Page 13 of Doomed
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 thatcould 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.”
