Page 32 of Doomed
His thumb traces my pulse point, feeling it race beneath my skin. “I don’t want to hurt you, Bianca.” The way he says my name—soft, almost affectionate—contrasts sharply with theblood still staining his knuckles. “But I need to know you understand the situation.”
“I understand perfectly,” I say, meeting his gaze. “I saw something I shouldn’t have, which confirms every warning I’ve ever heard about the Blackwoods.”
Knox studies me, his expression unreadable. Slowly, his grip on my arm loosens, though he doesn’t step back. “And yet you’re not screaming. Not begging.” His head tilts slightly. “Why is that?”
I don’t have an answer—at least not one I’m willing to admit, even to myself. The rational response would be terror, disgust, a desperate need to escape. Instead, I’m standing here, heart racing not just from fear.
“I should go,” I say finally. “Let me go, Knox.”
“Not yet.” His hand slides from my throat to cup my jaw, the gesture almost gentle. “I need to know what you’re thinking.”
“I’m thinking I should have sent a courier with the painting,” I reply, trying to inject steel into my voice.
A ghost of his familiar smirk appears. “No, you’re not.” His thumb brushes across my lower lip. “You’re thinking about how you should be more afraid than you are. You’re wondering why your body is responding to me even after what you just saw.”
Heat floods my cheeks because he’s right. I hate how easily this man reads me, how he seems to know exactly what I’m thinking before I’ve fully processed it myself.
“You’re intrigued,” Knox continues, his voice dropping to a seductive whisper. “Horrified, yes, but also fascinated. My pretty artist has a taste for darkness after all.”
I push against his chest, creating a small space between us. “I don’t have a taste for violence.”
“But you have a taste for me,” he counters, “even knowing what I am. What I’m capable of.”
I want to deny it, but the words stick in my throat. The truth is complicated and messy—I am drawn to him, despite everything. Or perhaps, most disturbingly, because of it.
Knox’s eyes darken as he reads my silence correctly. “That’s what I thought.”
His proximity is overwhelming, the contradiction of his gentle touch and capacity for violence making my head spin. I need to leave before I do something stupid.
“I won’t tell anyone what I saw,” I say firmly. “Now, please, let me go.”
Knox studies me for a long moment before stepping back, releasing me completely. “I believe you.” His eyes never leave mine. “But Bianca? This doesn’t change anything between us.”
I straighten my blouse, trying to regain my composure. “There is nothing between us.”
“Lie to me if you must,” he says with his usual vibrato, “But we both know the truth.”
His thumb traces my bottom lip, his eyes fixed there. I can’t do this, not here, not now. I need space. Side-stepping from his containment, I can’t help but run my tongue along the seam of my lips, catching my lower lip between my teeth before I break eye contact and turn to walk away without responding, my legs shaky but determined. The abandoned painting rests against the wall, but I don’t turn back. I can feel Knox watching me until I turn the corner, his presence lingering like a shadow even after he’s out of sight.
Only when I’m safely in my car do I allow myself to tremble, my hands shaking as I grip the steering wheel. The image of Knox breaking that man’s fingers plays on repeat in my mind, alongside the gentle way he touched my face moments later.
I should be calling the police. I should be horrified, disgusted, and determined never to see Knox Blackwood again.
I’m not, though. I’m wondering when I’ll see him next—and hating myself for it.
11
KNOX
Ever since Bianca witnessed my violent side, I’ve been more on edge. She was never meant to see that side of me, and now I fear it’s working against me.
Stomping from the parking lot into the elevator, I tap my foot on the floor as it rises to Purgatory. I need to blow off steam and get drunk. It’s exactly what I’ve been doing the past four nights since I had to threaten her in the corridor.
The moment I step into the club, I head for the bar, but freeze in my tracks when I see Bianca standing there wearing a beautiful, forest green dress that hugs every curve. Her head is thrown back as she laughs at something some suit-wearing dickhead is saying, her hand resting on his forearm.
Motherfucker.
Despite my irritation at seeing her near another man, I head to the other side of the bar and order my usual. Two fingers of Macallan whiskey, and down it in one, before ordering another.
