Page 22 of Doomed
“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 The Knox who walked in minutes ago has been replaced by someone else, a solemn man with sharp, dangerous edges.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.
