Blackwood Sherlock Holmes Novels & Stories

It has door knobs in a shape of wolf's head. Weird! "He is insi-"Chase can't finish his sentence as the door is flung open revealing the man,who has been haunting my memories and whose seeds are growing inside me. Alexander Blackwood. His eyes lands on me and for the moment,I forget the world around us including presence of Chase.His grey eyes has the shades of aqua blue this time.Probably he wore lenses but it doesn't falter the fact that he is the owner of the most enchanting beautiful eyes in the mortal world.

It is the point of Focus in this thrilling love story, And you will get to understand more about it later on. The main focus of Mr Black is Love and Obsession and how they vary and I am going to try my best to use my characters to portray this important topics, I hope you enjoy. Please Note: This Book is not suitable for readers under the age of sixteen as it contains, matured languages and mild sex scenes, Thank You. Characters: Grace Winters Leonard Alister Black JasonWalker Eliene Winters Loren Black Melissa Meredith Liana Mathews Austin Ms. Leigh

“That speckling in the corner, the particular graininess. It’s Blackwood’s work. He always included that mark in his surveillance photos.” “How would you know that?” I demanded. Jonathan sank into a chair, suddenly looking every one of his years. “Because before we were partners, Blackwood worked for me. As my head of security.”

Devon’s heel pressed into Axel’s bleeding chest as he tilted his head with mock confusion. “What’s funny?” he asked. “Do I look like a damn clown to you?” Axel coughed, a pitiful sound wet with blood. His breathing was shallow, chest rising and falling like it was stitched together with thread. And still—he laughed. Dry, rasping. “You must be insane,” he wheezed, spitting red. “Because Blackwood never had a son.” Devon’s expression shifted. The grin dropped. He lowered himself to Axel’s level, crouching so their eyes locked—one man’s eyes barely hanging onto life, the other burning with hatred centuries deep.

Blackwood. TBC!!

“What are you reading, Miss Vale?” The deep voice startled me. I dropped the book. Professor Adrian Blackwood stood at the end of the aisle, tall and imposing in a dark sweater that hugged his broad shoulders. At forty-one, he had silver threading through his black hair and eyes that seemed to see straight through people. He had taught my literature seminar all semester, always watching me a little longer than the others. “Professor… I…” My words failed. I tried to hide the book, but he stepped closer and picked it up.

The office was quiet except for the low hum of computers and the occasional rustle of papers. Adrian Blackwood sat at his desk, eyes scanning lines of data that told stories he didn’t want to read. Financial irregularities, suspicious communications, and the faintest hints that Vincent Drake was not idle. The room smelled faintly of polished wood and leather — familiar, yet tonight, it felt suffocating.

A massive mahogany desk dominated the center of the room, lit by a green banker’s lamp that cast warm shadows across his face. Professor Blackwood sat behind it, sleeves of his white dress shirt rolled up to his elbows, exposing strong forearms dusted with dark hair, and a pair of black-rimmed glasses sat low on his nose. At forty-five he looked like sin dressed in academia, broad shoulders, sharp jaw shadowed with stubble, and eyes the color of dark espresso that always seemed to see straight through whatever mask I wore. “Miss Lennox,” he said without looking up from the paper he was marking. “You’re late. I said eight-thirty.”

Damien Blackwood stood behind his chief security analyst, his massive, heavy-set frame casting a dark, predatory shadow over the entire workstation. He was still half-dressed from his frantic retreat from the Southwark annex. His charcoal dress shirt hung open, completely unbuttoned, exposing the thick, corded muscles of his chest and torso. The skin there was still raw, marked by deep, flush-red scratches and faint, bruising bites—the violent, erotically charged evidence of his chaotic, desk-breaking collision with Elias Hawthorne just an hour prior.

“I think you’re going to shake things up in ways this pack desperately needs.” I did not respond. Did not trust myself to parse genuine sentiment from practiced charm. The hallway outside was blessedly empty. I leaned against the wall, taking a breath. My first day. I had walked in on the Alpha Heir having sex, slapped him across the face, and somehow still had a job. A job investigating threats against one of the most powerful packs in the territory. Working directly with Lucian Blackwood. The man who had propositioned me minutes after climaxing. Who had tested me. Who claimed to like my honesty while radiating enough charm to melt steel.