11 ~ Slapped #2
My breath caught there was nowhere left to go.
He stopped only inches away.
Too close.
I could feel the warmth radiating from him despite the cool night breeze.
The air between us had become unbearably thin.
"Answer me." His voice had dropped lower. Which somehow made it even more intimidating.
"Rivan mera dost hai," I replied, trying to steady my voice. "Bas."
(Rivan is my friend. That's it.)
His gaze searched my face as though looking for a lie.
"Toh..." he murmured, "tum har kisi ko itni aasani se gale laga leti ho?"
(So... do you hug everyone this easily?)
Heat rushed to my cheeks. "Nazar rakh rahe ho mujhpar?"
(Were you keeping an eye on me?)
His eyes didn't leave mine. "Kuch puch raha hoon main."
(I asked a question.)
"I don't need to tell you that."
"And tumne use mana nahi kiya."
(And you didn't stop him.)
"I didn't wanted to." The moment the words left my lips his expression hardened. His jaw flexed.
For some reason that answer seemed to provoke him.
He closed the tiny distance between us by another fraction. My pulse thundered in my ears.
I swallowed. "Kartik..."
"Don't." His voice was firm.
The intensity in his gaze made it impossible to look away.
"Aap hote kaun hai mujhse sawaal karne wale?"
(Who are you to question me?)
The words came out quieter than I intended. I tried to push him away but he held my hand in his tight grip.
"Kya kar rahe hain aap... chhodiye mujhe," I said quickly, trying to pry his hands away, my fingers pressing against his arms as I struggled but he didn't let go of my hand.
(What are you doing? Let go of me.)
His gaze darkened slightly, studying my face in a way that made my heart race for an entirely different reason.
I don't want this. How do I make him understand that I never meant for any of this to happen?
My hands instinctively came up to push against his chest, but the strength wasn't there anymore. The fight had drained out of me, leaving behind only exhaustion and confusion.
"Door rahiye mujhse..." I said, my voice low but firm, though the tremor in it betrayed everything I was trying to hide.
(Stay away from me.)
Instead of stepping back he stepped closer.
Closing whatever little distance I had tried to create.
His hand snaked around my waist, pulling me toward him with a force that made my back arch slightly, my palms pressing against his chest in resistance.
My fingers digging into the fabric of his kurta.
"Suna nahi aapne?" I tried again, but my words faltered when his other hand came up to my neck.
(Didn't you hear me?)
He cupped my neck and my body froze.
His fingers rested against the side of my throat, his thumb just below my jaw, tilting my face up without asking, without permission. My breath grew shallow, uneven, as my eyes lifted to meet his.
My lashes fluttering as I tried to gather myself. "Galat kar rahe hai aap. Aapki sagai ho chuki..."
(What you're doing is wrong. You're already engaged.)
"Sssshhh." He gestured me to keep quite.
His jaw clenched, his eyes tracing every flicker of emotion on my face like he was memorizing it.
My hands, still pressed against his chest, weakened slightly not because I wanted to give in, but because my body was betraying me, reacting to his nearness, to the heat radiating off him, to the way he held me like I belonged right there.
My heartbeat pounded violently, echoing in my ears, making it hard to think straight.
My back pressed harder against the wall as I tried to create space that simply didn't exist, my fingers curling into fists against his chest.
"Mujhe jaana hai," I finally managed, my voice barely steady as I began to leave but his hand held my wrist.
(I want to leave.)
And he pulled me against him again.
His fingers were firm around my arm, his other hand still at my waist, anchoring me in place like I had no right to walk away from him.
"Let me go Kartik," I snapped, trying to jerk my hand free again.
But in the process...my dupatta slipped slightly.
Cool air brushed against my suddenly exposed skin.
I felt it instantly...the shift of the fabric, the way my sweetheart neckline was now fully visible, the way the deep cut of the lehenga revealed more than I ever intended.
The way my cleavage was now on display for him.
Oh no.
My heart lurched. My hand moved instinctively to fix it, to pull the dupatta back up, to cover myself but before I could move, I saw his expression change.
His eyes dropped just for a fraction of a second.
It was barely a heartbeat, so quick that anyone else would have missed it.
But I saw the way his gaze traveled downward, following the line of my neck, tracing the curve of my collarbone, landing on the swell of my breasts now visible above the sweetheart neckline.
His eyes widened just slightly and then they snapped back to my face.
But they weren't the same eyes that had been looking at me a moment ago.
They were darker now. The pupils dilated, swallowing the gold flecks until his irises were almost completely black.
"Seriously?" he snapped, his voice low but laced with anger. "Tumhe kapde pehenne ki bhi tameez nahi hai?"
(You don't even know how to dress properly?)
For a second I froze, not because of fear but because of the audacity.
Slowly, deliberately, I fixed my dupatta over my chest, my fingers steady despite the storm rising inside me. Then I looked up at him straight into his eyes, my own filled with fire now, not hesitation.
"It's my fucking body," I said, each word clear, controlled, and burning. "Main jo chaahun woh pehnu."
(It's my fucking body. I'll wear whatever I want.)
His expression hardened but I didn't stop.
"Aap hote kaun hain mujhe yeh batane wale," I continued, my voice rising slightly, my chest heaving with restrained anger, "Main Mukti di nahi hoon jo aap jaisa kahenge waisa karne ke liye taiyaar ho jaaun."
(Who are you to tell me what I should wear? I'm not Mukti Di, who'll do whatever you say.)
For the first time since he had cornered me, I wasn't trying to escape.
This wasn't just about him grabbing me, or pulling me into corners.
This was about control.
About a man who believed he had the right to dictate, to command, and to decide but I refused to be that woman.
The one who bends.
The one who lowers her gaze.
The one who silently accepts.
"No one gets to decide that for me," I added, my voice quieter now but sharper, more dangerous. "Not you. Not anyone."
He held my wrist and I hissed in pain.
"Kartik," I said, my voice low but edged with warning, trying to tug my hand free.
Instead of letting go he stepped closer like distance meant nothing to him.
"If you're so comfortable," he said, his tone calm but laced with something sharp underneath, "then why are you hiding it?"
My brows furrowed, confusion flashing across my face as I turned to look at him.
"What?" I snapped.
"Of course it's your body," he continued, his voice dropping slightly, "if you choose to wear it, be confident about it."
Before I could say anything his hand moved to my dupatta.
For a second, I didn't even register it and then It clicked.
My eyes widened instantly as his fingers brushed the fabric, as if he had the right to touch it, to move it, to decide what stayed or what didn't.
Something inside me snapped.
I shoved his hand away instantly, my eyes blazing, my entire body trembling with rage.
And before he could react my palm met his cheek.
A sharp, echoing sound cut through the air.
The impact stung my hand but I didn't care.