Blackwood Resort Novels & Stories

The Blackwood private atoll in the South Pacific was supposed to be untouched by the rest of the world. For three weeks, it had been exactly that. No cell service. No Vampire emissaries. No Pentagon generals. Just two miles of pristine white sand, crystal-clear turquoise water, and a breathtaking glass villa hidden beneath the palm trees. It was our honeymoon, and Killian was making up for three hundred years of celibacy with terrifying, exhausting enthusiasm. I lay on my stomach on a plush sunbed, the tropical sun warming my bare back. I had discarded the top of my black bikini an hour ago, completely comfortable under the heavy, possessive gaze of my husband.

Sophia's POV Blackwood Lodge was more like a rugged stone stronghold built right into the mountainside than any cozy retreat. It had a harsh, isolated beauty, with jagged edges and dense, vine-draped barriers. The atmosphere was chillier, lighter, and so still you could catch the wind's sad sigh rustling through distant pines. It seemed less like a haven and more like an elegant lockdown. Amelia, sweet thing, treated it like a thrill. "We're in a fortress, Sophia!" she'd exclaimed, her tiny palms flat against the chilly pane of the huge sitting area window. "Any dragons around?"

A small pause hangs between us. “It’s a little disappointing that my mate managed to resist my completely naked body long enough to walk all the way back to the house.” My gaze drifts downward before I can stop it. His hand slides along the center of his body. It moves slowly up and down the length of his erection, clearly meant to draw attention. The yard behind Blackwood Manor is surrounded well enough to feel private. Thick trees from the Shadow Woods close in around the property, hiding most of the land from anyone outside.

I start laughing. “What?” “Nothing. Yes. Drilling wells and pumping water.” “Oh.” Her eyes widen before she starts laughing too. “Okay. That sounded completely different in my head.” “Clearly.” “But that's big business.” “It is. Especially in rural areas. Between the water company and lumber operations, Blackwood does very well.” We own multiple lumber yards and employ Blackwood wolves, humans, and wolves from neighboring packs. Some businesses operate through contracts with sister packs, especially in areas too far from Blackwood territory for our people to commute.

His voice was rough with sleep and hunger when he murmured against my skin: “Get dressed, little one. Daddy’s taking you somewhere special today. No work. No gallery. Just us.” Two hours later, the town car pulled up to a discreet entrance on the Upper East Side. A sleek black door with no sign only a small gold plaque that read “Elysium Private Spa.” Damien’s hand stayed possessively on the small of my back as we were escorted through a marble hallway that smelled of eucalyptus and warm vanilla. The manager greeted us personally. “Mr. Blackwood, your private suite is ready. Full day package as requested. No other guests will be on this floor.”

The Blackwood Forest was a dense, ancient sprawl of oak and pine in the northern wilderness, a place the family had used for centuries to hide their darkest secrets. The hunting lodge was a fortress disguised as a rustic cabin—reinforced timber, lead-lined walls, and a basement that contained a literal armory. We arrived under the cover of a moonless night, the SUV’s lights dimmed. Leo was asleep in my arms, his small face peaceful, oblivious to the fact that his mother’s shadow was hunting us through the woods.

Or is this just another cage? ​He didn't answer. He just looked back out the window as we turned onto a private road that wound upward into the mist shrouded hills. ​Blackwood was nothing like the glass and steel penthouse. It was a sprawling, Gothic revival estate made of dark stone and ivy that looked like it had been clawed into the side of the mountain. It looked ancient, imposing, and deeply lonely. As the gates creaked shut behind us, I felt a strange shiver crawl down my spine. This wasn't a home, it was a monument to a legacy that had claimed too many lives already.

But staring up at the dark silhouette of the Alpha, framed by the towering pines, the reality of his situation settled heavy in his gut. "Fine," Noah muttered, crossing his arms over his chest. "Lead the way, Captain Sunshine." Francis grunted,a sound that might have been annoyance or faint amusement and turned back toward the trail. Ten minutes later, the dense treeline opened up, revealing a steep, rocky incline overlooking the valley. Perched on the high rise, surrounded by a massive stone wall, sat Blackwood Manor. It was a imposing structure of dark timber, rough-hewn granite, and tall, narrow windows that reflected the pale moonlight. It looked less like a house and more like a ancient

The drive down to the venue took about an hour, and that gave me more than enough time to familiarize myself with the issues that needed sorting out. Soon we arrived at the Blackwood estate. It wasn’t owned by any syndicate. Rather, it belonged to a centuries-old arbitration council trusted by every major crime family. The estate sat on the highest hill overlooking the city, hidden behind wrought-iron gates and centuries-old oak trees. To anyone passing by, it looked like nothing more than an old mansion preserved for the wealthy. But only a few knew it had hosted peace talks, fragile alliances, and declarations of war long before most of the city’s skyscrapers were ever built.

Properly look. My hands start shaking. Then I find the photographs. Me outside Hawthorne. Me walking across the courtyard. Me leaving photography. One from my first week at Blackthorne. I turn it over. A date. And beneath it, written in black ink: No known knowledge. Photography could become a concern. Keep her away from west access. I’ll handle her. — R.B. Everything inside me stops. R.B. Roman Blackwood. I read it again. I’ll handle her.