Page 42 of Doomed

“Art doesn’t keep business hours,” I say with a shrug that I hope looks casual. “I’m really sorry to bail.”

“I can drive you,” David offers, already reaching for his jacket.

“No!” I say it too quickly. “I mean, I already called a ride. It’s fine.”

Michelle grabs my wrist as I turn to leave. “Bianca, what’s really going on?”

“I’ll tell you later,” I promise, giving her hand a squeeze before walking away.

Once outside, I put the phone back to my ear. “There. Happy now? What the fuck do you want, Knox?”

“Right here,” Knox’s voice purrs in my ear, but suddenly it’s not through the phone anymore.

The phone slips from my grip as strong hands grip my hips from behind. I gasp, tensing as Knox’s chest presses against my back, his heat radiating through the thin fabric of my dress.

“Let go of me,” I hiss, but my voice lacks conviction, even to my own ears.

“You know I can’t do that.” His breath tickles my neck, sending an unwelcome shiver down my spine. “Not when you’re out here tempting other men.”

My anger flares. I try to wrench away, but his grip tightens, fingers digging into my hipbones, holding me firmly against him.

“You don’t own me,” I snap, heart hammering against my ribs. “You had no right to follow me here.”

“And yet,” Knox murmurs, his lips brushing the shell of my ear, “here you are, trembling in my arms instead of with that weasel.”

I hate how right he is, how I respond to his touch despite my fury. Adrenaline courses through my veins, making every point of contact between us hypersensitive. My skin feels electric, alive with a dangerous current I can’t control.

“I left because you threatened an innocent man,” I say, trying to keep my voice steady. “Not because I want to be with you.”

Knox’s dark chuckle vibrates against my back. “Keep telling yourself that, princess.” One hand leaves my hip, brushing my hair aside to expose my neck.

I try to hate the way his touch makes me feel—I want to hate it—but the adrenaline flooding my system blurs the line between anger and arousal until I can’t tell where one ends and the other begins.

Knox steps away from me and gestures to his unmistakable, neon-blue Aprilia.

“Get on,” he commands, pulling a helmet from the back compartment.

I cross my arms over my chest. “You’re out of your mind if you think I’m going anywhere with you.”

“You will.” There’s no question in his voice. He holds the helmet out to me, but when I don’t take it, he steps forward and slides it over my head himself. His fingers brush my skin as he fastens the strap, the casual intimacy of the gesture making my stomach flip.

I notice my phone is on the ground where I dropped it. Knox follows my gaze, bends down to retrieve it, and slips it into my pocket, his hand lingering a moment longer than necessary.

“Why would I go anywhere with you?” I demand. “You threatened an innocent man for talking to me, forced me to leave my friends, and now you expect me to hop on your bike and ride off into the night?”

Knox’s eyes darken as he steps closer. The streetlight catches the blue in them, making them appear almost luminous.

“Get on, Bianca.”

The steel in his tone—not quite a threat, but a promise of consequences if I refuse—makes me swallow my next retort. I glance back at the motorcycle, considering making a run for it. Still, the intensity in Knox’s eyes tells me that would be a mistake.

With a frustrated huff, I climb onto the back of his motorcycle, hating myself for complying, hating him for making me. I especially hate the thrill that runs through me as he swings his leg over and settles in front of me.

Instead of wrapping my arms around his waist, I grip the edge of the seat beneath me with both hands, my fingers digging into the leather.

Knox glances over his shoulder, helmet in his hands. “You might want to hold onto me unless you’re planning to become roadkill tonight.”

“I’m fine right where I am. If being roadkill is a concern, I can just go back inside with my friends. You know, where I planned on spending my night,” I say through gritted teeth. The helmet feels heavy on my head, and I’m acutely aware of how ridiculous I must look in my burgundy dress perched stiffly on the back of his flashy motorcycle.