Novel & Cerita Benjicot Blackwood X Reader

The storm picked up again that evening. It wasn't the raging one or the howling one. It was the quieter variety — the sort that wept against the windows, soaking the city in a steady, silent sorrow. Julian Blackwood sat in his study, a glass of scotch in crystal resting untouched on the side of his chair, the notebook Lena had left him across his lap. He hadn't cracked it open yet. He wasn't sure that he could. The cover of leather was soft, warm in his hands.

Blackwood was reading through the files, pretending not to hear the conversation as her eyes scanned over the pages. Jax was under the impression that the attack had been covered up. He began to question the loyalties of his people and whether or not they were prepared to forgo their old Alpha when Jax rose to the title. “It has nothing to do with her.” Mr. Blackwood shook his head and walked up to his son. “Jax, she is the only common factor here. You’re either blind or lying. Neither is a trait I’m looking for in my successor.” Mr. Blackwood stood as straight as a tree and glared at his son.

Positive. Pregnant. He tightened his fists around the folder. None of them moved for a moment as if time stood still. Dr. Jenkins stayed quiet, his eyes fixed on Xander as though he was expecting a storm to break out. He then coughed discreetly. “Mr. Blackwood… is there a problem—?” Xander’s jaw clenched. He did not look up. Instead, he relaxed his hold on the file inch by inch, and closed it with a slow motion. When he did speak his voice was low, deliberate.

He had sharp, aristocratic features, piercing violet eyes, and a cruel, elegant smile. "I am reclaiming what was stolen from my family," the man said, stepping over the shattered glass. He spread his arms in a gesture of mock hospitality. "Allow me to introduce myself. I am Dante Blackwood. Julian’s older brother. And I am the Second Architect of the Black Rose."

“I know who they are. Tell me what I don’t know.” The figure hesitated. Then: “We’ve received word from our contact over there. Something significant has happened.” “Report.” “The Blackwood heir has found his mate.” The room went completely silent. The man in shadow didn’t move. Didn’t blink. For a long moment, there was only the sound of breathing. Then, slowly, he leaned forward. “His mate.” “Yes, sir.” “What do we know about her?” “Our contact says she’s human. No connection to the pack. Just a regular employee.”

Inside the backmost car, the world dissolved to tinted glass: cocooned in quiet power, yet bracing for war. Damian Blackwood lounged beside me, all crisp dark wool and impossible focus. He looked out the window like a king surveying his domain—every inch the billionaire predator they all feared. But I sensed the tension winding through him, an alertness taut as a drawn bow. He rolled the tension between his fingers, slow and silent, until the final stretch to Blackwood Tower.

"Please, I need more." "You need my cock, is that it?" Mr. Blackwood's voice was a low, mocking growl. "Yes, Daddy. Please. I need your cock." Mr. Blackwood chuckled, a dark, rich sound. He removed his fingers, leaving Liam feeling suddenly empty. He heard the sound of him spitting, lubing up his own cock. Then he felt the blunt, wet head of it pressing against his entrance. "This is mine now," Mr. Blackwood stated, his voice possessive. "This tight ass belongs to Daddy. And I'm not using a rubber. A real claim is raw."

The other side was filled with beeping monitors, IV drips, and oxygen tanks. ‎ ‎And in the center, sitting at a long ebony dining table set for three, was a figure in a wheelchair. ‎ ‎Julius Blackwood. ‎ ‎He was terrifyingly small. His body was withered, his skin clinging to his bones like translucent parchment. His hands, resting on the arms of the chair, were skeletal claws. He looked like a corpse that had been dug up and dressed in a velvet suit. ‎ ‎But his eyes were alive. ‎ ‎They were bright, feverish, and predatory. They locked onto me instantly, stripping away my defenses.

Habit pulls at her fingers and she adjusts her glasses… The pressure is immediate. A hand settles on her thigh. It doesn't squeeze. It doesn't move. It simply claims the space, his palm searing through the fabric of her dress. Her breath catches. She stills, her pen hovering mid-word. “Mr. Ashcroft,” she murmurs, her voice a ghost of a sound. He doesn't look at her. His attention remains fixed on the market projections, his jaw relaxed, his posture unchanged. “This,” Mr. Blackwood says, “is the AX-9.”

Composed enough to pass. Composed enough that Grandpa wouldn't ask questions I had no intention of answering. I picked up my black leather jacket which pairs well with white shirt and denim. I straightened myself and walked out of the room I had barely survived the night before. Whatever waited for me in the main house, I would face it the way I always did. As Adrian Blackwood. Not as the man who had broken apart on the floor. But the one who is ruthless, feared and unbreakable.