Page 67 of Captive

She’s everything. What could we possibly give her that would mean enough?

The three of us stand there for what feels like an eternity, each of us taking turns staring at each other. Silence stretches on for infinity as we each try to rack our brains for ideas. It’s beyond clear none of us have much experience when it comes to giving gifts like this. We are so clueless it hurts.

I don’t know how much time passes, but eventually something comes to me. It comes to me so hard it hits me like a train, and I inhale a deep breath before I say, “I might have something.” Both men look at me, waiting for me to tell them my idea.

So I do, and based on the expressions they wear as my idea sinks in, they love it.

Chapter Twenty-Seven – Abby

The guys are planning something. I’m not blind. They flutter to and from for days, but I don’t bug them. I let them do their thing. Eventually I’ll find out what they’re planning, but until then, I’ll let them have their secrets.

Besides, right now I have a secret, too. It’s a secret I never thought I’d have, one that both snuck up on me and hit me over the head.

I love them. I do. I think about them all the time. Hell, I dream about them now that I don’t lose myself in nightmares anymore. Now that revenge no longer fills my heart, it’s an undeniable emotion taking up its residence there.

Love. Freaking love. Who knew? Who knew when this thing all started that I’d fall for not one, not two, but three guys at the same time? Call me a main character in a why choose book, because I have my own reverse harem situation going on.

I love it. I love it as much as I love them.

A week and a half passes before I get my surprise: a pizza party and a cake. They don’t let me see the cake until after we eat the pizza, which is disappointing, but fine. Myself, I would’ve been fine skipping dinner and getting straight to the dessert, but with all their muscles and testosterone, they probably need a meal before all that sugar.

Me? I could live on sugar. I could thrive on it. I could inject that shit straight into my veins and be totally fine. My sweet tooth is unmatched.

We camp out in the living room, eating pizza and watching a movie I picked out. It’s based on some post-apocalyptic book where a former United States soldier cryogenically frozen during the war meets a woman with amnesia, and she starts to bring the good out of him even though the world turned into an awful, violent, bloody place.

Kinda like sugar, I love that shit. I lap it up like a greedy bitch in heat. Give me some high stakes with my romance. Yummy.

Only after the movie do I rub my hands together and glance at the guys around me. “Well? When are we having cake?” Hawthorne sits to my right, while Ezra is on my left. Royal is sprawled out on the floor, having moved aside the coffee table so he could sit near me, too.

The guys exchange a look. “We could do it now,” Hawthorne says, “if you’re ready for cake.”

“Bitch, I was born ready for cake.” The guys get up, grab their empty plates and mine, and before I can stand, Royal turns and grabs me, heaving me up and over his shoulder like I’m a ragdoll or something.

I giggle as I’m bent over his wide shoulder with his hand firmly on my ass. “A girl can get used to this,” I say as he carries me to the kitchen. He sets me down on the island, beside the cake.

I don’t even know what it looks like. It’s still in the box it came from the bakery in. From the beginning, I knew they were doing a cake. Hawthorne asked me one day what kind of cake I like, if I prefer chocolate, vanilla, or marble, and he did his best to hide his disappointment when I told him I like vanilla.

He’s a chocolate man, I guess. Which is fine. Chocolate cake is okay, as long as I have a big glass of milk with it.

Okay, I need a big glass of milk with my vanilla cake, too. I’m one of those people who like to have milk with pretty much every kind of dessert. Cookies? Milk. Cake, provided it’s not of the ice cream variety? Milk. Brownies? Probably two full cups of milk, depending on how chocolatey it is.

“Ready to see this masterpiece?” Royal asks with a smirk as Hawthorne pulls down more plates. Some forks are already sitting on the other side of the box, waiting. Ezra grabs a knife from the knife block to cut it.

“Hell yeah,” I say, swinging my legs as they dangle off the edge of the island. I’m downright giddy. I feel like I’m a kid again, like it’s my birthday and I have no worries in the world. Just completely, blissfully unaware of how hard life can be and how cruel the world is. “Let me see it.”

Royal gives Hawthorne a drumroll as the latter opens the box and spins it toward me, letting me view it in its beautiful, unobstructed glory.

It’s a big, round cake with pink and blue flowers around the edge. In the center is a dancing skeleton made with more of a gooey kind of icing to keep it separate from the rest, all black and white. The words Congrats, you’re a serial killer decorate the rest of it, though the word Congrats is done in a much fancier, more professional capacity. The skeleton, I notice, has a big dick hanging down between his legs.

“I added that,” Ezra says, pointing to the you’re a serial killer part.

“And I added that.” Royal doesn’t need to point for me to know he means the hanging skeleton dick.

Hawthorne heaves a sigh. “Yes, you did. You certainly did.” He sounds like a forlorn parent who tried to keep his kid under control, failed, and then gave in to the madness. I suppose that’s how he views Royal and Ezra half the time.

Hopefully not how he views me.

I grin as I take in the cake in its entirety. From the color of the flowers to the words, all the way down to the added dick on the crudely-done skeleton. I wouldn’t change a single thing about it. “I love it,” I say. “I love it all. It’s perfect.”