Blackwood Book Novels & Stories

Shifters healed fast, but the steel—the one material that could nullify his strength—kept the wound raw and stinging. In the corner, Kan Nelblack lay like a discarded doll. The enforcer was pale, his breathing a shallow, rattling whistle. They’d taken him down with a surgical strike to the throat using a splinter of wormwood. It was a rare, toxic wood from the old Sopttyi District, almost mythical in its lethality to those with Kan's particular bloodline. Legend said the toxins weren't from the tree itself, but the parasites living within the grain. Wormwood manacles, carved with jagged precision, circled Kan’s wrists and neck. The wood hissed against his skin, smelling like singed meat.

She stilled mid-page, her eyes locking onto a detail she almost would have skipped if she had been moving any faster. “…hold on,” she said quietly. Both Mark and Damian looked up immediately. “What is it?” Mark asked. Quinn didn’t answer right away, her gaze scanning the line again as if confirming it hadn’t changed. “Blackwood transferred schools when he was sixteen,” she said finally, turning the file slightly toward them. “Small town. Not mentioned anywhere else in his profile.” Damian stepped closer, leaning in to read. “Which town?” Quinn turned the page fully. The moment he saw it, something in his expression shifted, subtle but noticeable.

Blackwood Publishing House – old-established, prestige-focused publishing. Blackwood Productions – film investments (Hollywood/Vegas connections). “Wow… the Blackwoods are in every sector. No wonder they’re this wealthy and always competing for the top spot with another company I can’t quite remember,” Luna murmured. Then she saw the name: Blackwood Energy & Holdings. She hadn’t even known that was the real name. It looked like society had simply given it the nickname “The Blackwood Empire.” Finally, she read the motto: “Power Through Legacy.”

The irony wasn’t lost on her. Inside, floor-to-ceiling bookshelves groaned under leather spines. A massive oak desk dominated the center, neat stacks of papers on one side, a sleek Mac on the other. One tall window overlooked the quad, blinds half-drawn so late afternoon light cut golden stripes across the floor. Blackwood closed the door. The lock clicked. “Sit,” he ordered. Kenzie perched on the edge of the visitor chair instead, crossing her legs so the skirt rode higher. “I’d rather stand for my execution.”

The desk creaked under us as he started moving again—deeper strokes now, unhurried but relentless, each thrust pushing me closer to another shattering peak. The study felt smaller, more intimate in the aftermath of near-discovery. Bookshelves lined with rare first editions towered around us, their leather spines gleaming. The massive fireplace sat cold and dark opposite the windows, but the embers of our own fire burned hotter than any flame. Outside, the cliffs dropped sharply to the restless Puget Sound, waves still crashing against the rocks in rhythmic fury. The Blackwood estate sprawled like a sleeping giant—private gym, infinity pool glowing faintly in the distance, helipad on the roof

The eyes of the wiry one, the nose of Timothy, and a beard hiding his jawline. “What do you mean?” asked me Kate. The last men sat, and a few employees brought the food to the table. “Well, Blakemore itself has a little over a hundred members, but the under-packs have a lot of members. Blakewoods alone as a few thousand at least.” “Wait. What?” asked Timothy. His father scoffed at him, and I saw him looking between me and his father confused. “Under-packs?” he muttered. “Blakewoods?” asked Darren.

She fidgeted in her seat, her eyes darting anxiously to the entrance each time someone walked in, her heart leaping with false hope again and again. Until finally—A man in a tailored business suit entered. “I’m sorry for the delay,” he said, approaching the officers. “The boss is currently in a meeting. I was sent as his representative.” Belle looked up. Her heart sank. It wasn’t him. “This is the CEO’s black card,” the manager explained eagerly, showing it to the man. “We recognize it anywhere. Only a few people in the country own one. Yet today, it was used by… her.” His tone carried thinly veiled disdain.

I watch the woman my brothers tell me I loved. The One. That’s what my journal tells me. Lillian Blackwood is my one. The problem is I can’t remember her. Not a single thing. All the descriptions I wrote about her don’t do her justice. Even while I watch her breakdown. While I watch my brother comforts her, over a dog named Benny. She’s still incredibly beautiful. “Are you willing to let that go?” Dylan asks as he watches the commotion in front of us.

In less than an hour, Marcus was already at my office with documents I sensed was the reports about the Blackwood pack. As I watched Marcus pore over the detailed reports of the Blackwood pack, I couldn't help but feel a sense of unease wash over me. The Blackwoods were infamous for their cruel and merciless tactics, and the fact that they were now in the vicinity of our fortress made my skin crawl. I had a hunch that they were somehow involved in the attack on our pack house, and I couldn't shake the feeling that they were up to no good. Marcus read through the reports with a focused intensity, his brow furrowed in concentration. He muttered to himself as he read, occasionally jotting down

It was filled with sketches—industrial designs for Blackwood turbine engines and early architectural software frameworks. “What is this?” I whispered, pulling out a set of blueprints dated thirty years ago. The stamps on the corner didn’t say Vermon. They said Blackwood Industries – Proprietary & Confidential. I flipped through a leather-bound journal. The handwriting was elegant, slanted—Beatrice’s hand. But the contents weren’t poetry or sketches of landscapes. They were logs of meetings, security codes for Blackwood vaults, and detailed descriptions of Michael Blackwood’s private encryption keys.