Novel & Cerita Blackwood Sherlock Holmes

"Arthur Blackstone was carved from ice. Grandfather’s perfect heir. Ruthless. Demanding. Emotion was… weakness. A flaw to be excised." He took a shuddering breath, his eyes still glued to the floor. "He had a pocket watch. Solid platinum. Cold. Heavy." Damien’s own hand instinctively went to his vest pocket, where he usually kept his own, a modern, sleek piece. "He’d tap it. On the desk. On the dinner table. “Tick. Tick. Tick.” Every second accounted for. Every minute is measured against productivity, against achievement, against the Blackwood standard." His voice gained a haunted quality.

— Darren — In the morning, Henry and I began our work. He seemed like a jovial guy. His twin brother had been and still is Gamma of Blakewoods and had been Gamma himself since the formation of Blakemore. His brown hair barely had any grey in it, which was the opposite of his long shaggy beard. He looked like a man that has spent most of his life living in a remote cabin in the woods, and his clothes reinforced the image further.

It should be illegal to look this nerve wrecking. The first three buttons of his shirt were undone, revealing a patch of clear slightly tanned skin. The sleeves of his shirt were rolled up to his elbows, showing off the prominent veins that ran up his back hand. I felt the breath hitch in my wind pipes as our eyes met, his mesmerizing green stare made my cheeks flush and my knees go weak, it was like I was paralyzed as I stood there while his eyes still roamed me. "I don't think I've introduced myself. Damon Blackwood" his husky voice made my heart rate pick up. A smirk crawled unto his features as he stretched out a hand for me and I just stared in awe, his words sinking in.

Detective Blackwood’s name flashed on the screen. “Blackwood,” she said, her voice shaky. “We need to meet,” he said, his tone grave. “I’ve found something. Something you need to see.” Blackwood arrived an hour later, his expression grim as he confidently walked into her apartment. He carried a manila envelope under one arm, setting it down on the coffee table with deliberate care. “What is it?” Lysandra asked, her voice barely above a whisper. He opened the envelope and pulled out a series of photographs. The first one made her stomach churn.

she gestured to the symbols carved into the palms and chest "—were inflicted ante-mortem." "He was alive when they carved into him," Rick translated grimly. "Yes. And given the lack of defensive wounds, I'd say he was restrained or drugged." Dr. Patel leaned closer to examine the neck. "The precision here is... unusual and a lot more confident than the other three. As for the name, the Blackwood family is old money. If one of their heirs is returning, someone might have been looking for them for a long time. Well known for their antique and large art collections worldwide.”

my father’s voice interrupted my thoughts, "let us welcome the man who will help lead us into this new era. The future Alpha of the United Pack... Adrian Blackwood." The massive oak doors at the end of the hall swung wide with a bang that echoed like a gunshot. Then, he stepped in. Adrian Blackwood walked in like he owned the air in the room. He was young, probably late-twenties, but he carried a darkness that made him look a thousand years old. He was tall, built like a tank but moved with the grace of a jungle cat. He wore a black-on-black suit that probably cost more than a house, but it couldn't hide the raw, lethal power rolling off him in waves. His face was all sharp angles—a jawline

He had been calm in the way he had been calm last night, the patient, terrifying, unflappable calm of a man who had built a life on never letting anyone see him surprised. The mention of Tristan's name was the first thing that made his expression actually shift. A muscle moved in his jaw. Once. Slowly. Like a key turning in a lock. I had read about it in the Vanity Fair piece, in a paragraph I had skimmed. Blackwood is famous in the industry for never raising his voice. Former colleagues describe his anger as arctic. The kind that doesn't yell, doesn't slam doors, doesn't issue ultimatums. The kind that simply, quietly, decides.

I knocked twice. “Come in.” His voice was deep, clipped, and carried that natural authority that made my stomach tighten despite my anger. I stepped inside, closing the door behind me with a quiet click. Professor Blackwood sat behind his large oak desk, reading through a stack of papers. His dark hair was slightly tousled, silver threading through the sides, and his tailored navy shirt stretched across broad shoulders. At forty-two, he was the kind of man who aged like expensive whiskey — sharp, potent, and dangerously refined.

In the middle of the commotion, a man entered. He looked around Heath’s age but at least five years harder. His rugged features were sharpened by a scar that ran along his jaw and another faint one near his temple. The expensive suit he wore fit his powerful frame perfectly, yet it couldn’t hide the way he moved—like a predator among prey. Everyone stared. Heath’s finger twitched faster at his side. His jaw clenched hard enough that I saw the muscle jump. I leaned closer. “Who is he?” Heath’s jaw tightened. “That… That’s Thorne Blackwood.”

⸻ And Victor Hale had just erased the one person who could expose the mole network inside Blackwood. ⸻ Then downstairs— a gunshot echoed through the mansion. ⸻ And suddenly— the war stopped being hidden.