by Willow Wilde
Chosen by The Wolf
By Willow Wilde
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Table of Contents
Title
Chosen By The Wolf
More From Willow Wilde
Chosen by The Wolf
At a glance, Peter Blackwood was a smug, confident man, with posture and presence on an almost unnerving level. The rich, distinguished man always dressed immaculately – the latest fashion, of course, and worn as comfortably as his own skin. His smile carved either intense mystery or utter dread into your very heart, depending on his mood in the moment.
But, like I said, that was at a glance.
The Peter I knew was much more complex than that. He was always calm and collected, but there was a tenderness to him that was barely shown. He could be gentle or even kind. I think it was to compensate for the darkness within him, for Peter was a man of many secrets, and behind those smug and confident eyes lay the soul of someone with more to hide than even I would ever know. Beyond that handsome and chiseled face was the heart of a man that filled you with a deep, polluting dread.
How, you might ask, could I know all of this?
It’s simple, really: he chose me.
~
I first met Peter when I was but a child. He was a younger associate of my father’s at the time. As I understand it, Peter’s older brother was close to my father, and they had all grown up together to some capacity.
Peter was still fresh in his studies up north in some prestigious, Ivy League university. At the time, he had come down on holiday to visit the family, and I was a toddler. From what he told me in the time to come, Peter thought me a short, stubby, awkward thing, as many toddlers are. By that point, however, he had known my mother for many years, and was aware that I was the spitting image of her baby pictures. My mother was, you see, a rather beautiful woman, composed with elegant grace but with her own fire held deep in her heart.
Thus, as he would tell it, Peter became interested in the beauty that I was to inherit, and mentally reserved a thought for if our paths were to cross at a more appropriate time.
I do not have any memories of Peter in my youth, for he was never particularly around. As my father became wrapped up in his own life and the needs of his family, he drifted further out of touch with his friend, and it is to my understanding that they didn’t speak for several years (not out of any hardship, mind you) before the accident.
But I did know this – the Blackwoods were a distinguished family that reached back hundreds of years in time deep into the rich history of Luxembourg – back when they bore the “Wagner-Black” name, and even further to the original “Hoffman-Wager.” They still maintained a glorious hilltop estate that rivaled the Royal Gardens and their Palace, deep in the countryside. By the time it came to Peter and his older brother, they were a third of the remaining Blackwood line, with their cousins still occupying the original estate and handling their interests back home.
When I encountered Peter again, he had established for himself a sizable home here in the States. While it paled in comparison to how he would describe Blackwood Manor back in Luxembourg, it still dwarfed almost any house I had ever seen. I shuddered to think of the immense amount of money the family must still have, as far back through the generations as it extended.
~
The accident, as I mentioned a moment ago, came quite swiftly and out of nowhere. My father was still grieving his friend’s death from an unfortunate blood illness, a year after the fact, when it came.
It is only by my underage drinking at the time that I survived. I attended freshman year at a public university so inconsequential to me now that I can’t place the name. My father intended for us all to take a weekend to visit Peter, so that he could finally pay his respects properly and give us the luxury of servants for several days. However, I had fallen behind in my studies from some rampant partying over the previous few months, and I was adamant that I needed to stay home and hit the books harder.
The truth, however, was that the largest party of the year was being held that Saturday evening, the night of the flight. Anyone who was anyone at that school was going to be in attendance, and I had absolutely no intentions to miss it.
Although he was disappointed, my father couldn’t argue the logic, and booked the flight without me. I think he took it as the first major step of my separation from the family, as I still lived at home under their roof and planned to for my college career. He had tried to prepare himself for when I turned eighteen and began to exercise my independence, but the way that he was affected showed me that he was still hurt by my dismissal. Although, I will admit that part of the reason I didn’t want to go was that I didn’t want exposure to something I knew I could never have on my own. A weekend with servants laboring over my needs was only going to diminish the value of the rest of my life, and I thought it an experience I could do without.
But I could have never prepared myself for the plane crash. As I never cared for following the news, I only found out about it later the following day when a friend called and offered her condolences. Fighting my hangover, I switched on the TV to CNN and stood there, stunned, the remote held in my hand. I must have been locked to the spot for thirty minutes at least before I finally broke down in tears.
My professors already knew when I sent out the emails that night, rubbing the moisture from my eyes just long enough to compose myself at the computer. They were all too understanding and promised to compile my work and let me have the week, overlooking all absences. My biology professor promised me leeway on an exam I had to take during the middle of the week, despite my relatively poor grades in the class thus far.
The following day, with my immediate needs met, I pulled myself together long enough to drive down to the bank with the key my father had left in his study for the emergency of my parents’ death. The safety deposit box was compressed with more than I could have imagined – it contained seventy thousand dollars in cash, as well as documentation on life insurance, a copy of the necessary forms for paying off the house, and information on the process of inheriting the vehicles and miscellaneous possessions. Just to be prepared, a flash drive was included as well – back home, it contained the bank account number and a digital copy of everything else.
But the largest surprise would come with the knock on the door that night, while I was a few spoonfuls deep into a bucket of rocky road and trying to drown out the pain in a Seinfeld marathon…
~
I had expected the mail carrier, maybe. A lot of my father’s Amazon purchases came delivered early in the evening, and I thought that perhaps
he had a few more boxes on their way. He had mentioned something recently about wanting to order a new cookware set, and I figured he might have placed the order before they left for their doomed flight.
If the man at the door was a deliveryman, he wasn’t the kind who dropped online purchases on doorsteps. With a slim but obviously powerful frame, he was dressed from head to toe in a black designer suit, with a bold red over-shirt and black tie beneath the blazer. His hair was slicked back, his face perfectly sculpted, and his icy gaze immediately bore into me. But I immediately saw past all of that, because his eyes subtly changed upon seeing me, and he had the slightest hint of pain across his face.
“I...hello?” I stammered, unsure of what to make of this man. “Can I help you?”
“Monica...I am so sorry.” He looked suddenly uncomfortable, his posture slackening just a touch, the glimpse of confidence that I briefly saw overshadowed by something resembling passionate empathy.
It wasn’t really hard to piece together why, given the circumstances.
“How do you know my name? Who are you?” I demanded, preparing to slam the door in his face.
“Excuse my manners. Your father may have mentioned me. I am Peter Blackwood.”
“Peter? Oh my god, they were coming to...my parents, they...”
“I know,” he replied, his eyes locked onto mine. I couldn’t stand his gaze and turned away. “I’ve known your father for many years. He and my brother were very close as boys. I wanted to offer my condolences in person, and ask if there was anything I could do for you.”
He gazed over my shoulder into the house. While he couldn’t see far, they had been running late and hadn’t quite cleaned everything up, and the state of things had only depreciated with my grief.
“I...I guess it’s good to see you,” I said. “I’m sorry, I’m a bit of a mess right now. This isn’t that great of a time.”
“Nonsense.”
Hurt and confused, I stared him straight in the eyes. “Excuse me?”
“What will remaining here, right this moment, accomplish for you? Hmm?” He tilted his head slightly with a barely noticeable bob, his eyes narrowing. “You’d rather stay here with your dinner out of a carton, some mindless drivel on your television? Ignoring it. That’s not the right response. You need to get out of this house for a short while. Clear your head. Grieve…but not here. There’s nothing but pain here...everywhere you turn, no matter where you look, there will be a reminder too hard to stomach. You need somewhere else.”
I was too stunned to respond. I wanted to lash out at him and slam the door in his face, but in the back of my head I suspected that he was probably right.
“You lost your family. I lost an old friend who was all that I had left after my brother died. I have nothing left here anymore, and neither do you. And I feel perhaps a measure of personal responsibility that they were flying to stay at my manor this weekend. That responsibility now extends towards yourself.”
“I don’t need a babysitter. I don’t need you,” I spat out in fury.
“No, I suspect that you do not,” he observed, watching the fire in my eyes cool down under his icy gaze. “However, I feel that perhaps you and I should get you away from here, just for a little while. For tonight. And I can bring you straight back.”
He paused, and I considered what he was saying.
“If you feel as I suspect you will, you are free to come to my manor. The door will be open to you. But for now,” he turned, facing a luxury car that I hadn’t noticed in the driveway, “I am going to ask you to dress yourself appropriately and join me down here in thirty minutes. We will work to take your mind off of things for the immediate future. I imagine that you are probably hungry?”
I had only had a few bites of ice cream, and realized that I had forgotten to eat all day. I could practically feel my stomach plead for food.
“...Yes, that could be...yeah. Sure.”
“Dinner it is. Thirty minutes, Monica.”
I stood there in the doorway, staring at him quizzically. He flashed a quick smile, adjusting his cuff with his eyes on mine.
“Better run along.”
~
With only two minutes to spare, I locked the door behind myself, stepping out into the setting sun. I had cleaned up as quickly as possible, slapping on just enough makeup to look presentable. I had always envied how quickly boys could put themselves together – rolling out of bed and pulling on jeans and a tee, running their fingers through their hair for a few passes, and downstairs with keys in hand within a ballpark of five minutes. If they had anyone to impress, maybe some gel. It just wasn’t fair.
I chose to dress in a slimming black to match his attire, and had barely managed to get a cute enough outfit together. I didn’t want to be seen like a sore thumb next to the guy, after all.
It hadn’t even occurred to me that he wouldn’t be driving. Of course, I realized, a man with the kind of money he possessed had a personal driver. We sat together in the backseat of the luxury sedan while he sipped a glass of champagne. He had offered me one, but I wasn’t in the mood.
We sat in silence during the twenty-minute drive. I paid slight attention to the ferocity at how his driver transported us down the streets, always doing at least ten over the limit and veering between traffic so dangerously that I thought we might smash into anyone on the road with us. But Peter was as comfortable as could be, his eyes out the window except for a few moments where he turned to regard me. I was tense from the driving, and didn’t care for small talk in the back of the car with him.
We finally arrived at an upper-scale restaurant I’d seen in passing, Levairre’s. I knew that some of the rich kids from my school dined here, but that was about it. The entire building reeked of money, and as he held the door open for me, I was all but overwhelmed with the rich, stunning atmosphere.
“Two, for Blackwood,” he told the hostess. “Special.”
She turned to him quickly, and I noticed some sort of confused recognition in her eyes. “Of course, sir. Right this way.”
“Excuse me, miss,” a boisterous man with graying hair and a bulging abdomen declared from within the crowd around us. “My wife and I have been waiting for thirty minutes, AND we had a reservation.”
“I’m afraid that you will have to wait a little longer, sir. Only another ten minutes.”
“But who is this? He just gets to walk in and stroll to a seat, in front of the rest of us?” He waved his arms to indicate the crowd, who was now leering at Peter.
The hostess opened her mouth to protest, but Peter turned on him, glowering into his face. “I am sorry to have inconvenienced you, but I’m afraid I am on some pressing business. You see, this girl’s entire family just died in a rather horrible plane crash, and they were old, dear friends of mine.”
He indicated me with a wave, and the man turned to face me with his beady little eyes, now filled with more confusion than rage.
“This has been a very distressing few days for the two of us. I would highly recommend that you do not test me.”
The crowd turned away, and the loudmouth fellow stammered, before throwing a conflicted look my way. “I’m sorry for your loss,” he quietly managed before sitting back down with his wife.
The hostess, hiding her embarrassment admirably, led us across the restaurant. I turned to my partner for the night and spoke: “You didn’t need to do that, really. I don’t mind waiting.”
“Nonsense. The owner is an old friend. Dmitri Bierson and I go way back.”
We were seated in an intimate corner in the most comfortable booth I have ever occupied in my life. Soon, a burly man with large, warm eyes and a puff of sandy hair greeted us, conspicuously dressed closer to my host than the wait staff.
“Peter, my brother! How long has it been?”
“Much too long,” Peter grinned as they clasped hands into a strong hug before he sat back down. “How is Yvonne? Is she still as ravishing as ever?”
“The jew
el of my life!” The man enthusiastically answered. “And who is this radiant young woman with you, hmm?”
“Dmitri, meet Monica. She will be accompanying me for tonight.”
“Monica! Such a beautiful name for such a beautiful young lady,” Dmitri smiled and bowed his head. “On what occasion do I have the pleasure?”
I turned my gaze downward, and Peter glanced over at me for a moment. “We have suffered a mutual loss, and I was hoping we could enjoy a quiet meal together in your fine establishment.” He turned to take in the ambiance for a second, his confidant smile washing over the immaculate, modern design of the restaurant.
“Of course, of course,” Dmitri responded, his tone dropping to a somber, respectful note. “I wish all my love in your trying times. Everything will be taken care of. Hansel!” He snapped his fingers at a server, passing by with a martini on a tray. “Hansel, see to it that Mr. Blackwood and his lovely young woman,” he paused to wink at me, “have the dinner of their lives. Transfer all other tables to myself. I’ll have them taken care of, and will compensate you personally.”
