When’s the last time we went out?”

I consider her suggestion, my gaze drifting between the card and my unfinished painting. The gallery suddenly feels suffocating, as if the walls are closing in around me, given everything I now know about Knox.

“That sounds perfect.” I put my brush down. “I need to get out of my head.”

“Exactly! We’ll grab some drinks, maybe dance a little. Remember how to have fun without overthinking everything.” Michelle grins, pulling her phone out. “I’ll see if any of the girls from work want to meet up.”

As I clean up and pack away my art supplies, an idea begins to form. A dangerous, probably stupid idea that makes my pulse quicken.

“Michelle?” I keep my voice casual. “What if we went somewhere specific tonight?”

“Depends. Please tell me you’re not suggesting karaoke again. My vocal cords haven’t recovered from last time.”

“What if we went to Purgatory?”

Michelle freezes mid-text, her fingers hovering over her phone screen. “Are you insane?”

“Think about it.” I turn to face her. “I need to know what I’d be getting into, right? What better way than to see the place myself?”

“By walking into a den of criminals?”

“By going to a club as regular customers.” I grab my jacket from the chair. “We dress up, blend in, and have a drink or two. I get to see what kind of establishment it is, what kind of art they already have.”

Michelle stares at me like I’ve grown a second head. “Bianca, this is the opposite of forgetting about the Blackwood drama.”

“Or it’s the smartest thing I could do.” I slip the business card into my jacket pocket. “Knowledge is power, right? I can’t make an informed decision without understanding what I’d be walking into.”

“And if we run into Knox while we’re there?”

The thought sends an unwelcome thrill through me. “Then we’ll handle it.”

Michelle shakes her head. “Fine. But we’re setting ground rules.”

“Deal.”

The walk back to our apartment passes in comfortable silence, both of us lost in thought. As we climb the stairs to our second-floor unit, I can’t help but smile at how easily Michelle agreed to this insane plan. Two months ago, I wouldn’t have had anyone to share my crazy ideas with.

“I still can’t believe you moved here without knowing a single person,” Michelle says as she unlocks our door, like she’s reading my mind.

“Desperate times.” I follow her inside, hanging my jacket on the hook by the door. “Dad’s debts were getting worse. The creditors started showing up at my apartment.”

“It was brave to just pack up and leave like that.”

“Yeah, I know. I fit whatever I could in my car and just drove.” I kick off my shoes and head toward my bedroom. “Best decision I ever made, though. Found you, found the gallery job...”

“Found trouble in the form of a Blackwood,” Michelle calls from her room.

I laugh. “That part wasn’t planned.”

Our apartment is small—a two-bedroom with thin walls and questionable plumbing—but it’s ours.

Well, Michelle’s lease, but she insisted I was exactly the roommate she’d been praying for after her last one moved out.

A nurse who kept normal hours paired with an artist who preferred working late. It shouldn’t work, but somehow it does.

“What are you thinking of wearing for tonight?” I call out, rummaging through my closet. Most of my clothes are paint-stained or designed for gallery work—professional but forgettable.

“Something that says we belong at an upscale club but doesn’t scream trying too hard. ” Michelle appears in my doorway holding a sleek black dress. “This could work for you.”

I hold it up against myself in the mirror. It’s more form-fitting than anything I usually wear, with a neckline that dips lower than I’m comfortable with.

“It’s your dress.”

“And you’re borrowing it. That’s what roommates do.” She grins. “Besides, if we’re walking into Purgatory, you need to look the part.”

I study my reflection, imagining myself in the dress. “What if Knox is there?”

“Then we act like we’re two friends out for drinks who happened to choose his club.”

The thought of seeing Knox again fills me with both anticipation and apprehension. I should be dreading the possibility of running into him, not feeling this strange flutter in my stomach.

“You’re thinking about him, aren’t you?” Michelle leans against my doorframe, reading my expression.

“No.” The denial comes too quickly.

“Bianca.”

I sink onto my bed, the black dress pooling in my lap. “He was such an arrogant asshole. The way he touched me without asking, like he had every right to.”

“But?”

I hate that she knows there’s a but . “But when I slapped him, he didn’t get angry. He looked... impressed? Like he enjoyed it.”

“Slapped him? You slapped a dangerous criminal?!” Michelle crosses her arms. “That’s not a good thing.”

“I didn’t know who he was at the time,” I defend, running my fingers over the dress’s smooth fabric. “Logically, I know he’s trouble. Everything about him screamed danger—the expensive clothes, the way Elliot practically cowered, that predatory smile.”

“So why are you excited about potentially seeing him tonight?”

I wish I had an answer that made sense. Knox Blackwood represents everything I should avoid—wealth built on violence, charm masking what I now know is cruelty, the kind of man who takes what he wants without asking permission.

“Maybe because I’ve spent my whole life playing it safe?” I stand and hold the dress against myself again. “Safe apartment, safe job, safe relationships. Safe, boring art that doesn’t offend anyone.”

“There’s nothing wrong with safe.”

“Isn’t there?” I turn to face her. “When’s the last time I felt truly alive? When’s the last time someone looked at me the way Knox did—like I was the only person in the room?”

“Like you were a tasty snack, you mean.”

The word sends another unwelcome thrill through me. “Maybe that’s what I need right now. To feel like someone actually sees me instead of looking through me.”

Michelle shakes her head. “This is how horror movies start, B. Girl meets dangerous guy, girl thinks she can handle dangerous guy, girl ends up?—”

“I’m not some naive protagonist.” I interrupt, surprising myself with the sharpness in my voice. “I slapped him, remember? I’m not planning to swoon into his arms.”

But even as I say it, I remember the heat of his skin under my palm, the way his eyes darkened when my palm hit his cheek. And my stomach does a traitorous flip that tells me I might be lying to myself about how much Knox Blackwood affects me.