The Thorn That Pierces Me Novels & Stories

He asked, pulling me into him as if he could see easily through the chaos. Thorne groaned and a fire ignited in his palm — hellfire. It cut through the shadows revealing his face and body to me. I winced at the blood coating his flesh but couldn't see any visible wounds, "What the hell is happening there?" "It's bloody murder and I'm not sure when she'll run out of power," Thorne grunted as he pressed his fire into the shield causing it to instantly shatter, "I heal fast, though. She's going to have to do a lot more than shoot spikes made of water and wood at me to do actual damage."

The harsh elements seemed almost fitting, a cruel reflection of my inner despair. “Ouch!” I winced as a thorn pierced the thin skin of my toe, the sharp pain jolting me momentarily from my sorrow. The night only seemed to get worse. Perhaps the moon goddess had heard my silent plea. I was about to vanish in this desolate place, disappearing without a trace from everyone’s lives. Such grace! A faint, sarcastic smile spread across my face as I pulled out the thorn, watching more blood ooze from the fresh wound. Maybe my long-standing wish to die naturally was about to be granted. Yes, you are right! I was too cowardly to end it myself despite everything.

I carried them without complaint, but tonight the burden pressed differently, almost suffocating. I brushed my hand against the rough stone wall as I walked, grounding myself. It wasn’t until I strayed closer to the frost-laced hedges that I felt the sting. A thorn, hidden beneath the snow, bit into the back of my hand. I hissed, jerking away, but too late—the sharp sting tore skin, and crimson spilled freely, dripping fat drops onto the snow. “Bloody hell!” I growled, clutching the wound. The sting was actually nothing, just that I got surprised.. but the blood—it fell too freely, splattering against white like roses blooming in winter. “A mere thorn and I am now dripping blood again…”

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.

He laughed softly. “Why couldn’t the Goddess have chosen someone like her instead?” Cruel laughter and whispers bubbled through the hall. My hands trembled, but I forced them still. The pain of the mate bond rejection began to burn in my chest, raw and unbearable. “What’s your name?” Rafael sneered. My lips quivered as I answered, dreading what I already knew. “Anya Thornveil.” His voice carried like a curse across the hall. “I, Rafael Blackmoor, reject you, Anya Thornveil, as my mate.”

“Fear makes men strike in the wrong place.” She folded her hands and for a moment was very young and also infinitely old. The mantle of the chosen pressed on her like a cold, familiar stone; yet she carried it as a piece of glass rather than iron—fragile, precise. “What do you want of me?” Thorne asked. “I spilled this coin and blood because I needed them to survive. If I turn and he finds out—”

“If I’ve failed you, if you believe I’ve broken that promise… then I’ll punish myself. Until you believe me again.” Wait… what in the world? Did I hear him right? My throat went dry. “Thorne…” He straightened, eyes dark and wild, unbuttoning the rest of his shirt with agonizing slowness. The bandage around his ribs pulled taut, stained faintly red where it had bled through. “Every time you doubt me,” he drawled, “I’ll take the pain for you. Every cut, every bruise, every scar—let them mark me instead of you.”

It felt real. I didn’t do the graceful forms the warriors practiced. I went to the scarred posts. I hit them. I kicked. I let the anger out—Ayla’s old terror, Liliana’s buried rage, my own cold fury. She won’t leave alive. My claws, tipped with Seris’s wolf-strength, tore long gashes in the wood. “Trying to redecorate?” The voice was a smug blade through the morning. Thorne leaned on the fence, dressed all in black, a king surveying his courtyard. A wicked little smile played on his lips.

The pain on my side felt like a sharp jab, a constant reminder of something I couldn't quite grasp. I heard my mom's voice in the distance, a comforting murmur that reassured me, "You'll be fine, Madison. The doctors are taking care of you." It was a distant echo, like a lifeline connecting me to the world outside my foggy cocoon. I tried to focus on the words, to find solace in them, but the pain and dizziness were relentless.