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Meet Martin Blackwood

Reading bits randomly taken from Mørklagt, first book in the Affinity-trilogy:


At the office

"After the meeting, he poured himself a glass of Perrier from his office minibar. He let the bubbles cool his tongue as he stared out the window. The view was perfect. The same could not be said of his control as a leader. His thoughts returned to the memo he had worked on late into the night. Why had it not been distributed as planned? And the lunch meeting with Carl–how could he possibly have misread the scheduled time? He had been obliged to cover up his mistake, and he hadn’t been able to prepare as well as he should have. Staring at the view, his thoughts focused on the meeting in the conference room; it was supposed to have laid the foundation for the product, which now seemed to be slipping through his fingers. If he failed to regain control, someone would pay for it dearly. It sure as hell wasn’t going to be him, he thought, seething.

“Miriam, get in here!” he shouted into the phone.

His jaw ached, but he still clenched his teeth when Miriam stepped into his office. He knew how fierce his face looked. Desperate to breathe, he yanked at his tie, leaving it loose on his chest.

“What the hell am I supposed to do with this aggressive energy?” he said, balling his fists. “I could tear this office apart” he fumed. Still unable to get enough air, he ripped open the top buttons of his shirt.

Closing it behind her, Miriam leant against the door.

 “Is that an invitation?” Martin snapped, nodding at her long legs, daintily crossed at the ankles.

“Try me,” she answered, accentuating the provocation with a toss of her head. Three long strides brought him to her within seconds. Pulling her away from the door he threw her roughly onto the sofa in the corner of his office and fell heavily down on top of her. His eyes bored into her face.

“You better fucking mean it, because I want you now,” he panted, and buried his face in her neck.

His hand found its way in under her shirt, locked over one breast, when he felt her body respond to him. He was only vaguely aware of her nails digging into his upper arms, her teeth biting into his shoulder."


After office hours

"On his way home in the car four hours later, Martin realized that he had sent his managers home in a mood that left no room for a quiet evening with their families. He knew he was stomping on their feelings. It was a critical phase of their strategic planning–no time for him to be venting his temper–but things would only get harder once Illumitron broke into the Chinese market and the new diamond project began to take shape...

It was never too soon to eliminate the weakest links in his organization.

     His thoughts were given a brief respite as he parked to buy something to eat at the supermarket. But when he prepared himself a quick rice-dinner at home, the arguments for and against his behavior from earlier that day rung in his ears once more.

     The news on CNN was shoveled in along with his rice, and Martin wished he could switch off his mind. As soon as his plate was empty, he sat himself down in front of his computer and tackled the report he had to present to Carl; he had three days to get it done. Carl was his boss, but he meant more than that to Martin. Losing Carl’s respect would be like losing the respect of a father, the only kind of paternal respect he knew, in fact. The report could not afford to reveal any sign of the chaos in his ranks. It was half past one in the morning when he finally pressed save and shut down his computer. He brushed and flossed his teeth. Despite maintaining the evening routine, his brain kept churning, and he knew he would have to take a pill that night. He washed it down with half a glass of white wine, chilled with ice-cubes.

I’d love to be gliding in amongst cotton-wool clouds, he punched into his phone, and pressed send.

 Exhausted, he sank onto the edge of his bed. Then the thought struck him:

 The letter. The one he had received from the somewhat sexy girl at the high school. Every Wednesday, for several weeks in a row, she had stood by the gates, trying to disguise that she was enamored with him. Martin got up to fetch his jacket from the cupboard. The letter was still there. Plunging his fingers into his inside pocket, they found the sharp contours of an envelope. With his other hand, he flipped on the overhead lights. On the envelope, his name–with a flair, in beautifully curved handwriting. He ripped it open. The words on the note inside were written by the same artistic hand:



Hi Martin

You seem to be really nice. I think it would be fun to get to know you. Call me if you think so too.

All my best, Danielle


Some kind of love letter? A love letter from a somewhat sexy girl, who was at least five years too young to be of any interest to him.

And yet, his interest was piqued by her simple, direct sentences. Despite the wine and sleeping pill in his system, he got up and went into the living room. He sat down heavily with his phone in his hand. The leather Chesterfield chair felt cold against his skin as he punched in the numbers in the order they appeared on the note. After four rings, he was ready to hang up, but then she picked up."


In the dark

"The COO was wearing a suit, apparently he’d come straight from the office. His silvery, freshly cut hair was so short. Perhaps an attempt to hide the fact that he was balding. Aside from the haircut, Martin paid no attention to the man’s features. “Here,” the man said, handing Martin a bottle from the minibar. He downed his drink.

“Can I take off my jacket?” Martin asked, in a buzz from the alcohol.

“Yes… and take off your shirt while you’re at it. I want to see your body.”

Martin threw his jacket on the bed and swapped the sunglasses for the Zorro mask from the club before allowing the man to enjoy the sight of him unbuttoning his shirt, pulling the fabric down across his shoulders, and allowing it to fall to the floor. He made sure to flex his pecs and rotate his torso to emphasize the V-shape and his clearly defined abs.

“Do I look okay?” Martin smiled with fake shyness and a hesitant shrug, as if there was insecurity behind his question; the submissive servant seeking to satisfy the powerful client. Sometimes that was all it took to get the game started."


To get to know Martin Blackwood even better, read the full first part of the Affinity-trilogy, Mørklagt. Only available in Danish for now.


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