The Beast of Blackwood: Chapter One - The Beast of Blackwood

 Don’t worry, I haven't left my spicy contemporary roots behind! I just couldn't resist a little detour into the dark, moody world of Paranormal Romance. Consider this a "Gothic palette cleanser" featuring all the tropes we love—forced proximity, a possessive hero, and plenty of heat—just with a supernatural twist.

When Elara Thorne’s carriage shatters in the middle of a torrential storm, she has no choice but to seek shelter at the one place every scandal sheet in London warns against: Blackwood Manor. She expects a cold hearth and a reclusive Earl; she doesn't expect a man who feels more like a predator than a peer.

Chapter 1

Elara

The Beast of Blackwood

The carriage wheel didn’t just crack; it shattered with a finality that echoes through the desolate woods like a gunshot. One moment, I was bouncing uncomfortably against the velvet cushions, dreaming of a dry hearth and a glass of amber sherry at my aunt’s estate. The next, I was pitched forward, my scream swallowed by the groan of splintering wood and the relentless, rhythmic roar of the downpour against the roof.

Now, I am standing in the shin-deep mud of a neglected carriage track, my silk slippers utterly ruined and my heavy velvet cloak soaked through until it weighs a stone. The driver is useless, fussing over the shivering horses and muttering under his breath about how we shouldn’t have taken the forest road so close to the full moon. He looks at the trees as if they might sprout teeth and snap at him.

Through the shifting sheet of grey mist, Blackwood Manor looms like a jagged, blackened tooth against the bruised sky. It is a place of local ghost stories and whispered warnings—the Beast of Blackwood is the favorite subject of every scandal sheet in London this season. They say the Earl of Blackwood hasn’t been seen in the light of day for three years, ever since he returned from the Continent with a scarred face and a shattered soul. The gossips at Almack’s claim he’s gone mad, or worse, that he’s cursed.

I don’t care for ghost stories, and I certainly don’t have time for the ridiculous superstitions of the ton. I care about the creeping chill in my bones and the very real possibility of pneumonia if I remain out here another minute. My pride is a small price to pay for survival.

I trudge up the winding stone steps, my breath coming in ragged puffs of white. The house is silent, save for the wind whistling through the stone gargoyles perched on the roof. I reach for the heavy iron knocker—cast in the shape of a snarling wolf's head with eyes that seem to watch my every move—and hammer it against the door. Once. Twice. Three times. The sound is hollow, swallowed by the vastness of the estate.

I wait, shivering so violently my teeth chatter, until the massive oak door creaks open just a fraction. An ancient butler with a face like crumpled parchment and eyes clouded by cataracts peers out at me. He smells of mothballs and stale lavender.

"The Earl is not receiving visitors," he says, his voice a dry rasp that barely carries over the howling wind. "Especially not tonight, Miss. It is the eve of the moon. You must move on. The village is but five miles back."

"I am not a visitor," I snap, my patience evaporating along with my body heat. I plant my hand on the door and push. To my surprise, the heavy wood gives way, and I practically stumble into the foyer, my boots squelching on the stone. "I am a woman whose carriage has collapsed in his lordship’s driveway. I require a fire, a dry room, and perhaps a spot of tea before I freeze to death. I shall not be turned away like a stray cat simply because your master is a recluse."

"You don't understand, Miss—"

"Elara Thorne," I provide, shaking out my sodden cloak and watching as a dark puddle forms on the pristine black-and-white marble floor.

The foyer is cavernous and freezing, lit only by a few dying embers in a fireplace large enough to roast an ox. Shadows dance high up in the rafters, and the air smells of old books, wet earth, and something sharp and metallic. It feels less like a home and more like a mausoleum. My skin prickles, a strange, instinctive warning bell ringing in the back of my mind.

A low, vibrating growl echoes from the top of the grand staircase.

It isn’t a human sound. It’s deep, resonant, and so primal that it makes the hair on my arms stand up. I freeze, my hand still clutching the silver clasp of my cloak, and look up into the thick gloom of the upper landing.

A man stands there. He is massive—far larger than the lean, pampered darlings of the London ballrooms I’ve spent the last three years avoiding. His hair is a wild mane of dark brown that brushes his shoulders, and even from here, I can see that his white linen shirt is unbuttoned halfway down his chest, revealing a glimpse of bronzed skin and dark hair. He doesn't wear a cravat. He doesn't even wear shoes.

"Get her out, Jenkins," the man says. His voice isn’t just deep; it’s a physical weight, heavy and dangerous. It vibrates right through the soles of my ruined slippers.

"Her carriage is broken, My Lord," the butler whispers, bowing his head so low I fear he might fall over. "The axle is snapped. They are stranded until the smithy can be summoned in the morning."

The Earl begins to descend the stairs. He doesn’t walk like a gentleman; he moves with a predatory, silent grace, his feet thudding softly against the stone. He stops three steps above me, pinning me in place with eyes that seem to glow a strange, molten amber in the dim light. They aren’t the eyes of a man who spends his days reading poetry or debating trade laws. They are the eyes of something that has spent too much time in the dark, hunting.

Up close, the power he radiates is staggering. He is all sharp angles and suppressed energy, like a bowstring pulled to the point of snapping. There is a jagged scar running from his temple down to his jaw, a white line of ruin against his tan skin, but it doesn't make him hideous. It makes him look… wild. It makes him look like he belongs in the woods, not in a manor.

"You should not be here, Elara Thorne," he says, and the way he says my name—tasting the syllables as if they are a vintage wine he hasn’t encountered in an age—sends a shiver down my spine that has nothing to do with the cold.

"I have nowhere else to go, My Lord," I say, lifting my chin. I refuse to be intimidated by a man who won't even put on a jacket to greet a guest. "The storm is worsening. Unless you mean to throw me back into the woods to be eaten by whatever creatures you're so worried about? I assure you, I am much more pleasant company than a wolf."

He steps down the final three stairs, closing the distance until he is well within my personal space. The scent of him hits me all at once—pine needles, expensive brandy, rain, and something warm and musky. It’s an intoxicating, dizzying smell. He leans down, his face inches from mine. For a terrifying, breathless second, I think he’s actually going to bite my neck. His nostrils flare as he breathes me in, his eyes tracking the pulse I know is thudding visibly in my throat.

I should run. I should bolt back out into the rain and take my chances with the mud. But I can't move. I am trapped in his golden gaze, my heart hammering against my ribs like a bird in a cage. My breath hitches, and for a moment, the world narrows down to just the heat of him and the sound of the rain.

"One night," he growls, his breath hot against my cheek. He looks pained, his jaw clenched so tight I hear the bone creak. "You stay in your room. You lock the door from the inside. Do you hear me? You lock it and you do not unlock it for anyone. And no matter what you hear outside your window—no matter how much you think someone might need help—you do not open it. Do you understand?"

"I am not in the habit of wandering halls at night, My Lord," I manage to whisper, though my voice is breathy and weak, betrayed by the strange electricity humming between us.

"See that you aren't," he says, his gaze dropping to my lips for a fraction of a second. A flash of something—hunger, maybe, or regret—crosses his face before he snaps his head back up. He looks like a man fighting a war within himself. "Jenkins, take her to the North Room. Give her whatever she needs—food, dry clothes—but make sure she stays put. If I find her in the hallways after midnight, I will not be held responsible for the consequences."

He turns on his heel and vanishes back into the shadows of the upper floor without another word. I stand there for a long moment, my heart finally beginning to slow, though the heat his body radiated still feels like it’s branded into my skin. I feel marked.

"This way, Miss Thorne," the butler says softly, his voice full of a pity I don't quite understand.

As I follow him up the creaking stairs, my hand trailing along the cold stone bannister, I can't help but look back at the dark hallway where the Earl disappeared. The scandal sheets were wrong. He isn't a ghost. He’s something much more tactile, much more grounded, and much more frightening. He is a storm in human skin.

And as the wind howls again, shaking the very foundations of the house, I can still feel the weight of his stare, burning into the back of my neck like a brand. I have a feeling that locking the door won't be enough to keep the Beast of Blackwood out of my head.

Come back tomorrow for another chapter

Welcome to a little experiment! I’ve always loved the atmosphere of Regency England, but you know me—I had to add a monster. Meet Elara and Arthur. This story is first-person, dual POV, and definitely has a darker edge than my usual sports romance. Let me know if you want to see more of this "Paranormal" side of LS Phoenix in the comments!

Copyright © by LS Phoenix

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Published by LS Phoenix

New Hampshire, USA

https://linktr.ee/authorlsphoenix

First Edition: April 2026

Cover Design by LS Phoenix