Blackwood Book Novels & Stories

"I feel everything and nothing at the same time." "It's normal," he removed his glasses. "did you talk?" "Not really. I couldn't afford to set eyes on him for long." "I understand you," he brought out a plain burgundy book from a stack of other books that was on his left side and forwarded it to Louisa, "THE TALES OF A PAST, by Dick Malcolm, when your mum and I began to fall apart after the incident happened..." he admirably smiled at Louisa, "I read this book often. Every day and night. I was furious to the bone, yes, like any other person in my shoes would but ended up realizing that I was the root of the cause and encasing so much anger will do no good to me or my family."

' 'I suppose it's the safest thing to do,’ I say, agreeing with him. As we park the car and step out, we suddenly feel a sense of doom. There’s a dark and eerie feel to the Blackwood territory. Dead trees surround the place, and a storm is brewing beyond it, adding to the eerie darkness. The only sound we can hear is the wind gushing through the trees. The dead branches and trees dance like they are all in a ritual. The dry leaves crumple under our feet as we approach the front door. The packhouse is a black Gothic house with huge windows all around. I can see a white curtain moving. Pack members peek through the window at me. Dried vines cover the house. Nathan and I glance at each other, t

Zevran said. She raised her hands, the flames forming a circle between them. “By my measure, you will burn no more in hunger, but in memory.” The black fire contracted into a single pulse—then exploded outward as pure white. The shockwave swept through the chamber, up the stairs, through the citadel, and across the plains. When it faded, silence reigned. The Black Moon in the sky flickered once, then began to bleed gold. Zevran sank to his knees, pulling Kaelira into his arms. Her skin still glowed faintly, her breathing ragged but steady.

"But everyone knows Dante Blackwood isn't an ordinary man. There was a fire at the old sawmill years ago, and they say he was the only one who walked out of the flames alive, while the others... well, the fire didn't leave much for the morgue. Since then, he and his group act as if they own every inch of asphalt and forest." "They say he has scars that didn't come from the fire," whispered the first woman, leaning closer to Helena with a solemn look. "They say he's marked by something no doctor can explain. Stay away from him, girl. The desire of a Blackwood is like the embrace of a storm: it seems fascinating from afar, but it destroys everything it touches."

I looked down the hallway and through the other side, and there was actually no one in sight. My heart hammered as I approached the large double office doors with D. BLACKWOOD engraved on the metal plate. I forced my trembling hand to knock. No answer. Great. I knocked again. Still nothing. Screw it. I pushed the door open— —and froze in place. Damian Blackwood sat behind his massive black desk. Sharp suit. Cuffed sleeves. Jaw tight enough to crack a diamond. He didn’t look up at me. Not even a glance. I opened my mouth to speak but was cut off by his deep voice.

I was always just a means to an end. “What do you mean?” I’m inching toward the window now, away from Andrew, desperation clawing at my throat. “What kind of interests?” “Collectors,” Blackwood says simply, polishing another of his rings on his jacket. “People who appreciate unique, valuable things. Your offspring will be well cared for, I assure you. Fed, housed, trained…” “Trained for what?” “Entertainment. Protection. Companionship.” His oily grin widens. “Whatever their masters require.”

“Blackwood Global controls half the industries this family touches. Do you understand what that debt has cost us in leverage for thirty years? Richard Blackwood is offering to erase it. All you have to do is sign.” “All I have to do.” I picked up the folder despite myself, because some numb, obedient part of me still hadn’t learned to say no to them. My fingers found the first page. Damian Blackwood’s name sat there in dense black print, cold and unfamiliar, a man I’d only ever seen in tabloid photographs, always in shadow, always described in the same three words. *Cold. Ruthless. Untouchable.* “They say he’s never even been photographed smiling,” I said quietly.

“Close the door.” I obeyed. “I received another message this morning.” He slid a printed email across the desk. “Read this.” I picked up the paper. Subject: Blood Will Tell “The heir plays while Rome burns. But fire purifies. Fire reveals. Soon, the false will fall, and the worthy will rise from the ashes. Count your days, Blackwood. Count them carefully.” My stomach tightened. This was different from the others. More personal. More direct. “When did this arrive?” “Six AM. Routed through the same encrypted channels as the others.”

Honestly, she’s got more titles than a fantasy book series. He backs up. One. Two. Three. Like he’s got an internal metronome. Blackwood does a bow that probably took years to perfect, all smooth and precise. The whole thing feels choreographed, but you can practically sense Marcus counting every step in his head, terrified of screwing it up. “Your Royal Highness,” Blackwood starts, and wow, his voice has that northern lilt, like he’s about to sing you a folk song but make it sound like a threat. “The Northern Reaches acknowledge your sovereignty and pay respects to the historic claims of your bloodline.”

"He's demanding audience, Alpha. Says he has a proposition that might prevent... unpleasantness." Unpleasantness. Such a delicate word for the kind of territorial war that could paint these mountains red with supernatural blood. I found Blackwood waiting in the courtyard like he owned it, flanked by three wolves who moved with the particular swagger of creatures who'd never learned proper respect for established territory. He looked older than I remembered—gray threading through dark hair, lines around his eyes that spoke of years spent in exile—but his amber gaze held the same calculating intelligence that had made him dangerous three decades ago.