Crimson Thorns Novels & Stories

I was going to take Thorne Crimson down on his face. These next few days were a blur of planning and preparation. I spent hours in the office with Logan, digging through every shred of information we could find on Thorne's company, his past, his associates. Not much there. Paper clean. But whispers and rumors abound about darker dealings and his connection to the Crimson Brotherhood and this almost-mythical manipulation ability that had earned him so many fans. The more I learned, the more I realized that Thorne Crimson was no ordinary man, rather he was a force.

He has every right to be angry then I see him looking at my bump. He comes towards me slowly as if tiger is taunting it's hunt that there is no escape from him. He holds my gaze as he traps me between door and his magnificent form. The form which I missed alot at nights. The warmth that form used to gave me at cold night that I missed. "Sometimes instead of beautiful rose, you become a thorn at my side. But I rather feel the pain of it because it is another side of your love too." Rudra says as she looks at me with mixed emotion. Anger, hurt, guilt and most of all love.

Who wouldn’t freeze at the sight of long rifles pointing to their forehead? There were three men; well, she saw three at first, and then two more came out of the corner. Five men in black attire all armed with guns of different sizes, some had bandanas tied to their forehead; she didn’t need a seer to tell her that they were thugs. “Where is the old fool?” one of them asked in a hoarse voice, while smoking a wrap of something that definitely wasn't a cigarette. His eyes were covered with dark shades; who wears sunglasses at night?

The transformation rippled through my bones, stretching muscle and cracking skin. My claws extended, spine snapping forward as my wolf took over. A light black fur burst from my skin, and my eyes burned golden. Thorne’s transformation was brutal. Fast. His beast was larger than everyone else's. Maybe even larger than Ryan's. His wolf has jet black with silver streaks down his spine, a mark of alpha blood. The rogues didn’t wait, it was never their nature. They charged at us. And soon, everything broke out Thorne didn't wait either, and went at them, head one.

And I still felt unprepared. The carriage rumbled up the mountain pass like it was trying to shake me loose. I pulled the velvet curtain back and stared out at the jagged, frostbitten peaks of the Oathbound Range. The sun had already dipped behind the highest ridge, casting long shadows across the snow-dusted road. Castle Thorne loomed ahead—tall, skeletal, and utterly uninviting. Like something drawn from the nightmares of children who’d grown up on war stories and ghost songs. But I wasn’t a child.

' His voice was desperate, emotions pouring out: fear of losing me, unbreakable love that made my heart swell. I nodded, gasping as he spun me against a tent pole, the rough fabric scraping my back. The pack watched, their howls a frenzy of encouragement, the air thick with musk and victory. My pussy dripped, aching for him, the curse's cramps easing under his touch. 'Fuck me, Thorne. Make me whole.' He growled, cock hard and thick, slamming into my pussy in one rough thrust. Pain bloomed, blending with pleasure as he stretched me, hips pounding fast and deep. 'So tight... mine,' he grunted, hands gripping my hips, bruises forming under his fingers. I cried out, legs wrapping around him, the

I thrust up to meet her, harder and deeper with the cedar bench creaking under us. Her nails rake down my back, hard and sharp. Red lines bloom over old scars. Knife cuts, bullet wounds. I groan low. The pain is good. Primal. I thrust harder. She rides faster. Her ass slaps against my thighs as wet sounds mix with water. Her moans turn desperate. “Please… please…”

It is a thick, suffocating odor—jungle rot, damp earth, and the heavy, copper-sour sting of an ultra-traditionalist pack that has never brushed against our borders. A lone male steps into the white light of the high windows. He doesn't wear the polished silver armor of the North or the practical sea-leathers of our new vanguard. He is dressed in the raw, overlapping hides of the deep Southern jungles, his skin dark and patterned with ancient, ritualistic scarification. He is an emissary from the Crimson-Thorn Pack—a reclusive, isolationist faction that refused to sign the original continental treaties when Clyde first united the territories. In his arms, the emissary carries a wide, shallow

He said and chuckled. "No, Obviously No." She said while rolling her eyes. "Now, let me pluck the thorn out of your back." She continued and observed that a large thorn has punctured his back with a large stem and few petals of a dark red rose similar to black shade. "It's okay darlo. The person should not be afraid of thorns if they crave for roses." He said while Irina plucked out the penetrated stem of a rose. He acted to hiss in a pain.

Killing a club full of people would probably set off alarm bells and bring up questions I didn't need. Thorne grabbed a crystal glass from my table, holding his hand above it. He flexed his hand which had his claws elongating. A hiss spilled pass his parted lips when he fisted his hand, sinking his claws into his palms which had the sweet scent of blood filling the room. And just like that, the switch that activated my hunting instincts flipped. My eyes honed in on the trail of crimson leading down Thorne's hand. Each thick drop of the sticky substance that hit the base of the glass sounded like a bell going off in my head.