Page 61 of Mrs. Rathore

I didn’t waste time shouting for Rhea. She was probably downstairs, or out. I tossed my clothes onto the chair, grabbed the crutches leaning against the wall, and pushed the bathroom door open.

And then everything… stopped.

She was on the floor.

Nearly naked.

Frozen in shock.

And so was I.

Time slowed. My instincts screamed at me to look away but I didn’t. I couldn’t. Her skin was damp and flushed, hair clinging to her cheeks, eyes wide with panic. She was wearing a pair of modest pink panties and a matching bra but to me, at that moment, she might as well have been glowing.

She looked fragile. Vulnerable.

Beautiful.

God, I was such a bastard.

Instead of turning around, I crouched. My hands slid beneath her back and knees before she could even utter a word.

She gasped, stiffening in my arms. Her mouth opened, but no sound came out. Maybe she wanted to protest. Maybe she was too stunned. Too humiliated.

I didn’t meet her eyes. I couldn’t. I focused on the soft weight of her against me, on the heat of her skin against my arms. She felt like fire. Like she was burning from the inside out.

I caught a glimpse of her trembling legs. They were still swollen and bruised. Questions building inside my head.

Why didn’t you take your crutches?

Were you hurting again? Numb?

I carried her to the bed and set her down gently. She immediately yanked the sheet up to cover herself, her hands shaking.

“What are you doing here?” she asked, her voice low, hoarse, like it didn’t even belong to her.

“My clothes,” I muttered, nodding toward the chair.

I noticed her legs twitch again beneath the blanket, but I didn’t ask how she was. I didn’t ask if she was in pain.

Because I had no business caring.

I turned, grabbed my things, and left the room without another word.

Upstairs in the guest bathroom, I splashed my face with ice-cold water, again and again, trying to rinse her image from my mind.

But her skin was still on my hands.

Her silence was still in my ears.

And my conscience was still drowning.

_______

Chapter 22

AVNI

I stared at my hands, knuckles white from gripping the bed sheet so tightly. My fingers trembled so hard that I feared I might sprain them. The pounding in my ears was deafening, drowning out every sound except the rapid, erratic thudding of my heart. My body shook, not from pain, but from something far worse: shame.