Oblivion Blackwood Novels & Stories

Silence came to fill the void left behind the almost hypnotic sound of his exhausted voice, a deafening stillness that echoed in the confessor's ears. For a moment, Wilkud was granted a vision of endless painful darkness that, though impenetrable in its blackness, he knew continued to infinity. It was an unfathomable chasm that swallowed up everything that was drawn into it, an infinite abyss of doom and despair. It was enough for Wilkud to experience a moment of chilling doubt that perhaps what he had spent his entire life believing and practicing was nothing more than a bleak and pitiful lie.

She jumps back quickly and punches me in the face. “Don’t you dare throw up on me Lillian fucking Blackwood, or I’ll fucking kill you like your bitch mother.” She roars. I spit blood on the floor, “I’m glad you found each other, I’ll get you the money and then you can let me go.” I growl.

I didn't know then that it was a Judas kiss. The Lion’s Den The Blackwood Estate was a fortress of black marble and glass perched on a cliffside, overlooking a churning, violent sea. As the iron gates hissed shut behind our limousine, a cold dread settled in my stomach. We weren't led to a dining hall. We were led to the penthouse library—a room that smelled of old parchment, expensive tobacco, and power. Killian Blackwood was standing by the floor-to-ceiling window, a crystal glass of amber liquid in his hand. He didn't turn around immediately. He let the silence stretch, heavy and suffocating, until I felt like I couldn't breathe.

Their eyes were glowing with leftover shift-lust, their hands dripping with Silvermoon blood. The Blackwood Legion. My breath hitched, creating a white cloud in the freezing air. Everyone knew the stories. They were the most ruthless army on the continent, commanded by a monster who slaughtered entire bloodlines just to make a point. They left nothing but ash behind. "Sort them!" a voice barked over the howling wind. A Blackwood soldier grabbed me by the collar. He was massive, smelling of smoke and violence. He took one look at my bruised face, my thin arms, and my shivering, starving and skinny frame, and he scoffed. He threw me aside without bothering to grab iron cuffs.

Like a version of me that belonged in a completely different world. I jerked back slightly, my heart racing, as if I’d been stung by the picture. Julian watched me closely, his eyes following every expression that crossed my face. “What is this?” I whispered, my voice barely audible. “Who is she?” “That,” Julian said calmly, folding his arms casually over his chest, “is Kimberly Hayes. She’s my cousin’s fiancée. Nathan Blackwood—CEO of Blackwood Industries.” He reached over, swiping his finger across the screen until another picture appeared. “That’s him.”

He hit John very hard on the back, pulling him away from his girl, who hugged him tightly, pulling at her with a trembling heart. Aaron, Jack, come quickly, talk to his beta and his brother Then he looked at the frightened Renee, "Come on, Black." He muttered, his eyes turning immediately to the color of his wolf "black." His face, neck, and even his hands were filled with fearsome veins, black veins Lucas began to read the spells in front of him quickly and nervously Zain sensed him who raised his hand He pointed at Lucas, muttering a few words, and then the book fell out of Lucas' hand

I looked down the hallway and through the other side, and there was actually no one in sight. My heart hammered as I approached the large double office doors with D. BLACKWOOD engraved on the metal plate. I forced my trembling hand to knock. No answer. Great. I knocked again. Still nothing. Screw it. I pushed the door open— —and froze in place. Damian Blackwood sat behind his massive black desk. Sharp suit. Cuffed sleeves. Jaw tight enough to crack a diamond. He didn’t look up at me. Not even a glance. I opened my mouth to speak but was cut off by his deep voice.

She was a legend people either feared or pretended not to know. And Blackwood had witches. Hybrid, lunatic, chicken-blooded witches who could sniff secrets out of bones and dreams. “Vivienne Moreau,” he called, voice sharper now, and deliberate. “Open the damn door.” Yep. That was it. Funeral bells. End credits. Roll the fucking montage. I can see my family calling me to join them in hell. “Damn you, Atlas Blackwood,” I muttered under my breath, pacing once, twice, then stopping dead.

Blackwood. TBC!!

"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.