Manacled Novels & Stories

But he had already agreed and had given his word to his father and Skye was now his mate. Once they were bonded, his instincts would most likely override any desire to leave him behind anyway. May as well get this done with while he still had his head. An old beta man followed behind the barmaid and it was easy to see the wound she had spoken of. No wonder no one had been able to fix it. The index finger of his left hand was bent at an odd angle and curled outward. It looked painful and Linus would be surprised if he could move it at all.

“Hands. Off. The. Merchandise.” “You’re no fun,” he declares, walking off. The muscular man tugs on the rope, forcing me to come along with him. He’s moving so fast that I don’t have the chance to even try to break free from the rope. With my hands bound like this, I can’t shift into my wolf form without injuring myself. I frantically look around my surroundings, trying to place where I might be.

But inside, I was crumbling. Luca’s grip on my arm was like iron, reminding me of my place in this charade. He leaned in slightly, his voice low and filled with warning. “Remember, Aria. You’re nothing but a puppet tonight. Don’t forget it.” Indie’s eyes sparkled with cruel satisfaction as she whispered, “You’re just a prop, Aria. A pretty face to stand beside us, nothing more. Try not to ruin the night with your pathetic tears.”

Her voice became softer, more intimate, like a lullaby: "Fire does not fear the dark. It simply exists... and in existing, it defies." I blinked. And then I was floating. Not falling. Not flying. Just... drifting. Weightless. All around me were fragments of memory. Laughing with Ava at the beach. Theo’s hands guiding mine over a piano. Layla’s first letter. Marcus’s eyes when he said my name like it meant something. And below me... chains. Dozens. Thick, black, pulsing like veins. Wrapped around something— No. Someone. Marcus. He stood in a void, arms bound, lips moving but soundless. He was trying to say something. His eyes burned with fury. With warning.

He always seems to know where I am, like he knows where to look, and I have a rising suspicion this man can smell or feel my blood as it courses through my body. They tie me to the altar like an offering meant for rot. The shackles chew into my wrists, rust grinding into the old scabs they split open again and again. The stone smells like sweat cooked over old blood. When they yank the manacle tight around my ankle, bone grates against bone. Good. Let them think I’m helpless. Let them think I’ll die slow. They’ve forgotten wolves chew through their own paws when cornered.

He stood rigid, angry as hell, but he didn’t get to pick whom I traveled with and whom I wouldn’t. I explained the scenario and shocking revelations to Nico as we headed back toward the beach. He’d been stunned and had hoped we could work things out. I promised to call him the next day before driving back to our home. Bracing myself, I pushed open the door, but my back had been slammed against it while cold metal clicked against my wrist. "What the fuck is wrong with you?!" I spat fiercely, realizing both of my hands had been cuffed to my back. "You really want to know that, baby? Don’t you?" Mancini asked in a spiteful tone. He was jealous? Really?

The made man who was kidnapped is now laying down on his bed with so many wires attached to his arms. Luca stood beside his bed and noticed that all the nails from his fingers are missing and there are some burn marks, injuries from slicking with a blade, his head is wrapped up in bandages. "Two bullet wounds are the major. One is just below his heart. The other is in his left knee" Carter explained. The guy is awake. When he saw his boss carter with a masked man and Marco, he knows the other one should be Luca. The one whom he is waiting for. His target. The one for whom they planned all this.

He fastened the buckle with a soft click, the sound echoing in the crimson room. “Does it feel good?” he murmured, his fingers brushing the sensitive skin beneath my jaw. A shiver ran through me. “Yes.” The word was barely a whisper. The collar felt oppressive, yet exhilarating. He produced a length of thick, braided rope, dark and supple. “Now for your hands.” He took my wrists, his touch firm but gentle. He bound them together, the rope soft against my skin, yet undeniably restrictive. Each knot was precise, deliberate. “I want you to feel completely helpless, June. Completely at my mercy.”

And then something below grabbed. It was not the pull of mud or a hand. It was a force that had weight and teeth and the slow, sure grip of an animal that had woken and decided to take more than it needed. It circled Darius’s ankle and the rope sang like a snapped string. He stumbled, and the men gave a curse. “Elara!” he shouted. His voice was thin and sudden with dread. He twisted. The mark on his palm flared white as bone. The rope at his waist tightened like a noose and then bit.

Finds me leaking against my stomach. His fingers trace the length, slow, deliberate. “You thought about leaving me,” he says. Almost conversational. “Even for a second. That’s unacceptable.” He strokes once, firm. I arch. He stops. “Hands behind your back.” I obey. He reaches behind him. Pulls a length of thin black paracord from one of the duffel bags. Loops it around my wrists. Ties them tight at the small of my back. Then he threads the cord through the metal loop under the table edge. Pulls until my shoulders strain, chest thrust forward.