Page 21 of Doomed
“Not all women slap you and then ignore you for two weeks,” Xavier points out. “You might have met your match, little brother.”
I snort, but don’t turn around. “Please. I’ve barely started pursuing her.”
“God help her then,” Xavier mutters, shuffling papers on his desk. “Try not to scare off our new artist before she finishes the commissions.”
I barely hear him. My eyes are fixed on the swirls of red and black, the hidden depths in the painting that mirror its creator. I want to crack Bianca open the same way, to see what’s beneath that professional exterior. The memory of her slap still burns on my cheek, the sting of it sending heat straight to my groin.
I’ve had women—more than I can count. Beautiful women, willing women, women who’d do anything to spend a night with a Blackwood. But Bianca’s refusal, her genuine disgust at my advances, has me more turned on than any easy conquest ever could.
I want her. And not only in my bed. I want to see what makes her tick, what inspires those paintings, what fuels that fire behind her eyes.
7
BIANCA
Red swirls bleed into black as I layer paint onto the canvas, losing myself in the rhythm of creation. This second piece for Purgatory demands more from me than the first—darker themes, a deeper exploration of sexuality.
Elliot has given me full access to the gallery’s back studio since the commissions came through, providing space away from my cramped apartment to work undisturbed.
Until the bell above the front door chimes.
“We’re closed for a private session,” I call out, not looking up from my work. My brush continues its dance across the canvas.
“Good thing I’m not the public, then.”
My hand freezes mid-stroke. That voice. The cocky tone makes my spine stiffen before I even turn around.
Knox Blackwood stands in the doorway, looking entirely too pleased with himself. He’s dressed casually in dark jeans and a fitted gray Henley that does nothing to hide his muscular frame. In his hands are two coffee cups and a paper bag. This is the first time I’ve seen him since I signed the contract with Xavier two weeks ago.
“What are you doing here?” I ask, setting down my brush. “And how did you get in? Elliot always locks the door during my sessions.”
Knox shrugs, stepping further into my space. “Elliot and I go way back. He gave me a key ages ago.”
Of course he did. I should have known better than to think anywhere in this city was beyond the Blackwoods’ reach.
“I brought a peace offering.” He lifts the coffee and pastry bag. “Double shot latte, right? And chocolate croissants from that French bakery on Fifth.”
My stomach betrays me with a growl. I’ve been painting for hours without a break, and the rich aroma of coffee is almost impossible to resist.
“How did you know my coffee order?” I narrow my eyes.
“I have my ways.” His smirk makes me want to throw paint at him.
I sigh, putting down my palette. “Fine. You can leave it on that table.”
Knox approaches, setting down the offerings, but making no move to leave. Instead, his eyes drift to my canvas, analyzing the swirls of color and shadow.
Against my better judgment, I reach for the coffee, taking a cautious sip. It’s perfect—exactly how I like it.
“Thank you,” I say stiffly, “but I need to get back to work.”
Knox picks up the chocolate croissant and tears it in half, offering me a piece. “You should eat something. Creative people always forget.”
I reluctantly accept it. “How would you know about creative people?”
Something flickers across his face—quickly vanishing. “I play piano. Not professionally or anything, but...” He shrugs, brushing crumbs from his fingers. “Started when I was six. A foster parent got me into it.”
This revelation catches me off guard. I can’t picture Knox sitting still long enough to practice scales, let alone perform. And I notice the way his voice catches when he says foster parent.
