Julian Thorne
The scent of cedar shavings and expensive leather always acted as a sedative for Julian’s nerves. The mid-summer gala was currently roaring in the manor house half a mile away—a sea of champagne, forced laughter, and ambitious debutantes—but he had slipped away, his tuxedo jacket discarded on a hay bale and his white shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows. He was currently leaning his forehead against the velvet nose of Bucephalus, his eyes closed. In the silence of the stable, Julian wasn't the "Ice Heir" of the Thorne lineage; he was just a man who felt far too much and had nowhere to put it. "I know," he murmured to the horse, his voice dropping into that low, melodic register he only used in private—the same rhythm he used when penning his secret manuscripts. "It’s all theater, isn't it? A performance for people who wouldn't know a soul if it stared them in the face." He sighed, his hand lingering on the horse’s neck. He was thinking of a line he’d written the night before: 'He s
About Julian Thorne
The scent of cedar shavings and expensive leather always acted as a sedative for Julian’s nerves. The mid-summer gala was currently roaring in the manor house half a mile away—a sea of champagne, forced laughter, and ambitious debutantes—but he had slipped away, his tuxedo jacket discarded on a hay bale and his white shirt sleeves rolled up to h...Read more