Page 31 of Doomed
I glance back at the gallery doors. Through the glass, I can see Bianca laughing with a possible client, champagne in hand, completely in her element.
“Fine. Be there in fifteen.” I hang up without waiting for his response.
As I head toward my bike, I take one last look at the gallery. “Next time, Bianca,” I mutter to myself. “Next time I’ll snare you.”
10
BIANCA
Ifind myself standing outside Purgatory once again, carefully balancing my latest commission against the brick wall. The painting—a dark, sensual piece featuring entwined figures in shades of crimson and gold—had taken me longer than expected to complete. Xavier had been patient about the delay. Still, I wanted to deliver it personally rather than sending it with a courier.
I shift the wrapped canvas under my arm and pull open the heavy door. During the day, Purgatory has an entirely different energy—empty, quiet, with cleaning staff preparing for another night of debauchery.
“Hello?” I call out, my voice echoing across the vacant dance floor.
No answer. I make my way toward Xavier’s office, figuring I can leave the painting with him or his assistant. As I approach the hallway, the sound of muffled voices draws me toward what appears to be a conference room with its door slightly ajar.
I should turn around. Leave the painting. Come back another time. But curiosity pulls me forward until I’m standing at the crack in the door, peering inside.
The scene freezes my blood. Knox stands with his back partially to me, his posture rigid and threatening. Before him, a man is kneeling with his arms bound at each wrist to the arms of some sort of frame that looks like a medieval torture device. Panic floods my system, but I can’t look away from the scene, his face a bloody and swollen mess. Xavier watches from the side, cool and collected, while another man—taller, with piercing green eyes—leans against the wall.
“That’s one,” Knox says calmly as he grabs the man’s index finger and bends it backward until a sickening crack echoes through the room. The man’s scream is muffled by the gag in his mouth.
“One for each shipment you skimmed from,” Knox continues, his voice eerily detached. “We’re just getting started.”
My breath catches in my throat. The painting slips from my grasp, the edge of the frame scraping against the wall with a soft sound.
Knox turns sharply, his blue eyes finding mine through the gap in the door. For a split second, shock flashes across his face before his expression hardens.
I freeze, unable to move as Knox’s eyes lock with mine. The Knox I know—the flirtatious, mischievous troublemaker—has vanished. In his place stands someone else entirely, someone with blood on his knuckles and bone-chilling cruelty in his voice. My heart hammers against my ribs as I finally break from my trance and stumble backward.
“We have company,” Knox announces, flat—the tension rolling off him in waves, threatening to drown me in the fury he holds at bay, barely.
The words barely register before I turn and run, abandoning the painting on the floor. I make it halfway down the corridor before strong fingers wrap around my upper arm, yanking me to a halt with enough force to make me gasp.
Knox spins me around, his grip painful as he presses me against the wall, his face inches from mine. His eyes, blazing with anger and a foreboding sense of self-preservation, tell me that I’ve seen too much. My stomach knots as my eyes dart back and forth between his. The monster that lurks beneath is free, and I’m not sure if I’m terrified or turned on.
“What the fuck are you doing here?” he hisses, glancing down the hallway to ensure we’re alone.
“Let go of me,” I demand, my voice trembling despite my effort to sound strong.
His grip only tightens. “Answer me. Why are you here?”
“The painting,” I manage, wincing at his hold. “I came to deliver Xavier’s commission.”
There’s a shift in his expression—realization, perhaps regret—but his grip doesn’t loosen. “What did you see?”
“Enough,” I whisper. “I saw enough.”
Knox’s jaw tightens. He leans closer, his breath warm against my face. “You shouldn’t be here.”
“I know that now,” I say, trying to pull away. “Please, let me go. I won’t?—”
“Won’t what?” His voice drops dangerously low. “Won’t tell anyone? Won’t call the police?” His free hand comes up to my throat, not squeezing but resting there—a warning. “How do I know that?”
Fear courses through me, but beneath it runs a current of adrenaline that makes every nerve ending hyper-aware of his proximity. I can smell his cologne, feel the heat radiating from his body, and see the flecks of darker blue in his irises.
“You don’t,” I admit. “But hurting me won’t help you.”
