Dc Rupert Thorne Novels & Stories

“That’s not normal. So I started digging into things that aren’t supposed to be normal.” A fresh wave of cold fear slid through me—different from the terror Alpha Victor inspired. This was exposure of a new kind. “Who are you?” I whispered. “Exactly who I’ve always told you I am,” he replied, calm as ever. “Marcus Thorne. Architect. Designer. And, thanks to my family’s history, someone who keeps certain truths.” “Thorne?” Thorne repeated, eyes narrowing dangerously. “As in…?”

Every swing of his blade whispered the same poisonous refrain. When he finally collapsed to his knees, chest heaving, he pressed his forehead against the dirt. His wolf snarled inside him, restless, furious, demanding to claim what was theirs. But Rory hadn’t come to him. She hadn’t slipped into his room in the night. She hadn’t left his bed with that glow. She had gone to Kael. A bitter laugh tore from Thorne’s throat, half-sob, half-snarl. He pushed himself up, pacing the

He dealt in profit. I had to offer him something. I pulled my phone out and looked up his name. Julian Thorne. CEO of Thorne Enterprises. Net worth: 15 billion. There were pictures of him. He was forty-three now. In the pictures he looked harder than I remembered, his beard neatly trimmed and dark brown at the sides, his hair silver and thick, his eyes the color of the ocean in winter. He looked dangerous. I scrolled down, and there was an article from yesterday.

I shot him a glare, but he ignored it and dropped into the chair opposite me, swinging one leg over the other. “So,” he said, smirking again, “should I keep you company until your man comes back, or are you going to pretend you want to be alone?” And that was exactly where I stopped talking. “I thought your Beta maintained celibacy. And besides, I thought he was the non romantic, emotionally constipated type,” Thorne said. “Did he prove otherwise?” I replied, eyes still fixed on the screen like it owed me answers. “Oh, he proved something,” Thorne said. “I just saw him with a lady outside. Very sexy. Red hair. Her face was like a goddess. I’m guessing she owns the car I bumped into at the ca

"No servers. No satellites. Just us." ​Julian took a shaky step toward me, but he stopped when he saw Ruth. He straightened his back, some phantom of the billionaire returning to his posture. "Mrs. Vance. I believe my father spoke of your husband often." ​"He spoke of him while he was stealing from him," Ruth said, not rising from her chair. "Sit down, Julian Thorne. You look like you’re about to fall over, and I don't want your blood on my rug."

Ruby stood at the door, personally welcoming them. Seeing Thea and Thorne, Ruby smiled gently. She walked over and greeted, "Thea, Thorne, I am really happy that you could come." She embraced Thorne willingly. Then he hugged Thea again. Just as she embraced Thea, she whispered in her ear, "What happened to Drake at the Fletcher Manor yesterday? Why did he come home feeling so downcast?" Thea laughed and said, "Thorne was teasing him, asking who he would support if I and Ms. Butcher had a conflict of interests."

Martha The silence stretches for an eternity. I see the thoughts swirling in my daughter's eyes, I see the mute recognition, the shock, the terrible attraction that sparks between them like flint on dry powder. I have to intervene. Now. —Élianor, darling, I say, forcing a normalcy that rings false. This is Mr. Thorne. Marcus Thorne. He… he's going to rent the cottage for a while. I brandish the money slightly, like proof, a pathetic justification.

Now, last night is something I will never be able to share with her. I spent my entire night stalking him. Alexander Joel Thorne. The CEO of Thorne Electronics. 32 years of age and 6’3 tall. Millions of followers on I*, but all he posts are pictures of the night sky, beautiful buildings, art, expensive places, and his view from his penthouse—I know this because I’ve been inside his home twice now. Not even one photo of himself. He only follows Thorne Electronics on all his social media accounts. Not his friends. Not even Dimitri, which I think is weird because they’re good friends and Dimitri follows him.

We filed out for class together—me in the middle, no crutches, no cast, just the faint echo of vampire blood humming under my skin. Supernatural History 101 was in the East Wing lecture hall. Stone steps, tiered seating, a massive projection screen showing pre-Accords maps marked with red Swarm incursions. Professor Thorne—a tall, silver-haired vampire with eyes like chipped ice—glanced up as we entered. His gaze lingered on me for half a second longer than the others. “Mr. Black,” he said, voice carrying without effort. “Punctual. And upright. Impressive recovery.”

The bare s‍kin of her back was warm⁠ an‌d s‍mooth beneath his pa‌lm, a point o⁠f searing contact in‍ the cool, air-conditione‍d room. ‍Duri‌ng a brief lull near a mas‌sive, dark Rothko, an older gent‍leman, Gregory Thorn‌e—the patriarch o‌f t⁠he⁠ rival family—⁠appr‍oached. His s⁠mile was a razor‌ b‍lade.