Thorne | Pressed Harder

I should have stayed with her, should have pressed harder for answers. But if I had given in, I wouldn’t have left.

By the time I’m pulling into my driveway, the heavy iron gates closing slowly behind me, I've managed to school my instincts to a form of normal. Making my way through the forested estate, my home rises from the shadows of the ancient trees, a stark clash of modern ambition and primal wilderness. My fortress built to keep the world at bay and where the beast can come out to play.

Standing three stories tall, it’s a masterpiece of black stone and glass. The wide windows reflect the twilight sky, giving the illusion of openness, but inside, it’s anything but inviting. It’s a sanctuary for a beast; minimalist, calculated, and tailored to precision. No clutter. No chaos. Nothing I can’t control.

Leaving the comfort of my custom Aston Martin DBS Superleggera, I step onto the driveway, the low rumble of the engine fading behind me. The sleek metallic lines of the car glint under the faint light, but I barely notice, my focus fixed ahead as I ascend the stairs to my front door.

Passing my palm over a keypad that sits to the side of the heavy oak, the chip in my hand disengages the locks and I step into the foyer, the sound of my boots against the marble floor reverberating through the expansive space. The walls are lined with dark wood panels, broken only by the occasional piece by local artists. A splash of colour in my otherwise monotone world.

The air carries the faint scent of ash from the fireplace that hasn’t been lit in days.

The door swings shut and I am already dialling as I start to move through my space. Two rings and a soft male voice oozes through the receiver like silk dipped in venom. Gentle he might sound, but ruthless he is.

I grip the phone between my ear and shoulder. “Logan, if you’re breathing, you’re working. I need information now.”

“Thorne,” he drawls, calm and efficient as always. “Lovely to hear from you too, how are you doing this lovely Saturday evening? You sound relaxed as usual.”

Logan is one of very few people I trust in the clusterfuck that is The Noctis Assembly. If you wanted to weave a tangled web of alliances and lies, Noctis was it. His role is to know everything, and everyone, that matters. But he’s still a cheeky bastard.

“Logan, for fuck’s sake, do I sound like I’m in the mood for your shit?”

I’ve moved into the living room without even registering tmy steps. It opens to an expansive wall of glass overlooking the forest. Beyond it, the trees stretch for miles, a testament to the isolation I’ve chosen.

Dropping my keys on the sleek black console by the door, I loosen the tie that’s tightened like a noose since the moment I stepped into Maci’s apartment.

My skin still buzzes with the memory of her. The wide eyes, the flash of irritation that sent a jolt straight through me, and her curves pressed against me just hours ago.

Forcing the thoughts of her out of my mind, I focus on the task at hand.

“You sound even more strung up than usual Thorn, what’s got you on edge tonight? Or is it who?”

I can hear the grin in his tone, know he’s pushing my buttons on purpose but fuck it’s working.

“I need you to dig into someone.” I step across the stone floor, making my way to the leather armchair by the fire.

But I can’t sit down, I am too wired, instincts firing left and right. So I start a steady pace back and forth.

“Oooh interesting, so it is a ‘who’. Someone who has turned your asshole dial up to max my friend.”

“Logan,” My voice dips, low and edged with warning, the growl threading through it barely audible.

“Calm down Thorn, don’t get your panties in a twist. I don’t even have to see you and I know your pacing” I come to a complete halt, just to prove him wrong, even though of course he right. “Who am I looking into boss?”

“Maci Carter. Twenty-five, human, moved to the city a year ago. Find out everything. Friends, family, exes…keep an eye out for someone potentially called Mike. I want to know who he is, where he is, what he does and what time he took a shit this morning.”

There’s a pause on the other end, the faint sound of typing. “Mike, Husband? Boyfriend?”

I’m moving again but come to a stop at the threshold to the living room, staring out at the moonlit forest beyond the glass wall. “I don’t know, but I think ex.” I bite out. The words are bitter on my tongue. “And whoever’s been sending her those goddamn messages.”

The typing stops completely “Messages? How strange, why do you care about 25 year old Maci and what messages she gets?” His tone is teasing but I am hanging on by a thread as it is.

“She’s no one,” The lie is hard to get past my throat “A new employee coming to Wintermere and she mentioned receiving strange messages from an unknown number.”

Logan hums thoughtfully, his curiosity bleeding through the phone. “Unknown numbers and a mysterious, maybe ex. Sounds like you’ve found yourself a little puzzle. Is she…a hot little puzzle?”

“Don’t,” The word snaps out of me. “Don’t fucking say that. Don’t even let the thought cross your mind.” My muscles in my jaw lock, fangs elongating in response to the rush of possessive rage that floods my system, the growl in my voice barely restrained. “She’s not for you, Logan. She’s not for ANYONE.” The last word leaves me on a bark.

“Thorne,” He’s talking to a barely contained animal now and he knows it. “This wouldn’t happen to be connected to... any bigger Council business, would it?”

Raking my hand through my hair, chunks barely hanging on at the root I grit out a reply.

“Right now, it’s connected to me. Just do it.”

“How deep do you want me to go here?”

I glance toward the forest beyond the glass, the faint moonlight casting eerie shadows between the trees.

“I want everything. Where she’s been, who she’s known, what cereal she eats for breakfast and why someone’s sending her messages that sound like threats.”

“I’ll dig boss, what’s the timescale?”

“Yesterday” I can't banish the harshness, I am too on edge. The phone creaks under my grip. “And keep this one quiet for now Logan.”

“Understood,” He’s all business now “I’ll call when I have something and Thorne, maybe go and get fucking laid.”

“Always a pleasure.” he spits out, the line clicking off before I can respond.

Tossing the phone on the chair, I drag a hand down my face. The glass feels cold beneath my fingertips as I lean against the window and I’m just registering my claws have pieced through the skin. Taking a lungful of cool air, I will them to retract.

She’s in danger, I can feel it. The messages are only the beginning.

She gnaws at me. The way her lips curved when she smiled, like the storm in her life had momentarily cleared. There’s something there, something she doesn’t even realise about herself.

And the tattoos. I close my eyes and the vison of her is there, sending all my blood south. Logan is right, I need to get laid. But all I can think about is sliding slowly inside Macis soft heat.

Fuck I need a cold shower.

I’m moving through the house to try and rid myself of the day. The house feels too still, so cold since visiting Macis shitty apartment, which was so full of her. It just amplifies the fire coursing through my veins. Every footfall on the staircase reverberates through my skull, as though the house itself knows I’m unravelling. I shouldn’t have come back here. Not like this, I should have gone to the gym and sweated the tension out.

The mahogany railing that snakes up the stairs, guides me to the second floor, the smooth wood grounding me just enough to keep moving. Heading for the first door on the right, my bedroom welcomes me with dark slate walls, and more floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the trees.

My bed dominates the room, a massive frame I had to have commissioned to comfortably fit me, always dressed in black linen, always immaculate. The perfection of it mocks me now, when all I can think about is how tiny Maci would look spread bare in the middle of it, just for me.

My Doc Martin 1914s echo on the polished wood floor as I head straight for the adjoining bathroom. The air shifts as I push the door open, the faint scent of eucalyptus greeting me. The bathroom is pristine, black marble surfaces and chrome fixtures glinting under soft, recessed lighting.

The shower stands at the far end, a monolithic glass enclosure big enough to fit two of me with room to spare.

Three rainfall shower heads dominate the ceiling, each one capable of deliver a relentless cascade of water that hits like a downpour in the woods. Jets line the obsidian-marble walls, designed to knead every muscle.

Shelves recessed into the walls hold only the essentials: a sharp cedar-and-citrus body wash that clings to my skin, and a handmade soap Logan annoyingly insists I try every year so we can 'match'.

I wave my hand in front of the control panel that sits just beside the sliding doors, my chip lighting up the screen. This beauty adjusts the water’s heat and pressure. A cold burst for clarity, a pulsing rain for tension, or the perfect equilibrium, it’s all calibrated to respond to my mood. I am a shower man through and through.

I select the setting for, Thornes shit day.

Moving back to the bedroom, I tug my shirt over my head on my way to the wardrobe. The lights turn on automatically as I enter the walk in space. Stepping past the rows of black clothes, heading to the hamper built into the wall, that leads right to the laundry room on the first floor.

Stripping the rest of my clothes, I place the boots on the rack and shift back to the bathroom and straight into the shower.

The floor beneath my feet is heated stone, the warmth seeping upward to mirror the torrent above. A bench carved into the wall sits unused. Steam rises in thick waves, clouding the glass that encases me in, though one mirror stays clear a single fogless panel reflecting the expression I try not to acknowledge.

I can’t wash away everything.

The water is scalding, a punishment as much as it is relief, but it doesn’t drown the image of her. Maci. Barefoot, inked secrets that taunt me. Her scent clings to me still, refusing to fade no matter how hot the water runs.

My hands find the cool tiles, palms bracing against them as I lower my head, letting the water cascade down my back. I’m trying to will her away, but the ache between my legs betrays me.

The primal part of me, the one I’ve chained and caged for years, is raging now, clawing to break free.

Just a touch. Just enough to take the edge off.

My hand slides down, rough fingers wrapping around my heavy length. The first stroke is slow, deliberate, my chest heaving with the force of restraint. But it’s no use. The image of her mouth, soft and slightly parted, those lips bitten raw with frustration and need, flashes behind my eyes.

Fuck.

I pick up the pace, every stroke harder now, desperate. My other hand braces against the wall, nails biting into the tile as a low growl rumbles in my chest. My knot is swelling already, thickening with every pulse of arousal. Sensitive, almost too much. I groan, the sound guttural, primal.

Would she take it? Could her soft heat take my knot? The thought wrecks me, my hips jerking forward into my fist. My body craves her in a way I can’t control, can’t deny. I imagine her there, beneath me, writhing, her body stretched and trembling as she takes all of me, knot and all.

Her name slips from my lips, unbidden, a growl that echoes in the steam-filled room.

The pressure builds, unbearable, and when release finally comes, it’s explosive. My knees almost buckle as I spill into my hand, the heat of it mixing with the scalding water.

My name on her lips, her hands gripping me, her body yielding to mine. It’s all I see, all I feel.

As the last shudders of release pulse through me, I grip the base of my knot, now swollen to the point of agony, each throb sending another rush of heat surging through me. The sensation is sharp, too much, but I don’t stop.

My fingers press harder, curling around the tight stretch of flesh, and I force a low, guttural moan from my chest, primal and raw, as another jet of my release spills out in thick, hot ropes against the tile.

The knot is sensitive, excruciatingly so, every touch sending sparks racing up my spine. I tighten my grip, sliding my palm up the rigid length, coaxing the last, desperate pulses from my body. My hips buck forward instinctively, chasing the final shockwaves of pleasure, as I let out a broken growl, Maci’s name ripped from my throat.

The sound echoes through the marble walls, rough and jagged like the ache inside me. The jets of cum lessen, but the ache doesn’t fade, the knot still heavy and demanding, as though it knows exactly what it was meant for, and who.

Wrapping a towel around my waist, I step out of the bathroom, steam trailing behind me like a ghost of my indulgence. I grab another towel and rub it over my hair with sharp, frustrated movements. The ache in my chest hasn’t faded, the residual tension humming through my veins.

My knot has finally eased, but the phantom heat of her presence lingers, wrapping around me like a noose.

I stalk into the bedroom, the dim light casting long shadows across the slate walls and reach for my phone on the nightstand. The screen lights up, and there's a message.

From her.

Maci Carter

'Hi Mr. Wintermere. I got your number from the missed calls. Just wanted to say thank you again for everything. I’m so excited to start on Monday. Can’t believe this is real. Thank you for believing in me.'

Her words are innocent, sweet, completely oblivious to the shit storm she’s stirred inside me. My thumb hovers over the screen, debating whether to respond. But something else catches my eye, another message, sitting just below hers.

Unknown Number

'Stay away from her.'

The words are a blade slicing through the quiet of the room. My pulse spikes, the beast in me rising to attention, ready to rip apart whoever was fucking stupid enough to send this. The phone creaks in my grip, my claws threatening to break free, and I force a breath through gritted teeth.

No one threatens her. Not Maci. Not mine.

And they’ll take their last breath choking on the regret of ever trying.