Chain of Armor: Book 3 of The Black Chains

Mia

The road disappeared a long time ago. I don’t remember when the pavement turned to gravel, or when the gravel turned to dirt, or when my shoes stopped being shoes at all. One is gone. The other hangs on by a strip of torn canvas. Every step fucking burns. Every breath drags through my lungs like broken glass.

I can’t stop. Stopping means he finds me. And if he finds me—

A sob climbs my throat, sharp and ugly, and I bite down on it until I taste copper. Noise is dangerous. Noise gets me caught. Keep moving.

The night presses in thick around me. No streetlights. No houses. Just black pines and the faint mutter of something mechanical in the distance. Engines, maybe. Or maybe I’m finally losing my damn mind.

My legs give out. I hit the ground hard, hands slamming into gravel, and I catch myself on instinct, too late and too clumsy. Skin splits across both palms. It should hurt. It barely registers. Everything feels far away, like I’ve slipped out of my own body and I’m watching someone else crawl.

Then I try to push up, and my right wrist folds.

White light flashes behind my eyes. I suck in a breath, and it catches on something sharp in my side. Ribs. Not just bruised. Something in there is grinding that shouldn’t grind. I lift the wrist, and it shakes in front of me, the fingers barely curling. Sprained. Maybe worse.

Get up.

I don’t have time for broken things. I get my good hand under me, then my knees, then my feet, and I sway there like a drunk. The black creeps in at the edges of my vision. I blink it back and see him instead. The way his mouth twists when he’s angry. The way his eyes go flat and empty right before the first blow lands. The sound it makes. The sound I make.

No. Don’t fucking think about it.

I stumble forward and drag in a breath that tastes like blood. Then I hear it again. Engines. Louder now. Real.

I lift my head slowly, like it weighs too much for my neck. Through the trees there’s light. Not soft or welcoming. Harsh, flickering, cutting through the dark in long yellow bars. A building. Chrome glinting along the front of it, row after row. Voices drifting out through an open door, men’s voices, low and rough and overlapping.

My heart slams so hard it makes me dizzy.

People. Terror comes first, because people mean questions. Attention. Being seen. Being found. But something else comes after it. Weak, fragile, barely there. Hope.

Please.

I push forward anyway, every step more unsteady than the last. Branches rake my arms and pull at my hair. I don’t feel them. All I can see is the door. Big. Steel. Cracked open just wide enough to spill noise and light into the dark.

I break out of the tree line and the world tilts. Shapes move inside. Too many. Leather and denim and the glow of cigarettes. A bike roars somewhere off to my left, and I flinch so hard my ribs scream.

Say something. Ask for help.

My mouth opens. Nothing comes out. I force air in past the pain and try again. “Help—”

It cracks in half. Someone near the door turns. A man. Broad shoulders. Dark silhouette against the light.

I take another step. Then another. My knee buckles. I hit the ground and white explodes across my vision.

No. No, no, no. Get up.

I claw at the dirt, dragging myself toward the light. It feels farther away now, even though I know it isn’t.

“Help me,” I whisper, and the words break apart into a sob.

Footsteps. Heavy. Fast. The door bangs wider.

“Shit! Hey—guys!” A voice, deep and sharp and instantly awake. Boots hit the gravel in front of my face. I try to lift my head and can’t. Everything is slipping, fading.

Then hands. Strong. Warm. They catch me before I can fold completely, one arm sliding under my shoulders, the other taking my weight like I’m nothing. I feel it as he lifts me. The hard shape of a gun at the small of his back. The heat of him. The way he doesn’t flinch at the blood I’m smearing across his shirt.

“Jesus fucking Christ—” His voice is right above me now. “Hey. Stay with me.”

I try to see him. I really do. Everything is blurred, smeared together, and all I can make out is black leather stretched over a broad chest. And there, stitched into it, something catches the light.

A patch. It flickers in and out of focus. Worn edges. Thick thread. Words curved across the top.

Sergeant at Arms.

I don’t fully understand it. Not with my head. But something deeper in me does. The one who steps in when things go wrong. The one who doesn’t let them spiral. The one who stands at the door so nothing else walks through.

Safe. The word floats up from somewhere I buried it a long time ago.

My fingers move without permission, curling weakly into his shirt, right over that patch. Like it has to mean something. Like it has to.

“Please,” I breathe.

“I’ve got you.” His voice is rough and certain. “You’re okay.”

No one has ever said that to me and meant it.

My body shakes once, hard and violent, like everything holding me together just gave out.

“Wholly shit. What the hell happened to her?” someone demands behind him. Other boots now, a lot of them, scraping the gravel. I hear the metallic whisper of a weapon being drawn, then another.

“Doesn’t matter right now.” He doesn’t raise his voice. He doesn’t have to. “Stacy!”

“Smoke.” Another man, older, flat and cold. “She walks out of the dark two months after what showed up on that windshield, and you want to carry her through the front door? She could be anyone.”

“I want Stacy,” the man holding me says. “Fucking move.”

No one argues.

I try to hold on to his voice. To the warmth of his arms. To the steady, unhurried way he’s holding me, like I won’t come apart if he’s careful. But it’s slipping, all of it. The darkness is pulling harder.

“Stay with me,” he says again, closer. His mouth is almost at my hair.

Like he can keep me here by saying it.

I want to stay. God, I want to. But I’m so tired.

My grip loosens. Not completely. My fingers still brush that patch, the only real thing left in the world. My head falls against his chest.

And for the first time in longer than I can remember, I stop fighting.

I let go.

I come back in pieces. Sound first, then pain, then fear. Never all at once.

“…too deep to leave till morning. She needs stitches.”

“She’ll get them. Do what you can now.”

“Hold her still.”

My body locks before I even understand why. Instinct. My heart starts racing, pounding so hard it makes my ribs scream.

“No—” The word scrapes out of me. “No, don’t—”

Light burns my eyes as they snap open. I try to jerk away, but hands are already on me, firm and steady, and panic detonates through my chest.

“No, no, please.” My voice turns ugly and small. “I’ll be quiet. I swear I’ll be quiet, I’ll—”

“Hey.” A woman’s voice, calm and firm. It cuts straight through the spiral. “Look at me.”

The words float somewhere out of reach. I look anyway, because I don’t know what else to do. Her face swims into focus. Sharp, kind eyes locked on mine. Hair scraped back off her face. Blood on her gloves, shining under the lights.

Mine.

I flinch.

“I know,” she says gently, catching it. “I know it hurts. I need to clean this out, okay?” She’s kneeling beside the couch, which is wrong somehow, until I see why. She can’t lean over me. There’s a curve in the way, round and unmistakable under her scrub top, pressed against the edge of the cushions. Five months, maybe more. She shifts her weight to ease it and keeps working like it’s nothing. Like a pregnant woman on her knees with a curved needle is the most natural thing in the world.

“No—” I yank my arm back and a bolt of pain tears through me. I choke on a cry.

“Easy. Easy. I’ve got you.”

Hands close around my shoulders, strong and unyielding. Not trapping. Holding. I freeze.

“Bree, keep her steady,” the woman says without looking away from my face.

Another presence settles in on my other side.

“Got her.” A different voice, lighter, but with every ounce of its usual teasing stripped away. Nothing in it now but focus. A second set of hands slides carefully under my hurt wrist, bracing it so it can’t twist wrong. “I’m not gonna hurt you. Just don’t jerk, okay? We’re only trying to help.”

My breathing is all wrong. Too fast, too shallow, like my body has forgotten how.

“I can’t,” I gasp. “I can’t, I can’t—”

“I know. Stay with us.”

There’s another woman at the foot of the couch, standing with one hand pressed to the small of her back and the other cupped under the rounded swell of her stomach. About the same as the first one, I’d guess, from the way she carries it. Her face is gone white. She’s staring at the blood on my ribs like she’s watching it happen to her.

“Jesus,” she whispers.

Behind them, movement. Heavier footsteps, controlled but fast. I feel him before I see him. That same grounding pressure I recognized in the dirt, pressing in at my back, different from the women’s hands. Stronger. Something in my body answers it before my mind can stop it.

His voice drops low.

“Talk to me.” Not a command. A tether.

“My hand,” I manage. “I can’t—my hand—”

“I know.” His fingers wrap around my wrist, careful, warm, steadying where it shakes. Not forcing. Just holding it still so it can’t hurt worse. “I’ve got it. You’re not doing this alone.”

Something in my chest cracks open.

The woman with the needle glances at him, then back at me. “I’m going to clean this now. It’s going to sting, but I’ll go slow.”

I shake my head weakly. “Don’t—”

“Hey.” He cuts in before the fear can climb. “You’re safe. You hear me?”

Safe. It doesn’t land all the way. But it steadies something, just enough.

The cloth presses against my side and pain flares so bright it steals my air. Damn, it hurts. My back arches. My hands scramble for something, anything, and find him. My fingers twist into his shirt before I can stop them, clinging like he’s the only solid thing in a room that keeps turning to chaos.

He doesn’t pull away. He doesn’t even hesitate. His hand comes up, slow and sure, and wraps around my wrist where I’m gripping him. He doesn’t break my hold. He guides it. Steadies it. Like he’s reminding my body it doesn’t have to fight to stay upright anymore.

“Breathe,” he says. “You’re okay. Just breathe.”

His other arm settles behind me, bracing my back. Tears spill hot and fast down my temples.

“I can’t.”

“Yeah, you can.” One hand comes up to cradle the back of my head, holding me still, gentle. “In. Slow.”

The air stutters in, uneven and shaky. But it’s something.

“There you go.”

The cloth presses again. I whimper. My grip tightens.

“I’m sorry,” says the woman, Stacy, someone called her. She doesn’t sound sorry in the useless way people usually do. She sounds determined. “It has to be cleaned, or it’ll get infected.”

Infected. The word floats past, unimportant. None of this matters if he finds me. The thought slams into me so hard it knocks the breath out of my lungs.

“He’s going to find me.” It spills out before I can stop it. “I shouldn’t have come here. He’s going to—he’ll—”

“No, he won’t.” The man’s voice cuts through mine, sharp and absolute. I go still. “No one’s finding you,” he says, quieter, no less certain. “Not here.”

I turn my head, just enough. It’s blurry at first, too much light, too much movement. Then his face resolves.

Dark eyes. Hard. Locked on me like there’s no one else in the room. A jaw clenched tight like he’s holding something back with his teeth. And a muscle ticking in his cheek, violent and slow.

Anger. Not at me.

For me.

I don’t understand it.

“Who did this to her?” someone asks from across the room.

My stomach drops. “No.” I shake my head. “Please don’t say anything. Please.”

“Easy.” His thumb brushes my hairline. A small movement, but it stills me instantly. “You don’t have to tell anyone anything right now.”

Right now. That means later. Panic flickers again.

The woman presses gauze to my side. My mind is starting to drift, the edges of everything softening. “She’s got older bruising too,” she says quietly. Not really to me. “Different stages of healing.”

Silence answers her. Heavy. Thick. I squeeze my eyes shut. I hate that she can see it. I hate that anyone can.

“You’re okay,” he says again, softer.

I shake my head against his chest, barely moving. “No, I’m not.” It’s the truest thing I’ve said in years. I haven’t been okay for a long time.

His hand stills in my hair. Then, low and quiet:

“That’s going to change.”

Something in his voice makes my eyes open. Not hope. Something harder. Promise. It terrifies me worse than anything else in this room, because promises break. And I don’t think I could survive that again.

“Please,” I whisper. Exhaustion drags at me like water. “Don’t let him find me.”

His grip tightens, just slightly, like he’s anchoring me there. “He won’t.”

No hesitation. No doubt. Just the weight of it, settling over me like a blanket.

The room starts to fade. Voices blur together, the pain dulling just enough for my body to shut down. I don’t fight it this time.

Because for the first time in a long time, I’m not alone.

And just before the dark takes me, I realize something that should scare me a lot more than it does.

I’m trusting a stranger.

And he doesn’t even know my name.