Page 65 of Doomed

The question hangs between us, profoundly, as pleasure consumes me.

22

KNOX

Igive her a five-minute head start this time, counting each second in my mind as she disappears down the corridor. Gallery 7. My special request—a room Xavier questioned, but ultimately relented when he saw how serious I was and gave me creative control.

“Run, princess,” I call after her, enjoying the view of her retreating form. “I’ll find you soon enough.”

The anticipation is delicious, knowing she’s waiting somewhere in this labyrinth, moving toward our next playground. Her destination remains clear in my mind—the perfect spot already chosen for our next encounter.

Gallery 7 is different from the other rooms. No chains, no obvious restraints. Instead, it’s filled with easels, blank canvases, and a variety of artistic implements. A massive platform bed sits in the center, white sheets crisp and inviting—the perfect canvas.

When I push open the door, she’s there, standing in the center of the room looking thoroughly debauched—her hair a wild tangle from my hands, her dress torn at the bodice where I’d impatiently yanked it down to taste her skin. Her mask sits slightly askew, and her chest rises and falls with anxious breaths.

Beautiful. Wrecked. Mine.

“Do you like it?” I ask, gesturing to the room as I step inside and lock the door behind me.

Her eyes travel around the space, taking in the art supplies, the bed, and the lighting, which is designed to highlight every curve and shadow of a body in repose.

“Did you have a hand in designing this room?” she asks.

I approach slowly, circling her like the predator I am. My fingers reach out to trace the torn edge of her dress, seeing her shiver at my touch.

“Every detail,” I confirm, pride evident in my voice. “I designed this room specifically for you.”

She looks at me, suspicion and curiosity in her eyes. “But why all this?” Her hand gestures toward the art supplies. “These don’t seem like the Blackwood style of entertainment.”

I circle behind her, my breath warm against her neck. “Because I wanted to see the artist become the art.”

My fingers trace the exposed skin of her shoulders, and I feel her tremble beneath my touch. The scent of her—sweat, arousal, and that hint of sweet almond from her shampoo that always clings to her—it taunts me until my control begins to fray every time she’s close.

“Tonight isn’t about fucking you, Bianca,” I whisper, watching goosebumps rise. “It’s about claiming your soul.”

She turns to face me. “And what makes you think I’ll let you?”

I laugh, low and dark. “You already have.” My fingers brush her torn bodice. “You signed the papers. You’ve been running slow enough to be caught.”

I stalk closer to Bianca, my eyes never leaving hers as I reach for the straps of her torn dress. “Let’s get you ready for your artistic debut.” The silk slips down her curves, pooling at her feet. She stands proud despite her nakedness, chin tilted up in defiance.

“Perfect,” I breathe, taking in every curve, every shadow. I guide her toward the easel, positioning her just so, her back to the canvas. “Arms up.”

She hesitates, but complies. I bind her wrists to the top of the easel frame with silk scarves, testing the tension. Tight enough to hold, loose enough not to mark—not yet anyway.

“What are you doing?” she asks, voice trembling slightly.

I select paints from the table nearby, uncapping jars of midnight blue, crimson, and gold. After seeing the crimson, I decide on purple instead and swap them out, smiling to myself.

“Making you my masterpiece.” I unzip my pants, my dick from its confinement, enjoying how her eyes widen as I prepare. “Don’t worry. We’ll keep the paint where it belongs.”

The first stroke of the brush against her collarbone makes her gasp. I paint a swirling pattern across her chest, down between her breasts, carefully avoiding her nipples though they harden in anticipation.

“You’re beautiful like this,” I murmur, stroking myself lazily as I admire my work. “Bound. Soon to be fully marked. Mine.”

Her breathing quickens as I trace the brush lower, painting intricate patterns across her ribs, her stomach. The blue contrasts beautifully with her flushed skin. I switch to gold, highlighting the curves of her hips, the slope of her shoulders.

“Please,” she whispers, though I’m not sure what she’s begging for.