Page 11 of Doomed
But even as I say it, I remember the heat of his skin under my palm, the way his eyes darkened when my palm hit his cheek. And my stomach does a traitorous flip that tells me I might be lying to myself about how much Knox Blackwood affects me.
4
KNOX
The 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.
