Blackwood Sherlock Holmes Novels & Stories

Just what I need! I would have immediately assumed that he had followed me here to confront me, had he not had company. Shady- looking, crepy as hell company. Mr Blackwood was slanting into the counter by the bar, a glass of whisky in his hand. He looked ragged, like a white- collar psychopath in those work slacks and untucked shirt which was almost unbuttoned all the way. He looked really pissed and to be in a murderous mood, but he had nothing on the villainous hunk next to him. The man was large, his bulging muscles were out of this world frightening, both his arms were covered in tattoos, so was the back of his bald head.. the most notable tattoo was one of a black widow which extended f

A strange feeling settled in her stomach. For the first time since opening the package, genuine fear crept into her mind. Slowly, she reached for the note. Her hands trembled. She swallowed hard before turning it over. The moment her eyes landed on the words, her blood ran cold. **Congratulations. You got our attention, Dr. Holly.** **You dared ask for a DelValle head. You dared ask for DelValle blood.** **And you thought it would be that easy?** "She's just a useless rat!" Dr. Holly screamed at the note as if the person who wrote it were standing right in front of her.

Sarah felt Diego tense beside her. "Hello, Diego," the man said cordially. "It's been a while." "Blackwood," Diego responded, voice flat. "I thought you retired." The man—Blackwood—smiled thinly. "The government asked me to handle one last operation." His gaze shifted to Sarah. "And you must be the famous Sarah Walsh. Your reputation precedes you." Sarah studied him carefully. Mid-sixties, silver hair, the polished bearing of someone accustomed to authority. She'd never seen him before, yet something about him seemed familiar.

Lilith’s POV The next morning, Magnus summoned me to his study. He didn’t smile. He just gestured for me to sit, then he leaned forward, resting his elbows on the desk like a man about to make a deal with the devil. “There’s a pack,” he began, with his dangerously low voice. “Blackwood.” I nodded, recognising the name instantly. Blackwood was a respected and powerful pack. I had tried going there to see if they'd take me in, but other rogues told me they were unapproachable.

Slowly—too slowly, with a reluctant dread—I looked up. Damian Blackwood stood before my desk, a towering, imposing figure silhouetted against the waning light from the windows. He was silent, utterly unreadable, a statue carved from granite and ice. His suit was black, tailored to perfection, the fabric a rich, almost inky void against the pale office walls. His tie was loosened just enough at the collar to hint at something dangerous, untamed, beneath the impeccably controlled surface. But it was his eyes that made my stomach clench, tightening into a knot of apprehension—cold, sharp, glinting like storm-polished obsidian, reflecting the last of the office lights with an almost predatory in

Chapter 14 The scent of cigar smoke hung heavy in the air, swirling through the dimly lit room like a ghostly warning. The long mahogany table was surrounded by men whose hands were stained with blood and whose names inspired fear across continents. At the head of the table sat Bain Blackwood, calm, composed, lethal.

Ama gently pushed open the black double doors that led to the room, her breath catching in her throat at the stunning sight before her. The decor held a captivating dark aura that felt both intimidating and intriguing. As she surveyed the space, her mind turned to the Blackwood family. Grayson Blackwood was the only one who came to mind as the possible creator of such an imposing environment. Realization washed over her; of course, this was his room. She couldn’t believe she hadn’t thought of it sooner.

His body twitched, a choking sound escaping his throat before his chest stilled completely. I stood rooted, unable to move or breathe. Then more sounds echoed from behind—growling, footsteps, claws scraping the earth. A shape emerged from the shadows. A wolf, its red eyes glowing in the dark, lips curled back to reveal bloodstained teeth. Blackwood. My wolf stirred inside me, snarling, ready to fight. I bent slightly, preparing to shift when another figure shot through the trees like a blur. A second wolf tackled the first, sending it crashing against a tree trunk. The first attacker lay still, unconscious or worse.

“If you say yes, you don’t do it blind. You read everything, document everything, and if you say no, you come to me-.” “I won’t.” “You say that now.” She hesitated, then added quietly, “He has an assistant. Rowan Cole. If anyone knows how Blackwood really operates, it’s him.” I looked up. “You know his assistant?” “Know of him,” she corrected. “He’s survived longer than anyone else. That alone makes him interesting.” She smiled faintly, something curious flickering in her eyes. " I heard he's hot too", She smirked “And dangerous in his own way.”

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.”