Marcus Blackwood Novels & Stories

Micaiah said. "Don't you?" Marcus stepped closer. "See, I've been doing some research since I got here. About you, Micaiah Hayes. Youngest professor at ASU. Son of Richard Hayes, successful real estate developer. But that's not the interesting part." "Marcus—" I started. "The interesting part is what you do when you're not teaching ethics to college students. The properties you own through shell companies. The people you associate with. The fact that Daemon Blackwood—notorious criminal, by the way—seems very interested in your stepsister."

Dominic said. He talked for an hour. I listened. And the family I had arrived into, already complicated, revealed itself in its full shape: not worse than I had thought, not better, but larger and more human and more costly than the version I'd been given in increments. Marcus Blackwood had been many things, terrible and brilliant and afraid and powerful, and the sons he had raised—and the son he had adopted—had each carried pieces of him that were still being worked out.

"A bigger one. I've been analyzing the financials around Marcus's mysterious fifty thousand dollars. The encryption on the authorization code is sophisticated, Council-level sophisticated." Aria felt a chill. "What are you saying?" "I'm saying someone on the Council arranged for that money to be deposited in Marcus's account. Someone who wanted his testimony discredited." Morgana's expression was grim. "And I think I know who." She pulled out her tablet, showing them a series of financial transactions. "Elder Blackwood has a shell company. I've been tracking it for weeks, trying to understand his financial interests. That shell company made a payment to a third party, who then made the depos

Marcus Ruvia just continued his exit from the abandoned building as if he didn't hear anything. Marcus Ruvia was known for being a ruthless, dominant, and powerful young boss of the mafia in the human world. He is very tall and muscular. His delicate features and obsidian eyes made him look mysterious and aloof. His aura imposed that no one should try to mess up with him or else they had their own death wishes.

Owen's pov It was obvious from the look on the alpha's face that he didn't want us near the mysterious woman that had me and my brothers weak in the knees and that pissed me off because his mate was sitting on her knees right next to him. I was confused as to why he was acting as if he and she was an item, my wolf growled at the thought of his mate with another man. Axel turned to her and asked her, her name, in which she only replied it was not important right now and there were bigger things to concentrate on. Raising my left eyebrow I looked her over from head to toe, she had blood covering her but it didn't look like it was her blood, a small smear of blood was on her cheek and I was afr

And underneath it all, a single memory looped on repeat: "Prepare for a darkness unlike any you’ve confronted." Her eyes landed on her closed laptop. She hadn’t touched it since that call. It sat quietly now, too quietly. She stared for a long second, then walked over and flipped it open. The screen glowed to life, casting her face in the blue light that had become so familiar, it felt ritualistic. Her encrypted email still sat open. Marcus Langford is a symptom. The disease is deeper. Blackwood is the key. Adrian Blackwood. Even the name sounded fictional. A billionaire recluse. Whispers in Parliament. Donations to mental health causes. No scandals. No leaks. No profile. Just a curated myth

"You're not that boy anymore, Lucian. You're more than your father's guilt." "Am I?" He leaned into my touch, closing his eyes. "In this house, we’re all just ghosts of the boys we used to be. Adrian is the boy who was never allowed to fail. Julian is the boy who was never allowed to be angry. And I’m the boy who was never supposed to exist." He pulled me closer, his forehead resting against mine. "Marcus isn't just a chef, Ella. He’s a reminder that the Blackwood legacy is built on the bodies of the people they discarded. He wants to tear it all down. And honestly? Some days, I want to help him."

The backstage area was a flurry of activity—technicians adjusting lights, stage managers conferring over schedules, musicians warming up in corners. They had almost reached Amity's dressing room when a familiar voice called out behind them. "Amity. I thought that was you." They turned together to face Marcus Blackwood. He was exactly as Jake had imagined from Amity's descriptions, tall, elegantly dressed, with the kind of calculated casualness that took considerable effort to maintain. His smile was practised, his eyes sharp with assessment as they moved from Amity to Jake. "Marcus," Amity acknowledged coolly. "I wasn't expecting to see you until tomorrow."

For a moment, the silence between us felt heavier than stone. “Do you think Marcus is right?” I asked. “Does this puzzle end with answers?” Julian turned back to the desk. “It ends with something. The old man’s games always do.” He looked back at me. “How many numbers do you have?” “Two.” “Same,” he said. “I’m missing this one. And Aaron’s.” I frowned. “Aaron’s?” “Blackwood,” Julian explained. “That was his nickname. Westbrook was Luca’s. Theodore Winchester was Marcus’s.”

I was lying on a wide, sloping stone ledge, hidden beneath the parapet. I gasped, pain radiating through my spine and ribs. I lay there, stunned, my lungs fighting for air. I blinked, forcing my vision to clear. I scrambled backward, pressing my spine against the damp, cold stone wall. My heart hammered against my ribs. I looked up. Marcus Blackwood stood at the very edge of the roof, his massive silhouette blocking the moonlight. He was laughing—a cold, cruel sound. “The Anchor falls,” Blackwood’s voice boomed down. “A pity. She had spirit.”