Dc Rupert Thorne Novels & Stories

I scrolled to the name: Markus Thorne. Thorne was a reporter for a major sports investigative desk, known for his hostility toward established club owners and his particular venom for Titan Energy’s monopolistic practices. He wanted Damian's blood; I just intended to deliver it in small, precise doses. I pressed the call button, ensuring my voice was low, flat, and entirely professional. “Thorne,” I greeted when he picked up on the second ring.

Like a bee going after honey, Seraphina went after him again, but Raven kept pushing her away like she was a disease he needed to avoid. I, on the other hand, laughed at her blatant desperation to have Raven's attention. It was so satisfying to see that Raven didn't give a damn about her. "You're having fun?" a voice startled me from behind, and when I turned around to see who it was, it happened to be Thorne. He was dressed in a sleeveless shirt and, of course, in his usual shorts, with his hands tucked inside. The hair on his legs was so visible and calling for my attention.

Because Max Carter—king of ashes and thorns—was still unconscious on the pavement, the rain washing away the blood but not the damage. Not the damage at all.

Someone spoke up from behind me, just as another message came in from Mum. 'Oh sorry, I almost forgot to answer your question, it's Julian Thorne, CEO OF Ashthorne Enterprises, and also Corporate lawyer and Senior partner at Strathmore Holdings, a real gentleman indeed,' It read. My eyes widened as I recalled exactly why the name sounded so familiar.

Abram snarled, his eyes fixed on a young investor three tables away. "It’s okay, Abram. He’s just being rude," I said, fueling the fire. "I’ll rip his eyes out," he muttered. We were near the champagne fountain when the crowd parted. A man stepped forward, leaning heavily on a silver-headed cane. He was dressed in a pristine white suit, a stark contrast to the black-clad wolves around him. My heart skipped a beat, but not for the reason Abram thought. Elder Thorne. He was alive. Half his face was covered in a heavy, flesh-colored bandage, and his left arm was in a sling, but he was standing. He looked at Abram with a smug, disgusting smile—the smile of a man who had already won the bet.

He nodded respectfully and greeted me, but I continued past him, ignoring his salutations. The sound of my shoes echoed as I entered the living room. I observed Margaret handing Ryan a cup of tea, which he acknowledged with gratitude. Given that Ryan was my closest friend, I had extended to him the privilege of feeling comfortable whenever he visited. He glanced up from his cup as Margaret greeted me. “Welcome back, Alpha Hawthorne,” she began, a faint smile gracing her lips as she held onto the white ceramic tea pot with beautiful rose flower patterns on it. “Would you like some tea?” she inquired.

a voice said through the intercom. The elevator took us to the fourth floor, the doors opening to reveal a loft that belonged in a design magazine: exposed brick, floor-to-ceiling windows, and art that probably cost more than most people's houses. And sitting behind a glass desk, wearing a perfectly tailored suit, was Julian Thorne. He was handsome in the way that money made men handsome—good teeth, better hair, gym-sculpted body. But his eyes were cold. Twenty years of nursing a grudge had turned him into something sharp and bitter.

Julian Thorne didn’t miss anything. He was standing at the mahogany lectern, his sleeves rolled up to reveal forearms built with muscle and dusted with dark hair. He was forty, looked thirty, and acted like he owned every woman’s heartbeat in the entire school. He was the campus "man-whore"—a title whispered with equal parts jealousy and awe. It was a well-known secret that he didn’t just teach Romantic Literature. He lived it, usually with a rotating cast of graduate students and the occasional bold senior.

⁠"Th‍e ne‍ws is breaking. Thorne i‌s done⁠. You w‍on the g​ame even if the board​ is in pieces." Peter let out‍ a‍ short a‍nd brea​thless la​ugh that soun​ded more lik​e a sob. "H‍e​ did more than win. He burned the wh‍o‍le kingdom down. I am watching the news feeds on the sidebar of my sc⁠reen. The Tho‌rne stock is d‌ro‍pping so fa‍s‍t that the exch​ange might have to halt trading. Pe‍ople are protesting outside th⁠e gates of h⁠is est‍ate in Gree​nwich."

The Cross‑Continental Pursuit Dawn broke over the London skyline, yet thin plumes of smoke still rose in the distance from the ruins of Ashwood Manor a monument to the mad ambitions of Julian Thorne Sr. Inside the iconic Thorne Group skyscraper, at the heart of the City of London’s financial district, Mavric Thorne stood before the wide window of his office. His appearance was disheveled; his black shirt was rolled up to the elbows, revealing a bandage on his forearm, and his eyes burned with exhaustion mixed with cold, unyielding fury.