Page 44 of Doomed (Blackwood Brothers #2)

BIANCA

I stare at the ornate ceiling, tracing the gold leaf patterns with my eyes for what must be the hundredth time.

At least they didn’t throw me in some filthy basement.

This room—with its king-sized four-poster bed, silk sheets, and antique furniture—could be in a five-star hotel if not for the locked door and guards outside.

Small mercies, I suppose. My wrists throb from the handcuffs they used during transport, but those are gone now. Being kidnapped by the Russian mob comes with unexpected amenities.

The lock clicks, and I sit up quickly as the door swings open. Ilya Orlov strides in, his expensive suit perfectly tailored, platinum watch catching the light. His icy blue eyes scan me like I’m merchandise.

“Ms. Hayes. Comfortable?” His accent wraps around each syllable. “I hope so. You may be here quite some time.”

“What do you want?” I keep my voice steady despite the fear churning in my stomach.

He moves to the window, gazing out before turning back to me with a cruel smile. “Interesting. No word from your Knox yet. Not a single attempt at contact.” He checks his watch dramatically. “It’s been almost five hours.”

The words land, and I have to say, there’s nothing quite like getting bitch slapped by some asshole’s wrist watch ticking away the hours. Five hours? My throat tightens.

“Perhaps he doesn’t care as much as you thought.” Orlov’s voice drips with mock sympathy. “Or maybe he’s simply calculating whether you’re worth the trouble.”

“You’re lying.” The words burst out before I can stop them. “Knox will come.”

Orlov laughs, the sound cold and hollow. “Such faith. How touching.” He moves closer, and I resist the urge to back away. “I watched you, you know. During the Hunt.”

My blood freezes. “That’s impossible.”

“Nothing is impossible with money, Ms. Hayes.” His eyes rake over me. “Quite the performance. I never knew one woman could take so many cocks at once.” He clicks his tongue. “Such a slut for Blackwood and his friends.”

Heat floods my face—not embarrassment, but pure rage. The private moments Knox and I shared, the vulnerability I showed him, were reduced to this man’s crude entertainment.

“You disgusting piece of?—”

“Careful,” he warns, his smile vanishing.

“Your value as leverage only extends so far. And I must say,” Orlov continues, moving to pour himself a drink from the sideboard, “your little ribbon surprise today was quite creative. Though I prefer how you looked spread across Knox’s kitchen counter the other day. ”

My stomach drops. Knox had come home early, found me cooking dinner, and...

“How did you?—”

“Or perhaps in the shower? The way you call his name when he takes you from behind.” He mimics my voice in a high-pitched mockery. “‘Knox, please, harder.’“

The realization hits like ice water. “You’ve been watching us.”

“Of course.” He swirls his drink casually. “The penthouse has excellent... security features. Though I added a few of my own.” His smile widens. “The camera angle in the master bathroom is particularly flattering for you.”

My hands shake, not with fear but with incalculable rage. The thought of this man—this stranger—watching our most private moments, hearing my most vulnerable sounds, seeing me in ways only Knox should...

“You sick bastard.” My voice is deadly quiet. Being kidnapped was one thing—I’d prepared myself for that possibility the moment I learned what Knox really is. But this violation crawls under my skin, making me feel exposed, dirty.

Orlov’s face darkens at my insult. He crosses the room in what seems like two strides and grabs my chin, fingers digging painfully into my skin.

“Such fire,” he hisses, his breath hot on my face. “But let’s be clear about what you are, Ms. Hayes.” His grip tightens. “You’re nothing but a dirty little cock whore who squirts for a sad playboy’s cock.”

I try to wrench my face away, but his hold is iron.

“You spread your legs for him like the pathetic slut you are.” His eyes bore into mine, full of contempt. “I watched you. Begging for him, crying out for more like some animal in heat.”

Tears sting my eyes, not from sadness but from fury and humiliation. The intimate acts he’s describing—moments that had felt sacred between Knox and me—are reduced to filth in this man’s mouth.

“And breeding with a man like Knox is a waste.” He finally releases my face with a disgusted push. “A child with Blackwood blood? What a tragedy that would be.” He straightens his jacket, regaining his composure.

My cheek burns where his fingers dug in, but the pain is nothing compared to the violation I feel. Every moment with Knox, every touch, every whispered word—this man has tainted them all, turned them into something dirty.

I swallow hard, refusing to let him see how deeply his words cut. The thought of him watching us, recording us, makes my skin crawl.

“Shut up.” I stand, fists clenched, no longer caring about the consequences. “You can kidnap me, lock me up, threaten me—but you watched us? In our home? Those moments weren’t yours to take.”

Orlov’s eyebrows rise slightly, surprised by my outburst.

“When Knox finds out—” I step toward him, trembling with fury, “and he will find out—what you’ve seen, what you’ve stolen from us... Do you think he’ll just kill you? No. Death alone would be a mercy.”

Orlov throws his head back and laughs, the sound bouncing off the walls of my gilded prison. His amusement only fuels my rage.

“Such passion, Ms. Hayes. Such conviction.” He walks toward the door, adjusting his cuffs with casual indifference. “Get comfortable. I suggest you find ways to entertain yourself.” He pauses, hand on the doorknob, looking over his shoulder. “After all, I doubt Knox will be coming for you.”

“You’re wrong.”

“Am I?” His smile turns cruel. “Men like Knox Blackwood don’t risk everything for a woman. You were fun to play with—a toy, a distraction, something pretty to fuck.” He shrugs. “But worth dying for? Worth starting a war over? I think not.”

The door closes behind him with a definitive click, and I’m alone again with my thoughts—thoughts that now whisper doubt where certainty once lived.

Would Knox come for me? After only a month together, am I worth the risk? The danger?

I pace the room, scanning for anything I could use. The furniture is heavy, ornate—nothing I could break easily. The bathroom has nothing but soft towels and fancy soaps. They’ve been thorough.

My gaze lands on the pen by the nightstand—sleek, expensive, metal. Knox’s voice echoes in my mind from a night two weeks ago, our bodies tangled in sheets, his fingers tracing patterns on my bare skin.

“This spot right here,” he’d whispered, pressing lightly below my ear. “Hit someone here with enough force—a pen, a pencil, even a chopstick—and they’ll drop instantly.”

I’d shivered at his words, oddly aroused by his casual description of violence. “Where did you learn that?”

His lips had curved into that dangerous smile. “You don’t want to know, beautiful. But I could kill a man fifteen different ways with just what’s on your nightstand.”

What had been darkly thrilling pillow talk then might save my life now.

I grab the pen, testing its weight and solidity in my palm. There’s also a heavy crystal paperweight, and the lamp has a cord I could use. Everyday objects transformed into weapons by knowledge I’d never thought I’d need.

I glance at the pen in my hand, the weight of it suddenly significant. What am I doing? Waiting around like some damsel in a tower for Knox to come charging in? That’s not who I am.

I’ve spent my entire life taking care of myself. Before Knox, before the Hunt, I was Bianca Hayes—an independent artist who built her career from nothing. I didn’t get where I am by waiting for someone else to solve my problems.

“Screw this,” I mutter, tightening my grip on the pen. “And screw waiting for Knox.”

I move to the bathroom, studying my reflection in the mirror. The woman staring back at me isn’t some victim. Her eyes are hard, determined. I tuck the pen into my sleeve, feeling the cool metal against my skin.

I need more than just a makeshift weapon. I need a plan. The guards change shifts—I’ve heard them outside my door. There’s a pattern to their movements, to the sounds of the house. A rhythm I can exploit.

The next meal delivery is my opportunity. They’ll open the door, create a moment of vulnerability. I’ve noticed that the younger guard is distracted and less vigilant. He’ll be my target.

I test the pen against my palm, calculating exactly how much force I’ll need to apply to that spot below the ear. I rehearse the movement in my mind—swift, decisive, merciless.

My relationship with Knox has shown me glimpses of a world where violence is currency. I’ve absorbed more than I realized. Knowledge transferred through pillow talk will be useful.

If Knox comes, fine. If he doesn’t, also fine. Either way, I’m getting myself out of here.

I return to the bedroom and begin rearranging the space, creating obstacles near the door that will force them to step exactly where I need them to. I practice my movements, calculating angles and timing to perfect my technique.

One way or another, I’m getting out of here.