Page 5 of Doomed (Blackwood Brothers #2)

KNOX

T he garage beneath Purgatory hums with the clicking of expensive engines cooling down. I kick the stand on my Aprilia and swing off, adrenaline coursing through my veins from the ride. The familiar scent of motor oil tinges the air.

I take the stairs three at a time, buzzing with energy. The negotiation with Morrison feels like ancient history now, replaced by the magnetic push and pull of the connection sparked with Bianca. Images of her art flash through my mind—all that raw sexuality immortalized on canvas.

The main floor of Purgatory throbs with bass-heavy music and conversation.

Beautiful people dance and drink, oblivious to what lies beneath their feet in the lower levels or beyond the restricted doors that lead to the real entertainment.

This is the appetizer—the respectable face we show the world.

I weave through the crowd, nodding at familiar faces, but not stopping. The office is my destination, where Xavier will be conducting business.

I find him where I expected—leaning against his desk, reviewing contracts that would make grown men sweat bullets. His eyes flick up when I enter, and I can’t help the grin that splits my face.

“Brother.” I drop into the chair across from him. “Told you I’d sort the artist situation.”

Xavier sets down his papers, giving me his full attention. It’s a look that would terrify most people, but I’ve been on the receiving end of it my entire life.

“Show me.”

I fish out my phone, scrolling through the photos I snapped at the gallery. Each image captures the sensuality of Bianca’s work—bodies entwined in shadow and light, desire painted in bold strokes that elicit need in its purest form.

“Perfect for the inner sanctum,” I say, swiping to the next painting. “Dark, erotic, expensive enough to impress our clientele. The artist has real talent.”

Xavier studies each image with the same intensity he brings to everything. I watch his expression as he recognizes the quality of the work.

“Price range?”

“Negotiable. She’s hungry for exposure, willing to consider opportunities.” I lean forward. “This could elevate the whole atmosphere downstairs. Give our guests something beautiful to admire between... activities.”

Xavier’s eyes narrow as his gaze locks onto the split in my lip, which I’d forgotten about in my excitement.

“What happened to your lip?”

My hand instinctively rises to touch the spot where her ring caught me. The cut has scabbed over, but it’s still visible—a thin line that splits when I smile too wide. The memory of it sends a jolt of heat through my chest.

“The artist has a mean slap.”

Xavier’s eyebrow arches, waiting for elaboration. He’s not the type to let things slide, especially when it comes to someone laying hands on family.

I lean back in the chair, unable to suppress the grin that tugs at the corner of my mouth despite the sting. “Got a little too familiar during our conversation. She made her boundaries crystal clear.”

“And you let her?”

There’s genuine surprise in his voice. Xavier knows me well enough to understand that most people who raise a hand to a Blackwood end up regretting it in ways they never imagined.

But that moment—the fire in Bianca’s eyes, the way she didn’t flinch even after realizing who she’d hit—had stopped me cold.

“She was protecting herself. Can’t fault a woman for having backbone.” I touch the cut again, remembering the sharp bite of her ring against my skin. The pain had been clarifying, cutting through my games like a blade through silk.

Xavier’s expression shifts. “This artist of yours—she’s more than a business opportunity.”

It’s not a question. My brother has always been able to see through my bullshit.

“She’s talented,” I say. “Her work will fit perfectly with our clientele’s tastes.”

“That’s not what I said, and you know it.”

The silence stretches between us. I can feel his assessment, filing away information for future use. The cut on my lip throbs with my pulse.

“She slapped me, and I wanted to thank her for it,” I admit. “I know that’s not normal, even for me. Perhaps I see her as a challenge.”

Xavier’s mouth quirks upward—barely perceptible, but I catch it. “Knox Blackwood, rejected.” He shakes his head. “Never thought I’d see the day.”

Heat crawls up my neck. “It wasn’t rejection. She was being professional.”

“Professional,” Xavier repeats. “Is that what we’re calling it when women slap you now?”

I shift in my chair, feeling like I’m fifteen again and caught sneaking bourbon from our foster dad’s liquor cabinet. “She’s not like other women. Most women throw themselves at us because of the name, the money, the reputation. But Bianca?—”

“She doesn’t know who you are,” Xavier suggests, and it’s entirely possible since Elliot stated she was new to Ravenwood Hollow.

I run my thumb over the healing cut. “She still agreed to consider the opportunity.”

Xavier chuckles—a rare sound that makes me straighten. “So she told you to go to hell, slapped you, put you on the back burner, and you still want her.”

“I wouldn’t say she told me to go to hell?—”

“Brother, you have a cut on your lip from where she hit you. What would you call it?”

The smugness in his voice grates against my pride. Xavier’s right, and we both know it. Bianca Hayes looked me dead in the eye, sized me up in seconds, and found me lacking. The realization should piss me off. Instead, it makes my blood sing with possibility.

“Fine. She rejected me. Happy?” I lean forward, elbows on my knees. “But that makes it interesting. When’s the last time either of us had to actually work for something we wanted?”

“Work for it.” Xavier’s eyes gleam. “Listen to yourself. One woman slaps you, and you’re talking about it like a challenge.”

“Maybe I need a challenge.”

“Maybe you need therapy.”

I flip him off, which only makes his grin widen. It’s unsettling seeing Xavier this relaxed, this... playful. He’s usually all business, all the time. The fact that my romantic misfortunes are entertaining enough to crack his armor says something I’m not sure I want to examine.

“Just approve the art,” I mutter. “Business is business.”

“Of course. But Knox?” Xavier’s voice drops back to its usual serious tone. “Be careful how far you push this challenge of yours.”

Xavier’s warning echoes in my head as I leave his office, but it’s soon drowned out by the bass thrumming through Purgatory’s walls. The main floor pulses with energy—bodies moving to the rhythm, conversations flowing just like the expensive liquor they’re indulging in.

I need a drink to wash away the satisfaction of a successful negotiation and the lingering sting of Xavier’s amusement at my expense. The bar calls to me like a beacon through the crowd.

I weave between clusters of Ravenwood’s elite, catching fragments of conversation about stock portfolios and yacht clubs. The usual bullshit that passes for stimulating dialogue among the city’s upper crust. At least in the lower levels, people are honest about what they want.

The bartender spots me immediately—one of the perks of ownership. He’s already reaching for the good whiskey before I even touch the polished marble surface.

“The usual, Mr. Blackwood?”

“Make it a double.”

The amber liquid burns as it slides down my throat, heating my chest. The familiar buzz of Purgatory surrounds me—money changing hands, deals being struck, contracts being negotiated.

I’m contemplating a second drink when laughter cuts through the ambient noise. Not any laughter—the kind that makes you turn your head instinctively, searching for the source. Rich and unguarded, it draws me like a moth to flame.

And there she is.

Bianca Hayes stands at the opposite end of the bar, her dark hair catching the club’s colored lights.

She’s traded her painting scrubs for a little black dress that hugs her curves in ways that make my mouth go dry.

A blonde companion leans close, whispering a joke that sends another peal of laughter spilling from Bianca’s lips.

What are the fucking odds?

This morning, she was all professional distance and righteous indignation. Now here she is, ordering drinks in my club mere hours later..

She wanted to see me again.

The bartender slides another whiskey across the counter, but I barely notice. My attention is consumed by the woman who put a mark on my face and is now standing twenty feet away, apparently having decided to check out Purgatory for herself.

She raises a martini glass to her lips, and I can’t help but smile despite the tender spot where her ring caught me.

Talk about an invitation.

I push off from the bar and make my way through the crowd, whiskey warming my blood and confidence riding high. The bass pounds against my chest as I navigate the sea of bodies, keeping Bianca in my sights.

She’s even more stunning than she was this morning. The black dress skims her curves like it was painted on, and the club’s amber lighting brings out the gold strands in her brown hair. Her friend—a petite blonde—leans in close, whispering something that makes Bianca shake her head.

I slide up to the bar beside them, close enough that the scent of her perfume cuts through the club’s haze of expensive cologne and sweat.

“Fancy meeting you here.”

Bianca’s head whips toward me, and the transformation is instant. The easy smile vanishes, replaced by a wall of ice that could freeze hell over. Her shoulders square, and she turns to face me, martini glass held like a weapon.

“Knox.” My name sounds like a curse on her lips. “What a coincidence.”

“Not really. I own the place.”

Her friend extends her hand with a bright smile that contrasts sharply with Bianca’s glacial reception.

“Michelle,” she says, shaking my hand enthusiastically. “I’ve heard so much about you.”

I catch the warning look Bianca shoots her, but Michelle either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care.

Her gaze drops to my mouth. “Oh my God, is that from Bianca?”

My hand rises to touch the scabbed cut on my lip. “Your friend has quite some force behind a slap.”

Michelle turns to stare at Bianca, her expression caught between horror and admiration. “You really hit him, huh?”

“He overstepped. He was warned, chose to ignore the warning,” Bianca says. “I corrected his behavior.”

The way she says it—like I’m some badly trained dog who needs discipline—should piss me off. Instead, it sends heat pooling low in my gut. The defiance in her voice, the way she holds her ground despite knowing exactly who I am and where we’re standing.

“And here I thought you might be happy to see me again,” I say, leaning against the bar. “Especially since you decided to visit my establishment.”

“Research,” she says. “I wanted to see what kind of place would display my work.”

Michelle glances between us like she’s watching a tennis match, her earlier enthusiasm dampening as she picks up on the tension.

I take a sip of my whiskey, enjoying the heat that slides down my throat. Bianca tracks the movement, lingering on my lips before snapping back up to meet my gaze. That little slip tells me more than she’d like.

“Dance with me,” I say, holding out my hand. It’s not a question, but it’s not quite a demand either.

Her eyebrow lifts, and she gives me a once-over that would freeze most men solid. “No, thank you.”

She turns back to Michelle, dismissing me like I’m some random club-goer rather than the owner of this place.

The rejection stings, but in a delicious way. I haven’t felt this rush in years—the thrill of pursuit, of genuine challenge. Most women in Ravenwood fall at my feet the moment they hear my last name. Bianca Hayes isn’t most women.

I step closer, closing the distance between us until her perfume encapsulates me—something floral with an edge of cinnamon. She stiffens but doesn’t retreat, standing her ground.

My lips brush against the shell of her ear, and I feel her slight tremor in response. Her pulse jumps visibly at the base of her throat.

“You know what happens every time you say no to me?” I whisper, my voice low enough that only she can hear. “I want you more. It’s like throwing gasoline on a fire.”

Her breath catches, and I smile against her skin.

“And Bianca? I always get what I want. Always.”

Before she can gather her wits—or her hand for another slap—I pull back and melt into the crowd, leaving her flushed and flustered at the bar. The look on her face is worth more than the sting on my lip.

The chase is on, and I’ve never enjoyed the game quite this much.