Thorns Novels & Stories

She was his responsibility to look after and promised the Lord that he would protect her like a daughter. Rose’s training went well! She thought Cain took it too easy on her, however she was grateful. Her muscles had muscles that hurt, and ones she never knew she had, hurt! By the end of the day she was able to flip that big giant over her from a charge and get away! Next step will be to do it from standing still and then learning to attack back! Rose could barely contain herself, this was happening! Everything she had dreamt about someday accomplishing is on the right track! As she ignored Madame Gruage and went right for a hot soak bath, Rose reflected on that for a minute. “Everything has

*Thorn* As I step into the mayor’s office, the atmosphere thickens with tension, swirling like the storm clouds gathering on the horizon. The room is lavishly decorated, a stark contrast to the gritty underworld I’ve known for so long. But no amount of opulence can mask the wary glances exchanged among the high-ranking Alphas gathered around the polished mahogany table. I can feel their scrutiny, each gaze a silent accusation, a reminder of the chasm that still separates us.

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.

Each ripple in the water’s surface twisted, reflecting not the Hollow, but visions — fleeting, jagged, unclear. Thorne stood near a circle of carved antlers, their points darkened with age and dried blood. Her skin smelled of crushed leaves and iron, vines coiled around her wrists like serpents. One hand traced along the edges of an antler, the other resting on the hilt of a vine-wrapped knife at her hip. Her posture was still, but her tension hummed like a drawn bowstring.

He didn’t smirk. Didn’t tease. Just held me as if it was the most natural thing in the world. Then he placed the file in my hands. The name at the top sent a cold rush down my spine. THORNVEIL. My breath caught. He flipped the page, revealing scanned documents—birth records, royal announcements, photos, reports. Luna whispered in my mind, “This is about you.” My eyes moved slowly over the lines, absorbing the impossible truth. Queen Liora went into labor in a neighboring town…

It was beautiful, but it was a beauty that spoke of isolation and careful cultivation. Then, he painted the thorns. Not around the greenhouse, but composing it. The entire structure was encased in an intricate, terrifyingly beautiful lattice of steel thorns. Each thorn was a razor-sharp shard of metal, woven together with the precision of a master blacksmith. They didn't just surround the glass; they pressed against it, their needle-points leaving faint, almost invisible scratches on the pristine surface. The thorns were not an afterthought; they were the greenhouse's primary architecture, its pro

They obeyed, trembling, whimpering, and stumbling over each other as they sank into their chairs. One by one, Lupercus strapped them in with thick silver cuffs on their wrists and ankles. "Gross," he muttered. "Y'all smell like a septic tank fucked a corpse." He took the seat across from me with a little sigh, folding one leg over the other like we were about to have afternoon tea. I picked up a Thornsteel knife. Using a silver-coated knife would be a mercy, they would heal, albeit painfully, but Thornsteel? Its metallic tendrils burrow into flesh and hook into the nervous system. It physically connects to the pain centers and p

“I am the gravity that holds your light in place. Without me, Winnie, you are just a flare in the void, burning out until there is nothing left but ash.” ​I felt a sharp, cold sting in my chest. I looked down and saw thin violet threads weaving through the golden patterns on my forearms. They weren’t attacking; they were integrating. My skin felt like it was being stitched together by ice. ​“Winnie, don’t let her in!” Thorne’s voice reached me from the perimeter of the room. I could see him through the haze, a silhouette of desperation. He was hacking at the rising obsidian thorns that were encasing the central pedestal, his vibro-blade throwing blue sparks ag

The sheer, terrifying density of the razor-sharp, heavily rusted thorns would violently shred his heavily blistered lips and raw throat completely apart. "Rohan," Kiara commanded lethally, gracefully gesturing completely toward the thickest, most violently overgrown section of the massive thorn wall. "Forcefully shove his entire violently bleeding face completely into that massive cluster. Do not actively let him pull completely back until his raw, actively bleeding teeth violently rip the thickest root entirely out of the freezing dirt."

Every way to make someone feel small enough to disappear. The door to the dressing room stands open, revealing more silk walls, more dark wood, more perfect details she can’t escape. A wardrobe takes up one whole wall, its doors carved with silver thorns that twist and coil in patterns she recognizes but can’t name — faces, maybe, or just shadows that look like faces when you stare too long into the dark. She runs her finger along one of the thorns expecting sharpness, but finds only smooth metal. Then she presses harder, and the point cuts through her skin without resistance, leaving a thin red line that wells with no blood.