The wrought-iron gates of Blackwood Hall rose thirty feet into the foggy midnight sky like the fangs of an ancient dragon. Topped with barbed spikes and discreet thermal security scanners, the heavy gates glided silently open as Christian’s armored Bentley crested the winding private driveway through the ancient, gnarled oaks of Hampstead Heath. Beyond the gates lay fifty acres of secluded private woodlands, wrapped in an ethereal veil of low-lying…
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