Mr Thorne Mga Nobela at Kwento

All of it… over. It felt like a miracle. A real one. "Who… who are they?" I finally asked. "The Thorne Foundation? Why would they do this?" "I don't know!" Mrs. Byrne said, throwing her hands up. "The woman on the phone just said they 'like to help the community' and that 'someone told them about Havencrest. Maybe someone we helped? A long time ago? Someone who did well?" She hugged me tight. "It doesn't matter why, my dear. It just matters that it's here. God heard us."

That was a powder keg waiting to ignite. Thorne was the eldest at twenty-five, built like a fortress with broad shoulders that strained against his black leather jackets, his body a canvas of rippling muscle honed from endless patrols and fights. His face was all sharp angles, high cheekbones, a jawline that could cut glass, and piercing silver eyes that seemed to see straight through you. Brooding and intense, he spoke little, but his presence commanded silence. He was the strategist, the one who planned the pack's defenses, always one step ahead of threats.

I jumped, spinning around so fast I almost knocked the stack of letters off the desk as I fell against it. The man who had guided me to Lucien’s room stood to the side, as if he had started to walk around the desk, but the door was still closed. “You…” I started. “My name is Thorne, Luna.” He said, tilting his head as he glanced down at the drawer I had just been about to open. His gray hair was combed back, and the deep lines at the corner of his eyes became more prominent as he narrowed his eyes at me. He wore simple dark clothes, no rank markings, but everything about him screamed old warrior. The kind who’d seen more battles than most.

And then it had vanished. I laughed unsteadily. "Get a handle, Elara." Still… I crammed myself fast. I didn't recognize Mr. Thorne till he spoke. “Are you all right?” I leapt, almost dropping my bag. He stood in the doorway, jacket draped over one arm, face painstakingly controlled. He appeared taller at close quarters. More concrete. The air around him seemed charged, just as before a lightning hit. I said, lying, "I'm fine."

"It's like something out of a Jane Austen novel." Piper had to agree. She'd grown up in a small town outside of Boston and wasn't used to the elegance and splendor of many of the places she'd seen in London since she'd first arrived. Mr. Thorne had told them that this townhouse had been in his family a long time, and he had been living here until recently. Thorne's grandson was American and lived on the Gold Coast of Long Island, but he owned properties all over the world. Mr. Thorne was moving to America soon to spend more time with his grandson and his fianc¨¦e. It was so sweet.

"Sorry I'm late. Traffic was heavy." I looked at Isla's triumphant expression and gave her a cold smile. "Everyone, allow me to introduce Mr. Thorne, an Adjudicator for the Wolf Alliance. Three weeks ago, I hired him to investigate my mate's affair." "Affair?" Martha stared, stunned. "The 'embrace' in that photo was me shaking his hand to thank him after receiving his report," I took a thick file from Thorne. "Now, let's look at the real truth."

"I'll get it." I stayed on the couch, rubbing my temples, until I heard her voice from the hallway. “Good morning, Mr. Thorne.” The blood in my veins turned cold. I bolted upright so fast the room tilted. Did I hear that right? I walked into the small hallway, and there he was, Finnian Thorne, filling our cramped entryway in that charcoal suit that screamed money. He looked completely out of place against the peeling wallpaper and the scent of cheap detergent.

He couldn’t let Victoria down. But, what would it like to be happy? “Fucking idiot,” Thorne swore under his breath again. He ran his hand through his hair, yanking it out of the braid he’d woven into the top. “Yo!” a voice called out. Thorne lifted his head towards the sound. He saw a shadowy figure in a Kelly-green suit trudging through the woods behind the auditorium. He narrowed his eyes slightly and used his wolf sight to hone in on the man. He slumped down when he realized who it was.

“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…?”