Unwanted Wife: Dancing With The Blackwell Devil
I was the invisible daughter of the Graves family, a living ghost in a house of gold. On the morning of my half-sister Brittny’s wedding to the terrifying Elliot Blackwell, I watched from the shadows as she escaped, leaving behind a ruined reputation and a bankrupt legacy.
The panic in the foyer was a masterpiece of dysfunction. My father and stepmother realized their social ladder was burning to ash, and they only had one card left to play to save their fortune.
"We promised them a bride," my stepmother whispered, her eyes settling on me like a butcher assessing a spare piece of meat.
They didn't just want to sell me to the Blackwells; they planned to trigger a legal clause to steal my late mother’s multi-million dollar trust fund the moment I said "I do." I was being traded like a commodity to cover my father’s gambling debts, forced to marry a man the world whispered was a cold-blooded monster.
To them, I was a sacrificial lamb, a spare part used to fix a broken machine. I stood there, listening to them plot my ruin, and I realized that in this house, blood wasn't thicker than water—it was just another currency.
How could my own father sign away my life for a merger? Why did they think I would go quietly into the arms of a man who looked like he had just walked off a battlefield?
But they didn't know I was the one who orchestrated Brittny's escape. As the armored Blackwell motorcade smashed through our front gates like a strike team, I didn't cry. I walked into the parlor with a transfer protocol of my own, forcing my father to return every cent of my inheritance before I ever touched that white silk dress.
Elliot Blackwell didn't come for a wedding; he came for a head. When he gripped my chin, his eyes dark with a terrifying, predator-like clarity, I didn't flinch.
"You're not the bride I paid for," he growled.
"I'm the one you're getting," I whispered back. The game was just beginning, and for the first time in my life, I was playing for keeps.
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Chapter 3
The doors of the trailing SUVs flew open in unison.
Twelve men poured out. They didn't move like bodyguards; they moved like a strike team. Black tactical suits, earpieces, hands hovering over holstered weapons that were definitely not legal for private security.
They fanned out, forming a perimeter that cut the Graves family off from the outside world.
Grand Dame Graves let out a whimper, clutching her chest. Lord Graves looked like he might vomit on his Italian loafers.
Brooke didn't move. Her eyes were locked on the lead vehicle. The armored beast hissed as its hydraulic suspension lowered.
The rear door clicked.
A boot hit the gravel. Black leather, handmade, dusted with ash.
Elliot Blackwell emerged.
He wasn't wearing a tuxedo. He was wearing a black dress shirt, unbuttoned at the collar, sleeves rolled up to reveal forearms corded with muscle. He looked like he had just rolled out of bed, or a bar fight, or both.
He stood there, blinking against the sunlight, and ran a hand through his messy dark hair. He looked bored.
Then he looked up.
His eyes were dark, bottomless pits that seemed to absorb the light around him. There was no hangover in those eyes. Only a sharp, terrifying clarity.
He took a drag from a cigarette that shouldn't have been lit, exhaling a plume of grey smoke toward the terrified family.
"Where is she?"
His voice was low, a rumble of gravel and velvet.
The Grand Dame stepped forward, trembling. "Lord Blackwell... we... there has been a... a slight complication."
Elliot dropped the cigarette. He crushed it under his boot, grinding it into the stone.
"I'm not kidding," he said. "I asked where the bride is."
"She's indisposed," Mistress Yun squeaked from behind her husband.
Elliot laughed. It was a dry, humorless sound. He snapped his fingers.
Click-clack.
Twelve safety catches disengaged on twelve weapons. The sound echoed like a gunshot.
"I don't have patience today," Elliot said, walking toward the stairs. "I have a hangover, and I have a schedule. Produce the bride, or I start dismantling this gingerbread house brick by brick."
He stopped three steps below Brooke.
He looked up at her.
For the first time, his bored expression flickered. He tilted his head, studying her like a biological specimen that had suddenly grown teeth.
"You're not Brittny," he said.
"Observant," Brooke replied. Her voice didn't shake.
Elliot climbed the last three steps. He invaded her personal space, looming over her. He smelled of expensive scotch, gunpowder, and danger.
The family gasped. Lord Graves took a step forward, then stopped when a laser sight appeared on his chest.
Elliot leaned in close, his face inches from Brooke's.
"You're the sister," he murmured. "The one they hide in the attic. Frederick, right?"
He used her mother's name like a weapon. A test.
"Brooke," she corrected. "And I'm not hiding."
Elliot smirked. It transformed his face from handsome to devilish.
"Aren't you scared, Brooke Frederick?"
"Fear is inefficient," she said.
He stared at her for a long second. Then, lightning fast, his hand shot out.
He grabbed her chin.
It wasn't a caress. It was a grip. He turned her face left, then right, inspecting her.
Brooke didn't pull away. Instead, her eyes dropped to his hand.
She saw the ridge of calluses along his palm. The rough skin on his trigger finger. These weren't the hands of a trust fund playboy who spent his days signing checks. These were hands that broke things.
"Rough hands for a Prince," she whispered.
Elliot froze. His pupils dilated. He released her chin instantly, stepping back as if she had burned him.
He turned to the Grand Dame, his voice booming.
"You have ten minutes."
He sat down on the top step, his back to them, and checked his watch.
"Ten minutes to get her in a dress and in my car. Or I burn the inheritance."
He didn't specify which girl. He didn't care.
Brooke looked at the back of his head. She was playing a game. And for the first time in years, she felt a spark of interest.
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8.4
Grace, after three years of silence from a crash that stole her voice and family, finally uttered a hoarse syllable. It was her first sound, a breakthrough she desperately wanted to share with Josiah, her childhood protector. Instead, through a slightly ajar door, she heard his careless chuckle, followed by a sharp, entitled voice.
Alexandria's voice sliced through the air: "Josiah, are you really planning to bring that little mute to the banquet? She's a walking trailer park tragedy. It's embarrassing." Grace froze, waiting for Josiah to defend her. He didn't. Instead, he sighed, calling her "a responsibility" and "a lifeless ghost," then pulled Alexandria closer.
The words were serrated blades. Her silent devotion, her self-erasure for his peace, had made her a punchline. He was relieved she was broken. The bitter realization of his betrayal ignited a cold, white-hot fury.
Wiping away tears, Grace met Josiah, feigning her usual submissive smile, and quietly refused his "hush money." As he walked away without a glance, her inner voice was clear, sharp, and resolute: "I'm done playing your game."
8.7
I arrived at the hotel with Julian's favorite takeout, ready to surprise my fiancé before our big merger. But the moment I swiped the keycard, the silence of the hallway felt heavy and wrong.
Inside, a red-soled stiletto lay on the marble floor-the same one I'd watched my best friend Lila try on at Saks last week. Through the cracked bedroom door, I watched Julian's back arch as Lila looked me straight in the eye and smiled, wrapping her legs tighter around him to mock my heartbreak.
I fled to the penthouse to hide, only to find Grafton, Julian's "crippled" brother, waiting in the dark. To my horror, the man who was supposed to be paralyzed stood up from his wheelchair, gripped my chin with cold fingers, and forced me to sign a contract that gave him control of my family's shares. He knew about my mother's secret medical bills and used them to buy my silence, effectively turning my life into a calculated game of corporate chess.
The betrayal tasted like acid, and the injustice of it all burned in my throat. My fiancé was a liar, my best friend was a thief, and the man now controlling my fate was a predator who had been faking his disability for years.
I couldn't understand how everyone I trusted had turned out to be a monster. I was trapped between a man who cheated on me and a man who wanted to own me, with no way out and no one to turn to.
But when Julian came looking for me, Grafton didn't hide; he stood tall, looming over me with a possessive glint in his eyes. "Help me destroy Julian," I rasped, realizing that to survive the Faulkner men, I had to become the most dangerous player of them all.
9.5
!!WARNING!!
This series will wreck your panties and your soul; no safe words, no apologies.
Expect a possessed woman being exorcised: spiritually and physically by the priest's dick to a high school famous ball player, ramming his hard c*ck into his best friend's mother's soaked c^nt to lesbians cheating on one another for the same throbbing, cum-slicked monster cock and many more.
This collection would be filled with some of the craziest affairs known to be taboos to healthy people but a normal way of life to sex starved CEO's, doctors, divorced women and others.
If "please, Daddy, harder" makes you clutch your pearls... slam this shut and run.
But if the idea of being taken, marked, and filled until you can't think straight has you throbbing already...flip the page, slut. You've been warned.
Grab your sex toys ladies
Cause author Xena is coming with the heat. kisses.
8.3
I stood before a polished black headstone, tracing the gold letters of my own name.
Five years ago, my Fated Mate, Clayton, rejected me in a blizzard because I was a "useless Omega" who couldn't shift. He left me to freeze to death so he could mate with my sister, Ainsley, claiming it was necessary for the pack's genetics.
Now, Clayton stood behind me, trembling as he dropped a bouquet of wilted lilies.
He thought I was a ghost. But when he realized I was alive, the shock turned into arrogance. He tried to use his Alpha Command to force me to my knees.
My family was even worse. When I walked into the pack house, my father accused me of treason for "faking my death." My aunt tried to slap me for being disrespectful. They demanded I donate my blood to save my father's life, still treating me like a disposable resource.
They didn't realize that the pressure crushing the room wasn't coming from them—it was coming from me.
They had thrown away a Royal White Wolf to keep a human pretending to be a shifter. The irony was suffocating.
I didn't flinch when they threatened me. I just smiled and let my true aura explode, turning the air to ice.
"You rejected me for being weak," I whispered, my eyes flashing silver.
Then, the doors blew off their hinges. My husband, the Supreme Alpha, walked in and grabbed the elders by the throat.
"You just declared war on the Blood Moon Pack."
8.8
My husband thought I was just a docile wife, easily controlled. He didn't know I'd spent five years meticulously dismantling his life. Tonight, his world would finally crumble into dust.
For five years, I endured Jackson's entitled demands and his family's greed, silently funding their lavish life in our Beverly Hills mansion.
My illusion shattered finding his mistress Amber's lingerie in his suitcase. My attorney just severed all financial ties, making Jackson's arrogant demands hollow.
I tossed my diamond ring into the trash, summoning an industrial compactor. Jackson, his mother, and mistress watched in horror as their designer luggage, bought with my money, was crushed, turning their lavish trip into garbage.
A cold, dead smile marked my cathartic release from five years of betrayal. How could they be so blind to the woman they dismissed?
Stepping into an armored Maybach, I left them in chaos. My iPad confirmed Jackson's credit cards freezing. This wasn't just divorce; it was a calculated demolition, making their pampered lives very real.
8.0
I spent ten years as the ward of Kason Oneal, the ruthless Underboss of the city's most dangerous crime family. He saved me when I was a child, raised me, and made me believe I was his queen.
But the moment his ex-girlfriend, Dalia, returned, the illusion shattered.
Kason demanded I return the jade pendant—the one he had hand-carved for my sixteenth birthday—just so he could hang it around Dalia's neck. To him, I was suddenly nothing more than a placeholder who had kept his bed warm.
The cruelty didn't stop there. He stood by and watched as Dalia shredded my clothes with scissors, laughing at my tears.
When I collapsed on the floor in agony from acute appendicitis, Kason didn't call an ambulance. Instead, he dragged me to a shady clinic, accusing me of faking a pregnancy to trap him. He ordered the doctor to "terminate it" while I was dying of sepsis on the table.
He called me trash. He called me property. He stripped away every ounce of dignity I had left, all to please a woman who was lying to his face.
I realized then that the hero who saved me when I was ten was dead. I was done begging for scraps of affection from a monster.
Trembling, I walked to the phone and dialed the number of the one man Kason feared most—his sworn enemy, Hadley Payne.
"Tell him yes," I whispered into the receiver. "I accept the arrangement. I will marry him."
Kason thought he could break me. Instead, he was about to watch his "property" become the Queen of the rival family.