Dc Rupert Thorne Novels & Stories

“Not directly. But close enough to raise flags.” “Burke’s dead.” “Thorne’s not.” The implications crawled over my skin. Thorne. A name that used to mean nothing. Just a rumor, whispered in corners of the underworld no one lived long enough to map. An investor. A collector. A phantom with a fortune and a taste for human currency. Now he was real. And now he had Ryker. I turned back to Hale. “We need to end this.” He looked at me. “You’re not going back there,” he said.

In her heart, she knew: Thorne was Krugan’s unresolved past—and perhaps the only crack left to shatter the Umbrawolf’s scheme. The main tent of Alpha Thorne radiated the stillness of an old warlord’s command. Thick black wood beams held up weathered grey canvas that flapped quietly in the night wind. Inside, the flicker of torchlight cast long shadows against the walls, outlining a tall man in a silver cloak and deep-brown skin, standing with his back to Rue. “Speak directly,” Rue said quietly. “You won’t like what I bring.” Thorne didn’t turn. He stood with his hands behind his back, facing a table strewn with maps.

David was so happy to hear that and said, “I am so happy that the evil one didn’t succeed. It is clear that Thorne removes your uterus to avenge his mistress’s baby. Thorne told me that he lost everything, which I don’t understand, because he divorced you and put you in jail to avenge his mistress. I hate pretentious people the most. It will be useless even if Thorne drowns in regret. Let’s have dinner when you are not busy. I would like to introduce you to my wife, Doreen. She has been eager to meet you, and thank you for making her dream come true.” Storm nodded his head and replied, “We are not busy tonight. What do you think, Sweetheart?”

“I’ve posted myself at the door – no one goes in or out without your word.” “Good,” Liam said, striding toward the elevator. “If anyone tries to stop me – anyone – you do whatever it takes to keep them away.” The locker room was quiet, lit only by the dim glow of the emergency lights along the floor. Dr. Thorne stood in front of his locker, removing his white coat and folding it carefully over a chair. He was a man in his late fifties, with graying hair and hands that had saved hundreds of lives – hands that were now trembling as he worked.

I slipped out of bed, needing the oblivion of caffeine and a moment to piece together the incredibly reckless, unbelievably satisfying night I’d just had with a complete stranger I’d met at O’Malley’s after far too many vodka sodas following my disastrous breakup. Padding into his minimalist living room, my eyes landed on a framed photo on the sleek, dark bookshelf. Him. Looking impossibly distinguished in some kind of formal academic robe, his hand clasped with the university president. Below it, a small, silver plaque read: “Draco Thorne, Head of Literature Department.”

I stepped inside—and stopped. He was standing at the far end of the main room with a tablet in one hand and a frown already in place, like he had arranged himself specifically to be the first thing I encountered and had chosen disapproval as his opening statement. Matthias Thorne. Forty years old, dressed in a plain dark shirt with the sleeves rolled to his forearms, looking like the kind of man who had never wasted a single day of his life and was quietly contemptuous of anyone who had. The years had been outrageously, unfairly good to him.

He couldn’t let Victoria down. But, what would it like to be happy? “Fucking idiot,” Thorne swore under his breath again. He ran his hand through his hair, yanking it out of the braid he’d woven into the top. “Yo!” a voice called out. Thorne lifted his head towards the sound. He saw a shadowy figure in a Kelly-green suit trudging through the woods behind the auditorium. He narrowed his eyes slightly and used his wolf sight to hone in on the man. He slumped down when he realized who it was.

The past month had been far too quiet and easy between us, lacking that usual spark. I don’t like fighting with Ryatt. We just do it so well. “You’re an asshole!” I scowl, tightening my robe. “You really think I invited him here? That I somehow called him over, used my powers–” “No, that’s not what I think at all–” “Then tell me what the hell is going on!” “Thorne is dead.” The air is sucked right out of the room. I inhale sharply, my eyes locked on Ryatt’s stone cold expression. A single glimmer of emotion shows behind his eyes before his blinks–pain, undeniable grief, untethered rage. “W-what?”

was a memory. Julian Thorne looked out the window at the falling white. He wasn't thinking about his lost billions. He was thinking about the fact that tomorrow, he had to help fix the town’s main pump. And for the first time in his life, he couldn't wait to get to work.

“He’s thirty-two. He’s a high-frequency trader in London. And he’s on his way here. He says he has the DNA results. He says he has the letters.” Julian Thorne didn’t arrive in a black SUV or a police cruiser. He arrived in a vintage, British racing green convertible that looked entirely out of place on our rugged gravel track. He was lean, dressed in a tailored charcoal suit that screamed of old money and new arrogance, and his hair was the same dark, wild mahogany as mine. When he stepped out of the car, I felt a physical jolt. He didn’t just look like me; he looked like the woman in the Polaroid. He was the male version of the ghost Laredo had tried to resurrect.