Juniper And Thorn Novels & Stories

Jax added, “but leaving us behind while our mates go into battle? That’s not how this pack works.” “I’m not even in your damn pack,” Thorne growled, fangs flashing just beneath the surface. “But that doesn’t change the fact that my true flame—” he jabbed a finger toward the distance where Isolde had gone “—is about to walk into some hellish fight with her undead mother, and I’m supposed to just sit back and wait?” Gunner stepped forward, calm but firm. “You’re not the only one losing sleep over this.” Thorne’s eyes snapped toward him, full of fire. “You’ve had months – years to build your bond. I’ve had weeks. And I just got her. If something happens—if she dies—”

They called themselves Mercury, and their gospel was simple: To save the soul of the species, we must murder the machine. Julian Thorne sat on the porch of his stone cottage, the wood grain rough beneath his calloused fingers. He was sixty years old, and the predatory sharpness of his youth had been replaced by a grounded, tectonic stillness. He was paring an apple—a Gala from the north orchard—with a knife he had forged himself from a salvaged turbine blade. The sun was setting, casting long, amber shadows across the Port Trinity square, when the silence was broken. It wasn't the hum of a drone or the crackle of a radio. It was the rhythmic, heavy thud of boots on gravel.

He was currently, according to Jax's last message, "extremely bored and being very irritating about it." Day seven. Node nine. An old standing stone in a field that three generations of the Thornridge pack had been using for informal boundary marking without knowing it was a covenant node. The contamination here was the most sophisticated yet, threaded through the stone's structure in a pattern that took me almost an hour just to map before I could begin addressing it.

I'm standing in the woods near the house, I'm trying to scent him. There is two different trails. He's been close, watching us. I decide to follow the scent on the left. It's weaving all around. It's led me in circles. Thorne is extremely intelligent. This is a game for him. I go back to where I started. Close my eyes and search. Another scent trail appears before me as well as the previous one to my right. He's here. I follow the new trail. I'm running. Determined to find him. To kill him. I feel it in every part of me. This drive to see him fall.

I close my eyes biting my lower lip and say softly, “Hands to yourselves Mr. Hawthorne.” “You make me turn on whenever we’re alone, especially when we are in a confined space.” Adrian whispered into my ear as I felt his breath tingling around my neck and could feel my arm hair rise, having goosebumps as he stroked my arm gently up and down. He pushes me slowly into the small room that has a small bed which has only a divider that separates the room.

Yseah spoke with firm but a hollow meaning behind it. Greetings! This is my first ever werewolf story. I really was looking forward writing this. And if there are wrong typos and grammars, that I deeply apologize. I am sorry in advance. By the way, if you're enjoying the story, please vote gems for Mated to the Thorns. Thank you!! -Note: From Author, MysticGrace

"The core of Project Thorne is locked behind a biometric wall. It does not use passwords or fingerprints. It uses the Blackwood signature. It needs the specific DNA and retinal patterns of a direct Blackwood bloodline to unlock the final stage." He leaned in closer, his face inches from hers. The shadow of the shelves fell across them, hiding them from the moonlight. Iris looked at the man she had almost trusted, and she saw the truth. He did not see her as a person. He did not see her as a woman or even an enemy. "Julian refused to open it for me," Silas whispered. "He thought he could keep the power of Thorne to himself. He thought he could protect the legacy by staying silent. But he forg

"No, no, no..." BECCA’S POV I didn't see the blood at first. I only saw his hands—the hands that had signed our marriage certificate with such strength—now resting limp and cold. The thorn wasn't just a metaphor anymore. It was literal. The thorns had drawn blood. "Josh," I choked out, my eyes darting around the room. The house had been tossed, but not for money. They were looking for the briefcase. It had to be the briefcase. My heart stopped. If they had found it, we were dead. If they hadn't, they were still close.