004

MY CAPTORS & I

~TATE'S POV~

Cursed.

The word echoes in my mind, a cruel reminder of my fate. Just when I thought life couldn't sink any lower, it plunged deeper into despair.

My uncle and his family's hate for me was no secret, but selling me like chattel? That was a betrayal I hadn't expected. A sharp knock on the door jolts me from my bleak daydreaming.

"Hello, Tate," greets Lyra, her voice warm and soothing.

She has appeared every day since I was confined to this sterile hospital room, four endless days since Karl, that monster, left me battered and broken.

My stomach twists when she mentions her brothers, the twins who approved Karl's violence. Their names hang in the air like a storm waiting to break.

"We have great news, Tate," Lyra says with a pause. "The doctor says you leave today," she announces, her smile faltering slightly.

"What are they going to do with me?" I ask, my voice trembling. The thought of being someone's property, a pawn in their twisted games, makes my chest tighten.

"Who?" Lyra's eyes widen in confusion.

"Your brothers," I clarify, the words bitter on my tongue.

"They would never hurt you, Tate. You're safe here," she assures me, but her words feel hollow. How do I trust them when their hands are already stained with my pain?

Before she elaborates, the door creaks open, and my dread solidifies into fear. The twins step into the room, their presence filling the space with an electric tension.

They are both striking—tall, broad-shouldered, their faces carved with a dangerous handsomeness. One has piercing gray eyes that seem to see through me, while the other's cold blue gaze is softer, yet no less intense.

I feel a traitorous flutter in my chest, even as my mind screams danger.

"Hello, Tate. I'm Daxon, and this is my brother Mathias. We're here to take you back to the house," the blue-eyed one—Daxon—says, his tone calm but commanding.

I sit frozen, unsure of how to respond. What awaits me in their home? A cage? A whip?

My imagination conjures horrors I won't voice.

"Let's go, Tate. It's alright—no one's going to hurt you," Lyra says gently, extending her hand.

I take it instinctively, though my side protests with a sharp pang as I stand. I wince, pulling at the wounds that still ache beneath the surface.

"Are you hurt, Love?" Mathias asks, his brow furrowed with concern.

"I'm fine," I lie, though my voice wavers.

"No, you're not, Cupcake. Let me get you a wheelchair," Daxon says, already striding out of the room.

"I walk," I protest weakly, but Mathias shakes his head.

"You're in pain," he says, his tone leaving no room for argument.

"You either get in the wheelchair, or I'll carry you to the house," Daxon declares upon his return. The threat—or is it a promise?—sends a shiver down my spine.

Reluctantly, I settle into the wheelchair, my pride bruised but my body grateful.

"Good girl," Daxon murmurs, his approval bringing an unwelcome warmth to my chest.

When we arrive at their house, I am led to a room that leaves me breathless. It is far grander than anything I've ever known—a king-sized bed, a television, a plush couch, a walk-in closet, and a private bathroom.

This couldn't be for me. Surely, this is a trick, a cruel joke to lull me into false comfort.

"We'll let you rest. Do you need anything before we go?" Mathias asks, his voice softer than I expected.

"No, thank you," I reply, my voice barely audible. Once they leave, I collapse onto the bed, my mind racing.

My uncle sold me.

They traded me for Holly. And now I belong to Daxon and Mathias. Why would they give me this room? Servants don't live like this.

None of it makes sense.

"Oh my goddess, you're beautiful!" a voice chirps, startling me. I look up to see a girl with long blonde hair and Daxon's blue eyes standing in the doorway.

She is taller than me, her presence bubbly and effervescent.

"Hello," I manage, still reeling from her sudden appearance.

"Hi, I'm Myra. Daxon and Mathias's younger sister," she introduces herself, her smile infectious.

Before I respond, Lyra appears, scolding Myra gently. "Jesus, Myra, I told you not to mess with her."

"I just wanted to meet her, Lyra," Myra pouts, her defiance tinged with playfulness.

"I'm sorry if she interrupted you, Tate," Lyra says, turning to me with an apologetic smile.

"She's fine. My name's Tate," I say, offering a tentative smile of my own.

"How old are you?" Myra asks, her curiosity undeterred.

"Eighteen," I reply.

"Same as me! Are you a senior?" she presses.

"Yeah, well, I was—until my uncle and his wife sold me to your brothers," I admit, the words heavy with resignation.

"They'll let you go to school, dear. Trust me, everything's going to work out," Lyra says, her comfort doing little to ease my doubts.

"Are we interrupting something?" The twins stand in the doorway, their presence reigniting my nervousness.

"Yes, you are. The two of you come back later," Myra teases, her tone light but pointed.

"Oh, stop trying to provoke them, Myra. We were checking on Tate and about to leave. Come on, let's give them some time to talk," Lyra says, ushering Myra out.

I don't want them to leave me alone with the twins, but my protests die in my throat. Lyra and Myra disappear down the hallway, leaving me with Daxon and Mathias.

They move to the couch, their movements fluid and deliberate.

"We thought it'd be a good idea to talk to you. Answer any questions you might have," Mathias says, his gaze steady.

"Okay," I murmur, my nerves fraying.

"So, ask us anything," Daxon encourages.

"What are you going to do with me?" I blurt, the question raw and unfiltered.

Daxon frowns. "What do you mean?"

"You took me. You gave Holly back to my Aunt Sally. Does that make me your slave?" I ask, my voice trembling.

"No, you're not our slave, princess," Mathias says, the name sending a shiver down my spine.

"But you bought me," I insist, confusion clouding my thoughts.

"No, we didn't. Sally brought you here to get her daughter back. We never said you were our slave," Daxon explains, his tone calm.

"Then I leave?" I ask, hope flickering weakly.

"No. You're ours," Mathias growls, his voice low and possessive. I flinch, the intensity of his words leaving me shaken.

"So I am your slave," I whisper, my voice breaking.

"No, princess, you're not our slave," Mathias repeats, his tone softer but no less firm.

"But you just said I was yours. Doesn't that make me your slave?" I press, my confusion mounting.

Mathias rises and approaches me, his touch gentle as he brushes my arm. A tingling sensation spreads from where his fingers meet my skin, a feeling both strange and arousing.

"No, you'll never be our slave. But we'll never let you go," he whispers, his breath warm against my ear. A shiver races through me, my body betraying the fear and confusion that war within me.

A phone buzzes, breaking the moment.

Mathias answers, his tone clipped, before hanging up and turning to Daxon. "We need to go. We'll have one of the maids bring you dinner. Rest and get better."

As they leave, I'm left with a strange pang of longing.

Why do I want them to stay? Why do I feel this pull toward the very men who hold my life in their hands?

I couldn't possibly be falling for them, could I?