Page 6 of Doomed
Her breathing quickens, and for a moment, I think I’ve broken through her defenses. “You think wrong.”
“Do I?” I reach out to touch that paint smudge on her cheek. “Because your art tells a different story. All that hunger, that need?—”
The crack of her palm against my face echoes through the gallery like a gunshot.
My head snaps to the side; my cheek stings from the impact. The taste of blood touches my lip where her ring caught me.
“Don’t. Touch. Me.” Each word comes out sharp and final.
I straighten, bringing my hand to my cheek. The sting radiates outward, and I can’t help but grin. Most people are too afraid of the Blackwood name to lay a finger on me. This woman slapped me like I was nothing more than an overly aggressive drunk at a bar.
“What the hell is going on here?”
Elliot’s voice cuts through the tension as he strides back toward us, phone in hand. His eyes dart between my reddening cheek and Bianca’s flushed face.
“Knox?” His tone carries a warning. “Is there a problem?”
I laugh, the sound echoing through the gallery as I touch my stinging cheek. “Your artist assaulted me, Elliot.”
The words come out light, almost amused, but I catch the way Bianca’s eyes flash at my choice of language. Elliot’s face goes pale, his knuckles whitening around his phone.
“Knox, I?—”
“If you hadn’t touched me without permission, I wouldn’t have had to defend myself.” Bianca cuts him off. She doesn’t back down, doesn’t apologize, doesn’t even look remotely apologetic. “Physical boundaries aren’t suggestions, Mr. Blackwood. When a woman saysDon’t touch me.It’s not an invitation.”
Elliot looks like he’s about to have a heart attack. “Bianca, please, Knox is?—”
“Knox is what?” She turns that piercing stare on Elliot now. “Above basic human decency because he’s a client?”
My grin widens. Most people would be stammering apologies by now, begging for forgiveness, terrified of what the Blackwood name could do to their lives.
“She’s got a point.” I shrug, touching my lip where her ring left its mark. “I did cross a line. One that she made crystal clear.”
Bianca blinks, clearly not expecting me to admit that. For a moment, her defensive posture softens before she catches herself and squares her shoulders.
“Don’t look so surprised, princess. I know when I’ve been put in my place.” I let my eyes travel over her face, noting the way her lips press together at the endearment. “Though I have to say, you’ve got one hell of a right hook.”
“It wasn’t a punch.”
“True. But if that slap is any indication, I’d hate to see what you can do with a closed fist.”
She tilts her head, studying me like I’m a particularly confusing piece of art. “Are you... complimenting me for hitting you?”
“I’m complimenting your conviction.” I turn to Elliot, whose color is returning to normal. “I like her. She’s got backbone.”
“Knox,” Elliot starts carefully, “perhaps we should discuss the commission another time?—”
“No need.” I keep my eyes on Bianca. “I think we understand each other perfectly now.”
“Here’s what’s going to happen.” I pull out my phone, switching to camera mode. “I’ll take some photos of your work and show them to my brother Xavier. He’s the one who makes the final decisions about what fits Purgatory’s aesthetic.”
Bianca’s eyebrows furrow. “Purgatory?”
“It’s a club,” I say, not bothering to elaborate on what kind of club. “High-end clientele, and we’re particular about the atmosphere. Your art might be exactly what we’re looking for.”
I snap some photos of her paintings, making sure to capture the intricate details of intimacies shared by the figures. The way she’s rendered the shadows, the tension in the bodies, the raw emotion bleeding through every brushstroke—Xavier will see the potential.
“Wait.” Bianca steps forward, her hand reaching toward my phone. “I didn’t agree to this.”
