Chained Hands Tl Smith Novels & Stories

Suddenly, his hands grasped my throat. Choking, gagging for air clutched at his hands with my own. The sting of power that lived within him struck me like an electric shock. “I think in the future you should think about your words more carefully before letting them spill out of that pretty little mouth. I’d so hate to see those lips ripped from your skull, Chief Darksyde.” He snickered before throwing me to the ground.

On the left side of his back, I saw a compass tattoo. But what piqued my curiosity the most was a lone tattoo at the left bottom of his back. There were two hands. One was big and bulky, indicating that it was of man's. The other was slim and slightly smaller in size, indicating that it was of a woman's. Both hands were at a little distance away from each other and were connected through the chains. They were facing away from each other as if trying to oppose the chains. Beneath the tattoo, I noticed some lettering.

Carter’s knuckles were white as he gripped the edge of the table, eyes locked on the photographs. He’d gone through them three times already, as if each pass would reveal some secret he’d missed. “It’s not over.” The words burned in the space between us like a fuse waiting to ignite. “This handwriting,” he muttered. “It’s too clean. Someone wanted you to read it clearly. No smudges, no rush. This was intentional.” I sat across from him on the couch, arms wrapped around my knees. “You think it’s a message?”

It was just that the past three years had made me realize that he no longer was the family I could freely seek affection from. Connor was still looking at me, seemingly waiting for an explanation. But I only lowered my head and replied, "I'm sorry, Mr. Sanders." His frown deepened. He was about to speak up when he caught sight of the still-healing needle marks on my neck. He paused for a moment before reaching out toward me. "What's this?" I instinctively flinched away from Connor's hand. This was something that had never happened before. His hand missed and fell, and his expression darkened instantly. "I'm just trying to look out for you, Wendy, and this is how you're acting?"

Chapter Six I stand in front of the mirror, looking at this reflection that seems foreign to me. My hair, once neatly styled, now hangs in loose strands around my face. I take a deep breath, trying to shake off the lingering thoughts of Elvis. His touch comes into my memory now, and it sends gooseflesh, remembering the thrill of holding his hand as he guided me into a world I never thought I could have.

"For your hand, this is the only one. I've already made my decision." His sacrifice warmed a part of my heart I thought had turned to ice. A month later, I could hold a pen. Alexander handed me a charcoal pencil. My hand shaking, I drew a single, clean line. A symbol of my rebirth. Tears blurred my vision. "I can draw again..." "I knew you could," he said, his smile genuine. "I'm your anonymous patron, you know. A.R. Alexander Reed. I've been buying your work for five years."

On the fifth floor, the door slid open to reveal a narrow corridor lined with faded carpets and dim lights. Room 512. She stood before the door, fingers trembling as she knocked once. No answer. Her hand pushed the door open. Inside, the room was dark except for a single lamp casting a pool of light near the window. A figure stood there, silhouetted against the city skyline—a man whose presence filled the room with an unspoken threat. “Nathan Vale?” Jenna’s voice was barely more than a whisper. He turned slowly, a slow smile playing at the corner of his lips. “You must be the courier,” he said, voice low and smooth.

They sang. Every corner of the realm shimmered with rebirth. Emily was not just a queen. She was a revolution wearing a crown. They brought Dama with them, holding his little hands in theirs as he toddled between them. The boy was growing quickly — bright-eyed and curious, asking questions about everything he saw. “Why do we burn the chains, Mama?” he asked one morning, his voice high and clear. Emily knelt down and brushed a lock of hair from his face. “Because chains should never touch the skin of the innocent. We burn them so they can never hurt anyone again.”

Alpha Cain glared at me, a silent warning for me to speed up, but I kept my pace slow and steady, still hoping that at the very least, one of the other packs would say something to delay or pause the ceremony. Yet, even they had turned their backs on me. My chains rattled louder as I reached the three steps leading up to the platform and found that while I managed to stumble and limp my way down the aisle, the stairs would not be possible in my broken and weakened state. I was lucky to be able to walk, let alone remain conscious. The only thing driving me forward was how stubborn I was not to let them see just how weak I was. “Get up,” Alpha Cain growled, grabbing the chain around my wrists

"I love flowers, every single one that you hand me," she murmured, her voice soft and tender as she held his hands in hers. Her eyes traced over the rough, calloused skin, noticing the patches of red and white hair that lightly dusted the back of his hands. These hands, so strong and masculine, bore the marks of yesterday’s incident—small wounds that had yet to heal. As she looked at them, her heart skipped a beat, overwhelmed by the intensity of emotions they stirred within her.