My Sister Stole My Mate And I Let Her (Seraphina) novel Chapter 430

Chapter 430: Chapter 430 MIREYA

MIREYA’S POV

I didn’t remember the exact moment everything went wrong.

For a long time, all I had were disjointed fragments—sensations that didn’t quite connect, like scattered story pieces I was left to collect and piece together myself.

The smell of sun-warmed dust.

Laughter—mine, I think. 𝙛𝒓𝓮𝒆𝔀𝒆𝙗𝓷𝒐𝙫𝒆𝙡.𝒄𝓸𝓶

My sister’s voice, calling after me with annoyance and fondness intertwined: “Don’t go too far.”

I had gone anyway.

It was supposed to be a short trip. A simple errand just beyond the boundary of familiar territory, the kind that didn’t require a second thought.

I remembered the sky being clear that day, the kind of blue that made everything feel endless, open, safe.

I remembered thinking I’d be back before sunset.

The next memory came like a rupture.

Rough hands.

Too many.

The world tilted as something slammed into the back of my head. The sound hadn’t even registered properly before the ground was gone beneath me, and darkness followed.

When I woke, it was to pain.

And voices. Low. Transactional.

“...good condition.”

“Pretty enough.”

“Should fetch a good price.”

I didn’t understand at first. My thoughts were thick and slow, as if wading through honey. My wrists burned when I moved—that’s when I realized they were bound.

The room was dim. Not dark, but deliberately shadowed, like whoever owned it preferred things hidden.

A man stood near the door, arms crossed, watching me with the kind of detached interest one might give an object they were considering purchasing.

“She’s awake,” he said.

Another voice answered from somewhere behind him. “Good. We’ll move her tonight.”

"Where?" My voice was rough.

The man by the door smiled in a way that reminded me of a shark documentary I’d once watched.

“You’ll see.”

Everything moved too quickly after that—new restraints, a sack pulled over my head, the world reduced to sound and motion and the sharp, suffocating scent of suppressants.

By the time I saw light again, it wasn’t freedom waiting on the other side; it was a different kind of cage.

Women lined the walls—some silent, others in tears. The air was thick with perfume that couldn’t mask the sourness beneath.

Days blurred. Or maybe it was weeks.

Time stopped meaning anything when there was nothing to measure it against.

They fed us, kept us clean, watched us like inventory.

I learned quickly not to speak unless spoken to.

Learned even faster that resistance didn’t change outcomes. It only brought hurt.

Day in and day out, our numbers fluctuated. Some days they took. Other days, they brought in fresh faces.

And then they came for me.

“Move,” the guard who came for me snapped, not bothering to hide his irritation.

“I am moving,” I hissed.

He shoved me. “Not fast enough.”

I stumbled, almost smacking my head against the door we’d angled towards.

He knocked once.

“Enter,” a deep voice called out.

He pushed it open.

“Delivery,” he said.

Delivery.

The word landed inside me, cold and leaden, sinking into a pit of dread that made my whole body clench.

I lifted my head as I was shoved inside—and everything went still.

It hit me like something inside my chest had been yanked forward without warning, as if a thread I hadn’t known existed had abruptly pulled taut.

My breath caught as the bluest blue gaze snapped to mine.

And in that moment, everything locked into place.

Mate.

The word didn’t come from thought.

It came from instinct.

“Boss?” the guard called out when the man in the room—his boss, apparently—didn’t move.

“Leave,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper.

The guard didn’t argue.

The door closed behind him with a soft click that sounded far too final.

Silence settled. Heavy. Charged.

I couldn’t look away.

Neither could he.

“What’s your name?” he asked.

His voice was low and controlled, like everything about him existed behind restraint.

“M-mireya.”

He repeated it under his breath, like testing how it felt. “Mireya.”

My heart actually skipped a beat.

“Damian,” he said.

That was how I met my mate.

At first, I thought the bond meant something. I thought it might save me.

And for a while, I convinced myself that it had.

He didn’t treat me like the others.

Didn’t touch me the way the men at the brothel the women were sold to had planned to.

He took care of me.

Gave me a room that wasn’t a cell. Clothes that actually kept me warm and didn’t put me on display. Food that didn’t taste like mold and rot.

And sometimes, he was gentle.

Enough that I started to believe there was something there I could reach.

“You don’t have to do this,” I told him once when we were alone.

His gaze lifted from whatever document he’d been reading, settling on me with uninterrupted focus.

“Do what?”

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