Page 9 of Doomed (Blackwood Brothers #2)

BIANCA

R ed swirls bleed into black as I layer paint onto the canvas, losing myself in the rhythm of creation. This second piece for Purgatory demands more from me than the first—darker themes, a deeper exploration of sexuality.

Elliot has given me full access to the gallery’s back studio since the commissions came through, providing space away from my cramped apartment to work undisturbed.

Until the bell above the front door chimes.

“We’re closed for a private session,” I call out, not looking up from my work. My brush continues its dance across the canvas.

“Good thing I’m not the public, then.”

My hand freezes mid-stroke. That voice. The cocky tone makes my spine stiffen before I even turn around.

Knox Blackwood stands in the doorway, looking entirely too pleased with himself.

He’s dressed casually in dark jeans and a fitted gray Henley that does nothing to hide his muscular frame.

In his hands are two coffee cups and a paper bag.

This is the first time I’ve seen him since I signed the contract with Xavier two weeks ago.

“What are you doing here?” I ask, setting down my brush. “And how did you get in? Elliot always locks the door during my sessions.”

Knox shrugs, stepping further into my space. “Elliot and I go way back. He gave me a key ages ago.”

Of course he did. I should have known better than to think anywhere in this city was beyond the Blackwoods’ reach.

“I brought a peace offering.” He lifts the coffee and pastry bag. “Double shot latte, right? And chocolate croissants from that French bakery on Fifth.”

My stomach betrays me with a growl. I’ve been painting for hours without a break, and the rich aroma of coffee is almost impossible to resist.

“How did you know my coffee order?” I narrow my eyes.

“I have my ways.” His smirk makes me want to throw paint at him.

I sigh, putting down my palette. “Fine. You can leave it on that table.”

Knox approaches, setting down the offerings, but making no move to leave. Instead, his eyes drift to my canvas, analyzing the swirls of color and shadow.

Against my better judgment, I reach for the coffee, taking a cautious sip. It’s perfect—exactly how I like it.

“Thank you,” I say stiffly, “but I need to get back to work.”

Knox picks up the chocolate croissant and tears it in half, offering me a piece. “You should eat something. Creative people always forget.”

I reluctantly accept it. “How would you know about creative people?”

Something flickers across his face—quickly vanishing. “I play piano. Not professionally or anything, but...” He shrugs, brushing crumbs from his fingers. “Started when I was six. A foster parent got me into it.”

This revelation catches me off guard. I can’t picture Knox sitting still long enough to practice scales, let alone perform. And I notice the way his voice catches when he says foster parent.

“You don’t believe me,” he says, reading my expression.

“It’s hard to imagine.”

“Chopin’s Nocturne number twenty in C-sharp minor was the last piece I mastered before we were moved on to a new place.” His voice drops. “I haven’t played much since.”

His phone buzzes, breaking the moment. Knox glances at the screen, his entire demeanor shifting in an instant. The playful confidence vanishes, replaced by a cold stoicism, the man I just saw vanishing in an instant.

“Problem?” I ask.

“Nothing that concerns you.” His jaw tightens as he types a response, fingers moving quickly. He pockets the phone, but I notice how his eyes dart to the door, how his shoulders have tensed beneath that casual Henley.

“This one’s different,” he says, nodding toward my canvas, clearly changing the subject. “Darker than the first.”

“Xavier wanted something more provocative.” I take another sip of coffee, studying his face. Something’s off. The Knox who walked in minutes ago has been replaced by someone else, a solemn man with sharp, dangerous edges.

Knox steps closer to the painting. “What were you thinking about when you created this?”

“The duality of desire. How wanting something can be both liberating and imprisoning.”

He studies the canvas, his eyes lingering on the darker elements. “You’ve captured that tension. The way the red bleeds into black but never fully surrenders to it.”

His observation surprises me. I move beside him to point out a detail in the bottom corner. “That’s exactly what I?—”

Knox’s arm brushes against mine. The contact sends an unwelcome current through me. He’s standing close enough that I can smell his cologne—expensive and woodsy, my pulse quickening as it imbues my senses in the warmth of him—then the moment is lost.

His phone buzzes again. Knox checks it, muttering something under his breath that sounds like a curse. His fingers tighten around the device before he silences it completely.

“Someone’s eager to reach you,” I observe, trying to sound casual.

“Business never sleeps in this city.” His eyes meet mine, darker now, holding something I can’t quite read, and I’m not sure I would want to based on how quickly it changes his demeanor. “Especially my kind of business.”

The implication hangs between us, a reminder of exactly who Knox Blackwood is when he’s not bringing me coffee.

“Tell me about this section,” he says, stepping closer until there’s barely space between us.

I know he’s doing it on purpose, this invasion of my space, but knowing doesn’t stop the heat rising to my cheeks or the fluttering in my stomach.

“This part represents submission to desire,” I explain, gesturing to the canvas. “The way we sometimes surrender to things we know aren’t good for us.”

“Like you and me?” Knox’s voice drops lower, all playfulness gone. His hand moves to my waist, not quite touching but close enough that I can feel the heat of his palm through my thin shirt. “I saw how your breath caught when we touched. Maybe you’re warming up to me, Hayes.”

I step back, re-establishing a professional distance between us. “And there it is. I was almost fooled into thinking you could have a normal conversation.”

“Normal’s boring.” He moves behind me, his breath warm against my ear. “And you, Bianca Hayes, are anything but boring.”

Tension coils through me. “Don’t you have somewhere else to be? Some criminal enterprise to manage?”

“Ouch.” He clutches his chest in mock offense. “You wound me. And here I thought we were having a moment.”

“We weren’t.”

“Your flushed cheeks say otherwise.” His fingers reach out to touch my face, but I bat his hand away.

“Do you ever respect personal boundaries?”

Knox’s eyes darken. “I respect everything about you, especially that fire in your eyes when you’re pissed at me. It’s actually quite a turn-on.”

His phone vibrates again, this time with three short buzzes—a pattern. Knox’s expression changes instantly, something cold and focused replacing the flirtation.

“Excuse me a moment.” He steps away, turning his back as he answers. “What?” His voice is clipped, all business. “I told you to handle it. No, that’s not acceptable.”

I shouldn’t eavesdrop, but it’s impossible not to in the small studio. Knox’s voice drops to a dangerous whisper.

“If he can’t pay, then make sure he understands the consequences. Break his fucking hand if you have to. Just one finger first, as a warning. I don’t care if he begs.”

A chill runs down my spine. This isn’t the flirtatious playboy who brought me coffee. This is someone else entirely—someone who casually orders violence between sips of a latte. Someone I have no business considering any kind of attachment to.

Knox ends the call and turns back to me, his expression smoothing into that familiar smirk, as if he hadn’t just commanded someone to be maimed. The transition is so seamless it’s terrifying.

“Sorry about that. Where were we?” He moves toward me again, but I can’t help stepping back.

I turn back to my painting, trying to hide how shaken I am. “Thank you for the coffee. You can leave now.”

Instead of leaving, he perches on the edge of my worktable, deliberately knocking over my organized brushes. “Xavier thinks we should collaborate closely on this piece, since it’s going in my section of the club.”

“Your section?” This is news to me.

“Didn’t I mention that?” His smile is infuriatingly smug. “This painting is for my private lounge. Which means I get creative input.”

My fingers tighten around my brush. “That wasn’t in the contract.”

“Consider it an addendum.” He leans forward, invading my space again. “Don’t worry, I’m very hands-on with my creative process.”

I clench my jaw and turn back to the canvas, trying to ignore him. “Input is fine. Interfering isn’t. Perhaps this contract was a mistake after all.”

My brushstrokes become aggressive as I attempt to lose myself in the work again. It’s impossible. Every cell in my body is aware of him watching me, the studio suddenly too small, the air between us charged with frustration, irritation, and me considering the best way to get him out of here.

“You missed a spot,” Knox says, his voice closer than it was a moment ago.

I don’t turn around. “I didn’t.”

“The artist knows best, I suppose.” He chuckles, the sound low and warm.

I dip my brush into crimson paint, trying to steady my breathing. My hand trembles slightly as I apply another layer to the canvas. Focus, Bianca. Just focus on the painting.

Minutes pass in tense silence. I almost convince myself he’s lost interest when I hear him shift behind me. Before I can react, Knox steps directly behind me. His arms snake around my waist, his chest pressing against my back as he envelops me in his warmth.

“What are you doing?” I gasp, my paintbrush freezing mid-air. “Get off me!”

I try to twist away, but his arms tighten just enough to hold me in place without hurting me. His breath tickles my ear as he leans down.

His lips brush along the shell of my ear. “I can feel you trembling, Hayes. I wonder what would happen if I slid my hands lower... would you still pretend you don’t want me then?”