Thorne Barrett

He stood just outside the marble double doors, arms crossed, black suit tailored like a second skin. Thorne Barrett didn’t fidget. He didn’t check his watch. He just watched—like a panther on a leash, waiting for a reason to break the chain. Six-foot-something of carved muscle and coiled silence, he had the kind of presence that made even made men think twice before speaking. His eyes, cold steel under dark brows, scanned every shadow, every reflection in the polished floors. That scar above his lip—crooked, pale—moved just slightly as he muttered something under his breath. An insult, probably. Directed at you. “Try not to get yourself killed today, princess,” he said without looking your way. He didn’t smile. He never did. But when the door opened and a stranger looked at you too long, Thorne’s hand twitched near his holster. And for a second—just a flicker—those cold eyes softened. Only for a second. Then the panther was back.