Chapter 14
IRA
His touch, his scent, and his eyes still burned through my skin as I stared at my reflection in the mirror, a silent accusation glaring back at me.
"You let him touch you? He punished you, but you let him touch every inch of your skin? Horny bitch, aren't you?"
I closed my eyes briefly, the self-loathing a bitter taste in my mouth, but gasped when his triumphant smile flashed in my mind. He’d won, and he knew it. It took only one touch, and I melted like chocolate in a warm hand.
I pointed my finger at the mirror, at my own reflection. “What do you think you’re doing? He hates you, for God’s sake! Get the hell away from him before his split personality hurts you even more,” I scolded myself, my voice a harsh whisper.
“Just stay away from him, Ira.”
But how? He looked so charming and sweet when he smiled. God, I missed his smile, his touch, and his gentle voice. For a brief moment he offered, I would take it.
I clutched my head, the throbbing behind my temples mirroring the turmoil within me. Crouching on the cold floor, I stared blankly at the ground, lost in a swirling vortex of conflicting emotions.
Prashant was becoming an undeniable addiction, a craving I couldn't shake. I always wanted his attention; I wanted his eyes on me, and wanted to breathe the same air he breathed. It was more than a mere feeling; it was an obsession, a profoundly negative one.
I wasn't interested in him, but I was interested in him so damn much.
His body. God, it was carved straight out of stone. Those perfect abs, that broad chest, those muscled arms, they haunted my thoughts.
I wondered how many women he’d slept with. I’d heard he was in a relationship months ago but broke up. A part of me, a dark and curious part, wanted to meet that woman and demand answers.
"Why did you break up with Prashant? Did he lose his mind on you too? Did he punish you for not obeying him, or did he just fuck you so rough you got scared away?"
Damn! My dirty mind.
I should stop thinking about sex and focus on my work, but ever since Prashant stepped into my peaceful life and turned it into chaos, my thoughts constantly drifted to forbidden desires.
I’d only slept with two guys in my life: the first was Aryan, and the second, Prashant. I’d been celibate for a couple of years, too focused on my duties, my career as an army officer demanding my full attention.
Yet, since Prashant stormed into the picture, I couldn’t stop imagining him on top of me, his strong body pressing against mine, even though we ostensibly hated each other.
We hated each other, yet our bodies inexplicably blended perfectly. It was a contradiction I couldn't reconcile.
Suddenly, my phone rang, its jarring sound dragging me out of the murky depths of my dark desires. I glanced at the screen. It was my mother.
Why the hell was she calling so early in the morning? A knot of dread tightened in my stomach as I picked up her call.
“Hey, Mom, what’s up?” I tried to sound casual, but my voice wavered slightly.
“Not good, Ira,” Mom complained, her voice laced with a familiar exasperation. “You forgot what I’ve been asking for one month. You still haven’t answered me.”
My mother was hell-bent on arranging my marriage, a relentless pursuit that had consumed her for weeks. She’d sent me numerous images of guys from different fields: engineers, doctors, and corporate executives. I hadn’t even bothered to check the pictures of them twice.
If they weren’t from the army, they would be utterly boring to me.
I’d told her, repeatedly, with increasing frustration, “None of them belong to the military, Mom.” My preference was clear and unwavering.
“Ira, listen,” her voice took on a desperate, worried tone that sent shivers down my spine.
“Your father is fixing your marriage with the same doctor Mr. Patel told us about, but I want you to marry the person of your choice. So please make a decision within twenty-four hours. You’re aware of your father’s temper.
He won’t listen to anyone if he fixes your marriage with that doctor. ”
I squeezed my phone in my hand, the plastic digging into my palm, as I exhaled sharply. “Why is he so desperate to marry me off?”
The question hung in the air, rhetorical and heavy with unspoken resentment.
“When Aryan called off your marriage, people talked dirty about you, Ira. They think you’re a characterless, spoiled brat who slept with numerous guys in your base.
It just embarrasses your father, and you’re well aware of your father’s heart condition, aren’t you?
Please, Ira, listen to your father. Please, honey.
” Her voice pleaded, tugging at the guilt she knew I carried.
“Mom, I can’t decide in just twenty-four hours, right? You’re asking me to choose a man I want to spend my whole life with. How am I supposed to make a decision in just one day?” My voice rose, a desperate edge creeping in.
“I have given you one month, in case you’ve forgotten. But you’re too adamant not to marry.” Her voice became colder and sharper, a stark contrast to her earlier desperation. “Listen, Ira. Choose, or we’ll choose for you. We want you to get married before your father suffers another heart attack.”
The implied threat was clear. A familiar weapon in their arsenal.
“Mom…” I started, but she cut me off.
“I’ll talk to you later,” she said abruptly, and then the line went dead.
Shocked, I stared at the blank screen, hoping she would call me again and tell me that she wasn’t serious. But she didn’t.
My mother never truly tried to support me over my father; she always did what he told her to do. I was the only one who dared to speak against him, to challenge his authority. That was why he wanted to get rid of me, handing me over to another family like a burden to be shed.
I checked my body temperature. I was feeling a little better than last night; the lingering fever finally receded. Maybe the medicine had worked perfectly, or perhaps it was Prashant’s body massage that had brought some unexpected relief.
I glanced at the clock.
It was six in the morning, and I still had a couple of hours before I needed to leave for the office. With a sigh, I decided to look through the pictures of the guys my mother had been sending for the past month.
“This is a lot,” I groaned, the task feeling impossibly heavy.
I began swiping through the images one after another, my finger moving with a reluctant rhythm.
None of them were my type. Some were too old, their smiles strained and distant; some were too young. Some were too simple, their expressions bland, while others were too dashing, their posed confidence grating on my nerves.
None of them, not a single one looked like Prashant or Aryan. There was no spark, no hint of the raw, untamed energy that drew me in.
“I hate them all!” I hissed, my irritation finally boiling over.
With a frustrated cry, I tossed my phone onto the bed. “I don’t want to get married.”
The words echoed in the quiet room, a desperate plea to an unseen audience.
The familiar ache in my jaw intensified as I chewed the inside of my cheek, a physical manifestation of the anger simmering beneath my skin. My mother's ultimatum to make a life-altering decision in mere hours was still stung.
I tried calling her again, but the call was promptly rejected. She just wanted to listen, "Hey, Mom, I just chose one of the guys and I am ready to get married to him." The words, even in my mind, felt foreign and absurd.
What the hell. I couldn't and wouldn’t marry a stranger. The thought was laughable. I envisioned my future, and it was with a man I knew, a man I could trust implicitly. I wanted my partner to be my friend first, someone like Aryan.
With him, I was so comfortable I could even share the intimate details of my body, like how sore I was during my periods, the heaviness of my flow.
He would listen patiently, never cringing, and would even bring me chocolate when I needed it.
Aryan had always been husband material, a truly good man, but I knew he deserved better than me.
And besides, he was happily married, enjoying his life with his wife.
A familiar voice drifted in through the open window, pulling me from my thoughts. It was Prashant.
I glanced outside, surprised to see him in a noticeably better mood today.
He was being less harsh than usual with the young soldiers, even offering them water.
It was a stark contrast to his typical demeanor, and I wondered what had caused the shift.
Maybe a new girlfriend? Or perhaps he'd finally spoken to his mother.
I'd heard through the grapevine how much he adored his mother and his twin sisters.
His father had passed away when Prashant was just a teenager, and he'd shouldered the responsibility of his family ever since.
These were all details I'd only ever heard from him.
He used to share almost everything with me when we were in the same unit. It was before he went on his mission.
"How’s your back?" His voice, deep and resonant, startled me, making me jump slightly in my seat. I hadn't realized when he entered the office.
"Fine," I muttered, my gaze fixed stubbornly on the daunting stack of paperwork on my desk.
I heard his footsteps draw nearer, and a moment later, his captivating scent enveloped me. I didn't know what perfume or cologne he used, but he always smelled like a blend of cedar and pine, earthy and undeniably masculine.
I froze as he leaned forward, his jaw lightly brushing against my skin. The sudden proximity sent a jolt through me. I caught the subtle minty scent of his breath and felt the rough warmth of his exhale on my cheek.
"I’m glad to hear that."
"Prashant…" I finally turned to face him, my eyes locking with his stunning hazel ones. In that moment, something inside me snapped, a culmination of frustration, or perhaps a flicker of fear, or maybe even a desperate impulse.
"Let’s get married."
_______