Mr 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.

When it was totally finished, I crawled into the middle. I pulled one of his black t-shirts over my bare chest and hugged it tight. I curled my body into a small, tight ball. The heavy smell of pine trees completely surrounded me. The scent was so thick it made my head spin in a wonderful way. I felt hidden. I felt totally safe. The water in the bathroom turned off. The glass door opened. Mr. Thorne walked out. He had a white towel wrapped low around his waist. His massive, scarred chest was wet. Drops of hot water ran down his thick stomach.

"We don't know who’s inside." Before he could even knock, the heavy wooden door creaked open. An elderly man stood there, he was a wolf. I could tell tell from his scent. His hair was turning white, and though he was slowly aging you could tell he was one fit man in his prime. He stood tall, leaning on a thick wooden cane. His eyes were sharp, too sharp for someone his age. "Who are you?" Renn asked, his voice a low growl. "Name’s Thorne," the man said. "I was exiled from the Hill Pack years ago. This place was empty, so I fixed it up. What do you want?"

Until the doorbell rang. It was Mr. Thorne, Dad’s business partner, standing on our porch, a briefcase in one hand, a casual smile on his face. He was a familiar presence, almost like a second uncle, yet recently, something had shifted. His eyes, usually friendly, now held a glint of something deeper, something that made my skin prickle when they lingered on my chest. He was handsome in that rugged, seasoned way, with silver threading through his dark hair and an easy confidence that seemed to ripple off him.

he said sarcastically. “You know not to call me. I already told you I'd get him to sign your deal. I don't need you blowing my phone up.” she complained with annoyance. "That's a shame," he said dryly. Before Jessica could retort, a man appeared at the entrance of her office. With a distinctive appearance, standing tall and having keen blue eyes, he inched towards her gently. His hair, partly at the corner of his face with its silver glow. "Mr. Thorne?" the man inquired calmly, his voice, baritone-like.

He placed a soft kiss on my forehead. “Are you sure you want to go home and pick up some stuff?” “I won’t have any clothes if not.” “I can take you shopping in the morning to get anything you need.” “What about to sleep in tonight?” “I can lend you a shirt,” his wicked smile was back. “Oh really, What’s with the wicked smile Mr. Thorn?” “Just imagining you in one of my shirts.” “Ok. Take me to yours.” “Are you sure?” “Yes. The longer I let the dust settle the better to be honest.”

He wasn't sure what he was looking for, but the sight of the dark, tall figure standing motionless at the window of the fourth-floor office, Professor Thorne's office, was instantly striking. Marcus recognized Igor instantly. The CEO of Thorne Industries was a celebrity in the city, and the silver streak in his hair was unmistakable. What’s Thorne doing watching the parking lot? And why is he staring at Killian’s car like that? The professor wasn't looking at the quad, or the freshmen, or the building across the street. He was looking at the exact spot where Killian had just disappeared. And the look on his face wasn't the detached superiority the CEO usually projected; it was raw, hungry, a

She was already thinking of going back, because this was not what she expected. “Mr. Thorne, what is this?” she asked, her tone sharp, eyes cold. “Is this a business meeting or something else entirely?” Mr Thorne chuckled softly, unbothered. “Excuse my shamelessness,” he said, brushing his fingers lightly across the rim of his glass, “but I could not resist. The temptation of being in a date with the infamous Vanessa smith was too much?”

And the chimney leaked a thread of smoke. He was home. We stopped just out of view, crouched behind a moss-covered slope. Hale glanced at me once. “I go first.” I didn’t argue. He rose slowly, hands visible, and stepped into the clearing. I followed, staying three steps behind. The door opened before we reached the porch. He looked nothing like I expected. Thorne was tall, lean, and weathered, his face carved by age and isolation. The scar above his temple was still there—angrier up close. His eyes were clear. Too clear. The kind that saw everything and regretted most of it.