Chained Hands Tl Smith Novels & Stories

On the table was her white envelope purse with thin silver chain hands and lying beside it was her phone. Tamara’s phone screen lighted up with a chat message and she pressed her lips together, nervous as she noticed the sender’s name, Dedan. His profile picture showed a formally dressed handsome guy standing relaxed with his back against a glass door. Picking up her phone from the table, she opened the chat application and her eyes took in his message with anxiety: Tell me again that you do not have a boyfriend. Why was he demanding that assurance again? She wondered. She had already told him several times that she was not in a relationship. Maybe he was the suspicious kind of man.

This tone gave me a chilly feeling I never wanted. So, I chose the latter. I tried to move away from him, but he caged me with his arms. I tried to wiggle free, but it was like an ant trying to move an elephant's feet. "What did you eat these years, huh?" I questioned him, feeling a little tired after wrestling a little with his one hand. He might find it funny because he laughed, but it wasn’t funny for me. I tried with all my strength, yet I failed to move one hand, no matter how hopeless I was.

“Hell, no!” She wasn’t able to run as I hold her arms tightly, but before we could get in line. I was stunned to see a familiar building walking toward us. It’s like the world stops spinning and everything was in slow motion, as he neared us. He was wearing a plain white shirt, hovering his well-toned body, flexing his masculine and plain black shorts. The Grandmaster Chime watch was reflecting on his left arm as the sunlight strikes it. “We are doomed now, Jada,” Trinity whispered.

I say with a whole lot of sass. Turning back to my brother I finally see that it was his hands that he got free. His ankles, however, are still attached to the chains on the walls. He looks almost ridiculous as he tries to remove the hammer from his chest while balancing on one hand connected to the floor. I take slow measured steps toward him as I whistle my song of the day. Let the torture begin…..

Silversmith looked content, a gleam in his eye of pure glee. Out of nowhere, Klara’s hand half transformed and shot up plunging her black claws up through the soft tissue of his jaw. Silversmith’s eyes widened, his breath gargled. She jumped onto the cot behind him with so fluidly it was as if she’d been training since being a pup. Her hand keeping him upright and still… but not dead. “At least I know whose blood is on whose hands now,” she growled. A breath wooshed out of Marc and he instantly put a hand on the guard, Dan’s, shoulder, stopping him from interfering.

His fingers twitched instinctively, a useless rebellion against the iron cuffs. “First, the hand,” one torturer murmured, watching the blood run between Rowan’s knuckles like black ink in water. “It’s personal. Nathan will know immediately.” Rowan gritted his teeth, taste of copper coating his tongue. He wanted to scream, wanted to fight, but every movement only deepened the pain. Muscles burned. Nerves screamed. Every second stretched into a lifetime. The other torturer leaned close, whispering like a lover delivering poison.

Chapter nine Laura pov “I’m gonna fuck you so hard they’ll hear you screaming my name, Jett.” His thumb dragged across my lower lip, slow and rough. His wet mouth brushed my ear, my voice low and shaking. “I’m begging you… please.” He pulled back, jaw clenched so tight I could see the muscle jumping. His eyes were black with fury and something even worse need. For a second, I thought he might lose it completely. Then, like a switch flipped, he reached up and unlocked the chains around my wrists.

About what happened if either of us wanted out. It was clinical. Cold. Everything I'd expect from him. But beneath the contract, there was a card. Handwritten. His handwriting, sharp, slanted, almost aggressive. "Penthouse. 2PM. When you're ready." No phone number. No email. Just an address and a time. He knew I'd come. He knew I had nowhere else to turn. I stared at the card for what felt like hours. I thought about my father. About the board. About sixty days that felt more like sixty seconds. I thought about Damien's cold eyes and crueler smile. I thought about what it would mean to sign my name next to his.

Other times, like breathing through a mesh of chains, hearing every whisper and shadow Drogo or something else had left in her mind. Tonight, the fourth evening before Arthur’s return, Silver wandered the corridors without intention, letting her bare feet tap against the stone floor. She stopped at the south corridor, where old claw marks etched deep into the walls. Memories of past fights and wolves long gone lingered here, like echoes of lessons carved in stone. She pressed her palm against the wall, grounding herself in cold reality. “You always end up here when you’re restless,” Ronan’s voice said behind her. She didn’t flinch. “I didn’t realize I was predictable.”

I narrow my own, leaning forward and pecking him lightly. “Bye criminal—” “Anatasia,” He interrupted. “Aren't you hungry?” I'm starving. “You want some food?” “Yes." I gulp. He hands leans over the bed, offering me a handful of cash. To put this in perspective, his hands are like...three times the size of mine. I have small hands. He has large hands. And all the bills are hundreds. It's ridiculous. “Um...am I supposed to buy a car or Chinese?”