Page 23 of Doomed
“Excuse me a moment.” He steps away, turning his back as he answers. “What?” His voice is clipped, all business. “I told you to handle it. No, that’s not acceptable.”
I shouldn’t eavesdrop, but it’s impossible not to in the small studio. Knox’s voice drops to a dangerous whisper.
“If he can’t pay, then make sure he understands the consequences. Break his fucking hand if you have to. Just one finger first, as a warning. I don’t care if he begs.”
A chill runs down my spine. This isn’t the flirtatious playboy who brought me coffee. This is someone else entirely—someone who casually orders violence between sips of a latte. Someone I have no business considering any kind of attachment to.
Knox ends the call and turns back to me, his expression smoothing into that familiar smirk, as if he hadn’t just commanded someone to be maimed. The transition is so seamless it’s terrifying.
“Sorry about that. Where were we?” He moves toward me again, but I can’t help stepping back.
I turn back to my painting, trying to hide how shaken I am. “Thank you for the coffee. You can leave now.”
Instead of leaving, he perches on the edge of my worktable, deliberately knocking over my organized brushes. “Xavier thinks we should collaborate closely on this piece, since it’s going in my section of the club.”
“Your section?” This is news to me.
“Didn’t I mention that?” His smile is infuriatingly smug. “This painting is for my private lounge. Which means I get creative input.”
My fingers tighten around my brush. “That wasn’t in the contract.”
“Consider it an addendum.” He leans forward, invading my space again. “Don’t worry, I’m very hands-on with my creative process.”
I clench my jaw and turn back to the canvas, trying to ignore him. “Input is fine. Interfering isn’t. Perhaps this contract was a mistake after all.”
My brushstrokes become aggressive as I attempt to lose myself in the work again. It’s impossible. Every cell in my body is aware of him watching me, the studio suddenly too small, the air between us charged with frustration, irritation, and me considering the best way to get him out of here.
“You missed a spot,” Knox says, his voice closer than it was a moment ago.
I don’t turn around. “I didn’t.”
“The artist knows best, I suppose.” He chuckles, the sound low and warm.
I dip my brush into crimson paint, trying to steady my breathing. My hand trembles slightly as I apply another layer to the canvas. Focus, Bianca. Just focus on the painting.
Minutes pass in tense silence. I almost convince myself he’s lost interest when I hear him shift behind me. Before I can react, Knox steps directly behind me. His arms snake around my waist, his chest pressing against my back as he envelops me in his warmth.
“What are you doing?” I gasp, my paintbrush freezing mid-air. “Get off me!”
I try to twist away, but his arms tighten just enough to hold me in place without hurting me. His breath tickles my ear as he leans down.
His lips brush along the shell of my ear. “I can feel you trembling, Hayes. I wonder what would happen if I slid my hands lower... would you still pretend you don’t want me then?”
Heat floods my body, pooling low in my stomach. I hate this reaction—hate how my breath catches, how my skin prickles with awareness despite having just heard him order violence as casually as ordering lunch.
“You’re crossing a line,” I manage to say, though my voice lacks conviction.
“We both know I crossed that line the minute I walked in,” Knox murmurs, his thumbs drawing small circles on my hipbones. “The question is, how many more can I cross before you admit what’s happening between us?”
I drop my paintbrush, watching helplessly as it leaves a streak of red across the floor—like blood, like a warning.
His mouth finds my ear, his voice dropping to a husky whisper. “You’re so fucking sexy when you pretend not to want me. Can you feel how hard you make me?”
I can. God help me, I can. His erection presses firmly against my ass, hard and insistent even through our clothes. My paintbrush lies forgotten on the floor as my hands grip the edge of the table for support.
“This is what you do to me, Hayes,” Knox growls, his lips trailing down my neck. “Every time you look at me with those fiery eyes. Every time you tell me to go to hell.”
I bite down on my lower lip to stop the moan building in my throat, tasting copper as my teeth break skin. The pain grounds me, but only barely. My body betrays me, melting back against him despite every rational thought screaming to push him away.
