Chapter 14 The Blackwood Trinity #2
He masks it well, but I know him. I’ve learned to read the minute ticks of his expression. The tautness of his jaw, the ghost of strain in his grip. And when he lifts his arm again, another mark flashes beneath his cuff—red, raw, deliberate.
“You’re hurt.”
He straightens with that lethal grace I’ve always envied, every flaw reforged into armor. “It’s nothing.”
A spike of heat stabs through my chest. Rage. Helplessness. I want to tear open whatever door he walked through to earn those bruises and set the place on fire. But I’m not Dom. I don’t get to burn things without consequences. I don’t know how to protect him. Not the way he protects me.
“What happened?”
His jaw tightens. “Don’t.”
“Dom—”
“I said it’s nothing.” His voice carries an edge of warning. “Let it go.”
I reach beneath the table, fingers brushing against his, but he pulls away before I can hold on. The slight stiffness in his left arm becomes more pronounced as someone passes too close behind him.
“You wore that dress to kill me, didn’t you?” His smile returns, practiced and perfect. “How’s a man supposed to discuss politics when you look like that?”
Deflection. The oldest play in his book. But I see through it now, see the careful distance he maintains between his back and the chair as if contact might hurt.
“You’re bleeding,” I murmur. “I saw it. Under your collar.”
He doesn’t blink. “I bled worse the day they handed me your name.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“It’s the only one I’m offering,” he says. “Drink your wine, love. We’ll talk later.”
The moment shatters, but the image of his bruises burns behind my eyes. Someone has marked him. Made him bleed. And I have a sinking, ugly certainty about exactly who wields that kind of power over a Blackwood heir.
The sharp tinkle of Octavia’s bangles reaches me before I see her, a warning bell dressed in gold.
Dom’s fingers flex around his glass, a fraction too tight, and that’s all the confirmation I need.
The tension from our earlier almost-fight crackles between us, and I know we’re about to give Kian exactly what he lives for: weakness to exploit.
The Blackwood trinity approaches, their unity a perfectly choreographed nightmare.
Octavia leads, gliding through the lounge as if gravity itself has learned deference.
Raven-black hair coils into a lacquered crown, each wave immaculate, every line a study in precision.
Her features are sculpted with surgical care: cheekbones honed to glass-cutting edges, almond eyes rimmed in molten bronze, lips lacquered in venomous plum.
She moves with the practiced detachment of a woman who has turned evisceration into an art, every smile sharpened for the kill.
The gown that sheathes her glimmers in deep red silk, and with each measured step, she leaves behind a vapor of perfume—orchid smoke laced with something keener, the scent of secrets too dangerous to bottle.
Kian follows at a slower pace, loose-limbed grace wrapped in calculated ease.
He shares his son’s build—tall, broad-shouldered, every line honed by luxury and violence—yet where Dom carries the coiled threat of a weapon still deciding when to strike, Kian is the aftermath.
Blood drawn, blade wiped clean. Copper-brown hair falls in a sweep just longer than Dom’s, styled with careless polish that frames the devastating symmetry of his face.
An open collar lends him an air of effortless seduction, every detail curated into allure.
His infamous gray eyes drift across the lounge with leisurely dissection, cataloguing weaknesses, weighing which ruin will taste the most satisfying.
He doesn’t look dangerous at first glance. He looks expensive, composed, immaculate. The danger is in how easy it would be to drink whatever he offers, even when you know it will kill you.
And then there’s Margaux.
Obsidian silk clings to her frame, the gown’s slit flashing toned legs and a crimson stiletto with every languid step.
Her beauty is all sharpened edges and calculated polish: catlike eyes rimmed in ink, lips glossy black, skin luminous with a golden undertone that gleams under the lights.
Where Octavia rules as monarchy in a murder dress, Margaux crackles with high-voltage chaos wrapped in couture.
The youngest, but never dismissed, she radiates that impossible blend of rich-girl apathy and latent threat.
Her eyes find mine and pin me like a bug on velvet. Disdain curves her mouth, but behind it, I see something else. Hunger. Not for me, but for power and blood.
“Mother. Father.” Dom’s voice is polished ice. “What an unexpected pleasure.”
“Darling.” Octavia bends to kiss his cheek, her ruby bracelet catching the light. “When we heard you were dining with Aria, we couldn’t possibly resist. It’s been far too long since we’ve had the pleasure of her company.”
Magic ripples through the table at her gesture, marble and crystal expanding to accommodate them. I fight the urge to bolt as Octavia’s arms open for an embrace I can’t refuse.
“Octavia,” I say smoothly, matching her theatrics with a veneer of warmth. “Still the most dangerous woman within a ten-mile radius. You look stunning.”
She beams, the picture of counterfeit fondness. “We’ve missed you at brunch.”
“Oh, spare us the performance,” Margaux drawls, dropping into her chair. “We all know you’re here to make sure Dom’s little obsession with the Ellis girl turns into something useful for your dynasty.”
“Margaux.” Octavia’s perfectly painted lips tighten.
“What?” She shrugs. “I’m only saying what everyone else is too polite to admit.
Personally, I think it’s delicious. Nothing says ‘fuck you’ to carefully cultivated bloodlines quite like choosing the daughter of dead scientists over whatever vapid socialite of the week.
” Margaux turns to me, dark eyes glittering.
“You should’ve seen Mother’s shortlist. All vetted for optimal genetics and political gain.
Though I suppose having your parents’ research tips the scales in your favor, doesn’t it? ”
Dom goes rigid beside me, but before either of us can speak, Kian sinks into the chair at my side. The scent of blood orange and polished steel clings to him, undercut with sweat, smoke, and pain.
“You know,” he says lightly, “last time I dined here, the chef undercooked my halibut. Poor bastard lost three fingers.” He glances toward the wine server, who freezes mid-pour. “Oh, don’t stiffen up now, sweet thing. He’s still got seven left. Plating’s much more efficient that way.”
The wine trembles at the bottle’s lip, a single drop threatening to stain the pristine linen.
Kian’s fingers curl around his glass with cultivated poise. “This one,” he says, tilting it toward me, “was aged in dragonbone barrels. Worth more than that necklace around your neck.” He leans in, voice low. “But I’m sure your little luxuries are well-covered. Right, son?”
Dom doesn’t reply, just holds his father’s gaze with that coiled, silent fury I’ve come to recognize.
“You’re awfully quiet tonight,” Kian muses, swirling his wine. “Trouble in paradise?”
My foot nudges Dom beneath the table in warning and Kian catches it instantly.
“Don’t mind me,” he says, teeth flashing. “I just worry. Family dinners lose their charm without a little blood in the air. Right, Margaux?”
She lifts her glass, eyes glittering. “It’s not a Blackwood gathering until someone cries or bleeds. Personally, I’m hoping for both.”
“That’s my girl. Always aiming for spectacle.” Kian chuckles low. “Don’t let anyone tell you subtlety wins wars.”
I give her a polite smile. “Still chasing validation at the bottom of a wine glass, Margaux?”
“Oh, I’ve missed you.” She grins, delighted.
The first dish arrives in synchronized grace, spheres of bluefin tuna suspended in shimmering soy essence.
The servers move with quiet efficiency, trained to precision, their eyes never quite meeting ours.
I track the tension in their shoulders and know what it means.
Dom told me once: twelve seconds. If plating takes longer, Kian’s staff are “retrained.” And by that, he means dragged to the Underground.
I’ve never seen it myself, only heard the rumors.
They say it stretches beneath the Blackwood estate, a buried empire where Kian breaks things—enemies, allies, expectations—down to bone, blood, and obedience.
The floors there are spelled to wipe clean, and men who enter as threats emerge as whispers.
“To new beginnings,” Kian raises his glass toward me. “Or second chances, depending on which version of the story you prefer.”
I meet his eyes, smile cool. “I don’t believe in second chances. Just cleaner executions.”
Margaux chokes on a laugh, spraying wine into her napkin, while Dom’s tense hand finds mine again under the table.
Kian’s gaze carves the space between us. “We’ll see about that.”
“Divine,” Octavia pronounces, dabbing delicately at her lips with a linen napkin. Even that simple motion is laced with decades of etiquette training. “Though we really must discuss the wedding arrangements. I’ve already reached out to several venues that would suit a Blackwood–Ellis union.”
The entire room seems to still, conversations dropping to whispers as other diners pretend not to eavesdrop. I’ve seen this before—how the Blackwoods can turn any space into their personal theater, the rest of us merely players in their latest drama.
“Wedding arrangements?” I keep my voice steady even as my heart hammers against my ribs, and Dom’s hand hardens to stone against my thigh. When I glance at him and find he won’t meet my eyes, ice laces through my veins.
“Oh dear,” Kian drawls, gaze alight with malice. “Don’t tell me Dom hasn’t proposed yet? And here I was, certain that’s what tonight was for.” He turns to his son, mock concern curling his lips. “Have I ruined the surprise, darling boy?”
“Father.” Dom’s warning hits with authority, though his hand betrays him when it closes around his glass. The same involuntary flicker I’ve seen in countless others after Kian decides they need a personal tour of his subterranean playground.
“You haven’t agreed to marry him?” Margaux lets out a soft laugh as she lounges back, every inch the bored princess except for the predatory gleam lurking behind her lashes.
“Oh, this is absolutely delicious. Mother’s been in an absolute tizzy for weeks.
You should see her binder.” She leans forward.
“Tell me, Aria—does it feel strange knowing your future mother-in-law started planning your wedding before you even knew about it? Or is that just standard procedure in our gloriously fucked-up family?”
“Margaux,” Dom growls, but she only gives him a bored glance.
“What, brother dearest? Someone had to name the elephant. Or should I say . . .” she lifts her glass, “. . . the engagement ring that doesn’t exist? Don’t act surprised, Aria. You’re practically family already. Might as well make it legally binding.”
“Nothing has been agreed,” I say tightly. “Whatever this is, it isn’t settled.”
“But it should be, shouldn’t it?” Kian puts his elbows on the table, fingers steepling. “After all, weren’t you and your heartthrob working toward that before your little tragedy derailed everything? The perfect union. The perfect future.” He gestures lazily between us. “Power marries pedigree.”
“That’s not what this is.” I swallow with a stiff spine.
His smile turns mocking. “No? Then tell me, Aria, was Dominic just your little rebellion back then? A thrill to piss off your parents?” His voice lowers to poisonous undertone. “And now that they’re gone, he’s lost his appeal?”
“Of course not,” I snap, just as Dom’s fingers tighten around my knee in warning.
“Ah,” Kian says, all faux sympathy. “The novelty hasn’t worn off. That’s good. Love’s so rare in our world, wouldn’t you say? So delicate. So easily twisted into leverage.”
“Careful,” Dom grits out. “You’re treading into shit I won’t stay polite about.”
Kian’s grin stretches. “There he is. My boy, with fire in his blood.” He turns to me. “He’s always been a protective little thing. Told him once it’d be his downfall, but maybe I was wrong. Maybe love makes men useful, not weak. What do you think, Aria?”
I remember the warning Dom once gave me. About how Kian would turn love into a weapon the moment he sensed it. How every show of affection becomes ammunition. The moment anyone knows what we are to each other, it’ll be used to bleed us dry.
Most Founding Family marriages aren’t love stories. They’re contracts, power plays, and political strategy hidden behind diamond rings. Dom has risked everything for us.
“We should go.” He stands suddenly, the chair scraping against the floor.
I follow, muscles stiff, barely catching my clutch as it tumbles off the edge of the table.
“You’ll visit me tomorrow, won’t you, sweetheart?” Kian’s eyes meet mine, and despite the warmth in his voice, the threat beneath is unmistakable. “I’ve come into something about your parents and their unfortunate accident. Family looks after its own, and you know how I treasure secrets.”
“I’ll think about it,” I say, matching his smile with one of my own.
“To the future Mrs. Blackwood.” He raises his glass. “Don’t keep me waiting, Aria. You know how I get when I’m bored.”