CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Six years earlier,

Loving Irrfan was easy and unlike Aman, he made everything seem so...simple, easy even and somewhat inevitable.

Our meeting was like that too; simple, easy, inevitable.

It was late in August; a month after my secondary School graduation, when I met him for the first time. I was on my way back from an errand with the sky a grayish shade and the wind blushing blusteringly; a reminder that rain was imminent. My mood had plummeted due to this development and my disapproval lay evidently on my face and in my gait. I just wanted to get home before the rain, like a vengeance, fell on me. Like I said, I am not a rain person.

Maybe that was why I hadn't noticed the black van chasing after me until it had overtaken me and I had been forced and drugged into the van. Just like I said; simple, easy... inevitable.

There wasn't much struggling; not even after I'd woken up in a room alone, frightened, angry, hurt...was there much struggling. There was no one to struggle with anyway, save a suffocating wall, which turned out to be sound proofed, and an echoing emptiness. I was left alone, though locked in, in an apartment for two weeks with the rainstorm, an unceasing companion.

It was a self-contained apartment with a single living room, bedroom with a bathroom attached and a kitchen furnished with the latest electrical gadgets and state of the art furnitures. I had everything I'll need and more, just not my mobility and any form of human contact/communication, that is, until my twentieth day in the house when I'd woken up to a startling gaze from a deep brown eyes. The only day it hadn't rained all day; the only day I finally slept soundly.

Startled at his sudden appearance, I'd sat up with my heart pattering wildly within its cage staring cautiously at my intruder; he had his hands in his pocket and his back rested against the wall as he regarded me calmly.

However there was nothing calming about him; not his athletic build, his rich dark African skin nor his intriguing and arresting face. He was simply big and black and beautiful and oozed danger; just not the criminal kind of danger, at least I didn't feel threatened by him in any dark, scary, unsafe way. At least not how one would feel under a criminal's scrutiny.

"Is there anything you need, we're going out for some supplies?" He asked, breaking the awkward silence that had ensued.

I maintained silence acting as if he wasn't talking to me. It wasn't deliberate though, I was simply at a loss as to what to do or say. I suddenly felt overwhelmed.

Shrugging, he moved fluidly away from the wall and walked towards me his eyes never leaving mine. I pressed my back hard against the bed holding the blankets protectively.

He, however, ignored my defensive stance and kept on his track his eyes still trained on mine, which I was desperately trying to maintain brevity within; I didn't want him thinking I was weak or something, my survival depended on that, I know. After all this wasn't the first time I was kidnapped.

And so we stare-warred as he walked with a reckless abandon towards me; as if in each step he took, he measured me, like some sort of appraisal, only with a hint of wickedness which flickered shamelessly in the depth of his gaze. And when he was close enough, he leaned over until his face was on the same level as mine with our breaths mingling. I looked away. My heart was slamming savagely against it's cage and for the life of me I can't say with certainty if it were fright or flight; the tawny-eyed stranger unsettled me.

He'd however used his hand to turn my head back towards him, forcing me to face him. Annoyed by the gesture, I spat at him out of spite; he had no right to touch my body as he just did.

Unaffected by my display of dissatisfaction, he used a handkerchief he'd pulled out of his pocket and cleaned his face, his eyes still trained on mine.

"I guess that answers my question."

I remained silent.

"Fine," he shrugged standing up straight and without as much as a glance, he walked out of the room and moments later, I heard the slamming of the front door and then the revving of an engine.

I didn't hear or see him again until a week later when he'd sneaked up on me again. This time, however, he met me praying and stood watch until I finished. As I stood, folding the prayer mat, his voice had startled me from the door.

"The front door would be open from the hours of seven to six if you want to step out. No one would stop you." And just like that, he'd left.

Happily, I'd pounced on the opportunity, carefully planning my escape route. However my hopes of ever escaping was doused out completely after stepping out of the house. There were guards everywhere and cameras. I had no privacy and I soon realized I preferred my solitude than being ogled by some very mean looking men. I, however, learnt something important; the tawny-eyed stranger was the leader of the gang.

Maybe that was why I had held his hand that night, two months after I was taken and had asked him to kiss me; I figured that might be the easiest way out of my captivity, by seducing him. Not that my seventeen-year old mind comprehended fully it's implications.

He'd smirked devilishly pinning me to the wall and for the briefest of moment, my heart beat in fright. I closed shut my eyes with my body growing rigid and my heart pattering like some malfunctioning machine as I realised painfully how that was a very bad idea.

I was on the verge of tears however when I felt his hands; warm and soft, so unlike a criminal's, so unlike a man's, caress my cheek and mapping it's way to my lips ever so gently, like some feathery massage, only his made my legs jelly and almost made me fall enforcing more intimacy as his hands wound around my waist in an effort to help me.

"Easy there, soldier," he whispered against my ears, his hot breath merely inches away from my face. I pushed him away and ran to my room leaning against the door in case he followed me my hands clutching my chest. My chest felt as if it was going to explode.

However, he didn't follow me nor did I see him for weeks; he simply vanished, much to my disappointment. Even though all we do was stare into each other's eyes, I realized I missed his company. Apparently that had charm too.

But then on a very cold November evening, where the wind singed and the curtains danced, he showed up in front of me again looking all shades of torture; his eyes were red, his breath was haggard and his forehead and lips, bleeding. He looked like someone who was just trashed, badly.

Unsure of what he expects of me to do or say, I watched him as he did me with a new emotion unraveling within the depths of my soul until like a dream, I heard his plea;

"Help me!"