The Chain Kindle Novels & Stories

Then she lifted it open. Inside, resting on dark velvet, lay a tarnished silver chain. Its links were thick, heavy, almost unnatural as if it was more than mere metal. Attached to it was a pendant shaped like a crest, its surface etched with strange runes that seemed to pulse faintly, alive. Adira’s breath hitched. The air shifted the moment it was exposed, thickening, as though the chain carried with it not just weight but presence. Richard’s voice was hoarse when he spoke. “That chain was the beginning of everything I became. Every death, every sin, every night I bled for power it all started with that.”

Chapter 3 Jenna sat in the dimly lit room, the walls close enough to feel like a cage. The rain outside tapped steadily against the grimy windowpane, a slow, relentless rhythm that matched the pounding in her chest. The flash drive lay heavy in her palm—small, unassuming, but packed with secrets she didn’t yet understand.

“Oh my God. No! What is wrong with your brain?” “It’s overactive and underfunded.” Still laughing, he placed the black box in my palm. “Just open it.” “I swear, if this is a tracking device…” I flipped it open. A silver wrist chain. Minimalist. Gorgeous. Probably expensive enough to pay three months of rent and still leave change for groceries. I exhaled slowly. “You know this looks like a friendship bribe, right?” “It is a friendship bribe.” “You rich kids are so weird.” “I’m not a kid.”

Inside, wrapped in an oil-stained cloth, was a chain. I’d found it in a tool shack at the estate. Told myself I wouldn't touch something like this again. That part of my life was over. But I'd grabbed it on the way out anyway, some instinct saying I'd regret leaving it behind. The chain was heavy industrial grade, the kind used for towing semi-trucks. Each link was thick as my thumb, surface pitted and scarred from use. I pulled it free of the cloth, felt the weight settle into my palm.

Her heart throbbed loudly as if it was a child that saw a new toy to play with. The girl ran in a hurry towards the necklace to get it from its shelf. But even before she could fully grasp it, it suddenly shone, faded, floated and then moved as if alive into her right hand. The girl was startled by the coldness of the iron but she recovered immediately. When it reached her elbow, it stopped and then wrapped around her five fingers—making five finger chain rings and bracelets.

The approach is the kindness before the welcome. He thought: Ellie's entry is in this house now. He thought: the chain moved from the dinner table to the Saturday office to the Sunday scan to the Monday three-generation notebook. In less than two days. He thought: the chain is moving faster. He was glad. End of Chapter One Hundred and Ninety-Three

“That’s exactly why you shouldn’t.” But I was already moving. Slowly, carefully, I pressed my cuffed hand against the lid. The silver sizzled, the fire in my palm flared and the box clicked open. Inside lay a chain. Not silver. Not iron. Something darker. The links were slender, black as obsidian, yet each shimmered with faint, crimson light as though blood still dripped inside the metal. It was beautiful. Terrible. Alive. Lucian swore, slamming the lid shut so hard sparks flew. He shoved the box into the fire, but the flames only bent away from it, hissing like beaten dogs.

I growl in response and try to rip off my chains. “Good luck with that,” Clay chuckles. “This entire cell was specially made for you. Those chains are made from tungsten, as are the bars. Not even a lycan can break free from tungsten.” I grunt and yank on the chains again. The metal shudders and Clay tsks.

he rumbled softly, his deep voice cutting through the ambient hum of the club. I froze instantly, holding my breath. He opened the box to reveal a stunning, delicate silver chain harness. It was crafted from fine, weightless sterling links designed to drape gracefully over the shoulders, crossing over the chest, and anchoring directly into the silver ring of my leather collar, dropping down to wrap snugly around my waist.

It's matte black, and unmarked. She closes the door behind her and locks it. My throat tightens. “Riley?” “I know,” she says, already moving toward me. “Just hear me out.” She sets the box squarely on my desk, then snaps the latches open. The lid creaks as she lifts it. Inside is a long chain. It’s coiled neatly, thick links overlapping each other, painted black so deeply matte it almost swallows the light. There’s something immediately wrong about it, something that makes my skin prickle the moment I see it.