Novel Patrick Kellan Black House Novels & Stories

I stared at Adrian, still trying to figure him out. My brain refused to process anything. My room… but not my house. My bed… but not my street. My posters… but definitely not my peeling ceiling. It felt like stepping into a parallel universe sponsored by a billionaire with too much money and absolutely zero boundaries. I slowly turned back to Adrian. He looked annoyingly calm, like people reconstructed entire bedrooms from memory every day. “Mr Blackwell, we are not close enough for me to invite you into my room, right? So how do you know what my room looks like?”

She had meant every word. A choked sound tore from his throat; his fist slammed the wall. He never wanted divorce. He had believed he could walk two lines—one, his marriage to Lena; two, his careless indulgences. Today, both snapped. He unleashed the full might of the House of Black. Ghouls surfaced from Wall Street trading floors to Washington corridors. “Find Lena Black. Scour every database. Every shadow.” He summoned the Black Clan elders at midnight, obsidian rings glinting under candlelight. "Mobilize every asset," he commanded, voice cracking with raw authority.

KILLIAN The black box had been sitting on the coffee table for hours, and I'd been pacing back and forth like a predator circling its cage. I had opened it earlier and found a bunch of white lilies, each one laid carefully atop blood-red velvet. A message of sorts.

The city lights flickered through the floor-to-ceiling windows of Killian’s penthouse, casting long shadows over the luxurious suite. The silence was thick, heavy with the weight of secrets. Elena Romano, or rather, Raven Black, stood frozen in the dimly lit hallway, her heart hammering against her ribs. She had been careful—silent as a ghost, slipping through the penthouse to uncover what Killian Graves was hiding. But she hadn’t been careful enough. A deep voice cut through the darkness.

I glance through the glass wall without thinking. His office is visible from here. He’s inside. Standing at his desk, sleeves rolled once, jacket gone. Phone pressed to his ear. His posture is relaxed in the way only powerful men allow themselves to be because nothing around them can challenge it. I look away immediately. I won’t be that person. The one who stares. The one who forgets why she’s here. A soft knock sounds at my door. I turn. His assistant…professional, efficient, polite….steps in just far enough to speak. “Mr. Blackwell asked me to confirm you received the projections.”

Everything about her looked refined, sophisticated. She turned as we approached and her green eyes instantly settled on me. The smile she’d been wearing disappeared immediately. “Camille,” Vivian said pleasantly, “I’d like you to meet Kimberly Blackwood. She’s new to the neighborhood.” For a long moment, Camille simply stared. Her eyes travelled slowly over my face, my dress, the wedding ring on my finger, then back to my face again. Something cold flickered behind her expression. Something dangerously close to contempt. “Kimberly…” Her voice was smooth like honey.

She always responded with a smile, watching us joke around with whatever she thought. Had she known? Night fell, and the sound of the roaring wind crawled into my ears. I opened my eyes, rolling lazily off the bed. The room was dark, but I could see perfectly like it was day. "Emily…" a masculine voice reached out to me. I searched the room with my eyes, the sight of a black-covered book coursing through. I could remember the book from the hospital desk but I hadn’t brought it home. How did it get here? The book looked disheveled, big, and had a strange inscription on it. I didn't remember buying such a book, nor had I seen it in Dad's hands.