Davos Blackwood Novels & Stories

Damon glanced at his wristwatch, his patience thinning. "She should be out by now, it's been over ten minutes." “Master,” Tiger spoke up, a sly smile playing at his lips. “Is she the one?” Damon asked, his eyes scanning for answers. “Yes, boss, she’s Kane Blackwood’s daughter," He said with a grin on his face. "Good; this is the perfect opportunity for us, a direct line to Blackwood territory.” Damon smiled, turning his face to the direction of Anna's room.

"I saw you leaving the bar last night. That's no place for a girl alone. Especially when the Blackwoods are around." Helena felt a slight tremor of discomfort, but she kept her composure. "I was just looking for something to eat. And Mr. Blackwood was... rather direct, but he didn't cause me any trouble." The other woman let out a bitter laugh, shaking her head. "'Direct'? My dear, the Blackwoods aren't direct. They're a curse that refuses to die. That one there, Dante... he carries his father's blood on his hands, even though the lawmen prefer to look the other way out of pure fear."

"Seven. Four more in the hospital. Two of them won't be back to work." There was silence. Volkov moved his hand to the edge of the bed, gripped it once, and Released it. "The Blackwood woman," he said. "Aria Thornwood." "Her father withdrew all European support from the Blackwood family as of this morning. She's reportedly preparing to return to Europe." "And Damon Blackwood." "At the family residence. He hasn't left." Volkov slowly turned his head to the window. His face looked sharp and calm, showing nothing....except to someone who knew him well enough to see the signs.

It was about a father’s delusion, a predator’s regret, and the blood that was about to be spilled on a mountain he couldn't even see. ​Arthur Blackwood sat in the dark, a king of nothing, waiting for the first report from the Jackals. He was a man ready to die to "save" the daughter he had already destroyed.

I wanted him. Raven Blackwood. Raven Blackwood was the son of my father’s best friend Richard Blackwood. He was twenty years old this year. He followed after his father’s steps and took over his business just at the age of eighteen. He had dark hair, which looked sharper than shadows, and his gray eyes. Well, they looked like some storm that was on the verge of destruction. Everyone admired him and feared him. And me? Well, I was no exception either.

Paper-thin. He was older — late 50s, maybe 60. White stubble coated his jaw. His face was drawn, but intact. No bruising. Just exhaustion carved into bone. Ava stepped in first, sidearm raised. “Alive,” she whispered. Damon froze at the threshold. “No…” He took a step forward. “No, that’s not possible.” Ava turned. “You know him?” Damon’s voice cracked in a way it hadn’t in years. “That’s… that’s Micah Blackwood.”

"He's demanding audience, Alpha. Says he has a proposition that might prevent... unpleasantness." Unpleasantness. Such a delicate word for the kind of territorial war that could paint these mountains red with supernatural blood. I found Blackwood waiting in the courtyard like he owned it, flanked by three wolves who moved with the particular swagger of creatures who'd never learned proper respect for established territory. He looked older than I remembered—gray threading through dark hair, lines around his eyes that spoke of years spent in exile—but his amber gaze held the same calculating intelligence that had made him dangerous three decades ago.

“You’re not escaping this. What’s with the name Blackwood?” Lena chuckled. “I knew you’d ask.” Emma looked over with a small smile. She already knew the story but stayed quiet, letting Lena speak. “It’s a long story,” Lena began softly. “I’m married to Darius Blackwood.” Zara froze. “Wait… the Blackwoods? The ones who own the blackwoods businesses?” Lena nodded. “Yes. And his brother, Damian.” For a moment, Zara just stared, her mouth open. Then she burst out laughing not in disbelief, but in shock. “Lena! You’re serious?”

The Blackwoods were the ones organising it this year, a prestigious duty that only served to fuel my stepmother's ego. ​It was, predictably, another avenue and opportunity for Vivienne Blackwoods to throw her weight around. She was everywhere, moving with theatrical purpose, ordering everyone and giving instructions to a host of hired help and socialites as if she was the undisputed matriarch of the Blackwoods clan. Her voice, sharp and high, grated on my nerves.

“Blackwood Global controls half the industries this family touches. Do you understand what that debt has cost us in leverage for thirty years? Richard Blackwood is offering to erase it. All you have to do is sign.” “All I have to do.” I picked up the folder despite myself, because some numb, obedient part of me still hadn’t learned to say no to them. My fingers found the first page. Damian Blackwood’s name sat there in dense black print, cold and unfamiliar, a man I’d only ever seen in tabloid photographs, always in shadow, always described in the same three words. *Cold. Ruthless. Untouchable.* “They say he’s never even been photographed smiling,” I said quietly.