Novel & Cerita Mr Thorne

It was unlike me but worry cloaked me like a black cloud that I couldn't get rid of. Thorne entered, his massive form ambling toward me. He was a fairly good-looking guy with deep brown skin and rich hazel eyes that held captivating flecks of gold. If one looked closely enough they'd notice the thin ring of fire around his irises that could easily be missed. His hair was cropped into a buzz cut and his smile was something that could light up Times Square. Only, now he was scowling at me, ready to barbeque me into the next fucking century.

“Remember, we’re here for a reason. You need this. Think of your family, your dreams. This is a shortcut to chasing our dreams.” Chloe led Elara towards the men confidently. As they approached, Mr. Thorne’s dark and assessing eyes, swept over Elara, lingering on her curves, and a faint smile playing on his lips. Mr. Davies, his eyes a lighter blue, offered a more open, almost grandfatherly, grin. It was disarming. “Chloe, my dear,” Mr. Thorne smiled and welcomed her. He took a slow drag from his cigar. “Always a pleasure to see you gracing our humble gathering.”

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.

"The God-Slayer is for gods. We’re dealing with physics now." He picked up a heavy, long-handled sledgehammer from a nearby construction crate. The weight of it felt honest. Every swing was a strike against the "Perfection" that had nearly choked the world. Clang. Clang. Clang. The sound echoed through the silent streets, a rhythmic, primitive heartbeat that began to draw the villagers out of their stupor. They watched as Julian Thorne—the man who had once moved billions with a keystroke—sweated and bled over a stubborn iron bolt. It took twenty minutes, but when the bolt finally sheared and the doors creaked open, a collective gasp went up from the crowd.

Just the dry rustle of coconut trees. "Knock! Knock!" I knocked at the mahogany wood door. A shutter creaked on the upper window. A moment later, the front door—heavy mahogany with three different locks—swung open just a few inches. A man stood there. He looked older than the photos in the NUAT archives. His hair was a chaotic crown of grey wool, and his skin was the color of parched tobacco. But it was his eyes that stopped Becca cold. They weren't the eyes of a scholar; they were the desperate eyes of a man who had been expecting death for sixteen years.

The black iron gates of the Thorne estate swung open smoothly as Peter Noir guided the car up the long driveway. Dave sat in the passenger seat, relaxed and chatting lightly about the weather, while Elias occupied the back, trying to keep his breathing even. The house was impressive, large, modern, with sharp lines and perfectly manicured lawns that screamed old money mixed with cold distance. Mr. Marvel Thorne stood waiting outside the grand entrance, hands clasped behind his back. As the car stopped, he stepped forward with a broad, practiced smile.

His cries were piercing, but their sounds were quickly swallowed by the wind and snow. A few days later, someone found a frozen corpse at the edge of the forest. Thorne had died that cold night. When he died, he was still in a crawling position, reaching toward the manor. Meanwhile, I was curled up on the rug in front of the fireplace. Rowan held me from behind, a storybook in his hands as he read a bedtime story to our two pups. The story was about a lost little wolf who finally found its guardian. "Sera." He suddenly stopped and kissed the top of my head.

a deep, raspy, heavy voice resonated through the darkness. I turned around at once, holding my breath. Alexander Thorne was standing less than two feet away from me. He wore only a pair of loose gray sweatpants that sat low on his hips. He was completely shirtless. The dim light from the window hit his robust chest dead-on, highlighting his rigid muscles, his absurdly broad shoulders, and his chiseled abdomen. His dark hair was slightly messy, indicating that he couldn't catch any sleep either.

I walked into the house without knocking. The living room was occupied. Sterling's two sisters sat on opposing sofas, their mother in the armchair near the window, and Sterling himself standing near the far wall with his phone in his hand. And at the table in the corner, half-turned away from the room as though he existed slightly outside of it, was an old man I recognized from photographs more than from life. Mr. Thorne. The man the press had largely forgotten about. The man was so deliberately removed from the public eye that half of America had quietly assumed he was dead.

The Edmund files Clara put on my desk at eight fifty seven were thorough in the way that only files compiled by an intelligence operation over forty years could be thorough. Edmund Thorne. Sixty eight years old. Founder of the Thorne Group. Educated at Oxford and Harvard. Married once. Divorced. One acknowledged son, Julian. One unacknowledged son who didn’t exist in any official record anywhere because Eleanor had made sure of that. Connections spanning six continents. A reputation in private financial circles as the man you called when the problem was too large and too sensitive for conventional solutions.