Zorain's POV.
Goddamn it. I was sitting peacefully, buried in my work, trying to lose myself in the dull comfort of my laptop screen—when the storm barged in. Isra. Of course. That girl never fucking walks into a room quietly. She doesn't know how. And naturally, she couldn't resist throwing her trademark sarcasm at me, dripping with venom like she was born to spit poison. She played her role perfectly—like a dutiful little cousin—smiling sweetly and offering me congratulations, when every word from her mouth was sharpened enough to slice through my chest.
She left… but not before dropping a grenade right in my face. That's Isra for you—throwing daggers with her eyes and bombs with her tongue. And me? I sat there, expressionless, pretending it didn't touch me. But fuck, it did. Every word. Every taunt. Every ounce of her bitterness crawled under my skin like fire ants.
And then there's the slap. That fucking slap. My hand against her cheek still burns in my memory. The second it happened, I knew I had shattered something fragile—something that could never be put back. I promised her once, I swore to her, that I would never hurt her. And I broke it. Just like that. One crack of my palm, one second of rage, and I became the bastard she'll never forgive.
She must be thinking I'm a liar, a hypocrite, a fucking promise-breaker. And the worst part? She's right. She'll throw it in my face soon enough—mock me, stab me with her words—and I'll have no defense. Because deep down, I know I deserve it.
But fuck it. What she said to Grandma was uncalled for. She crossed a goddamn line. And yet… I can't shake this guilt that's eating me alive. Like some parasite gnawing at my ribs. Isra's anger doesn't scare me, but her silence? That terrifies me more than I'll ever admit.
So yeah, maybe I'll act like it didn't matter. Like her barbs didn't rip me open. But the truth? Every single thing she says, every glare, every cruel smirk—yeah, it fucking matters. More than it should.
Author's POV.
Isra had locked herself away in her room for the entire day, drowning in her storm of thoughts, but as the evening shadows stretched across the mansion, she finally stepped out. Her feet carried her only a few steps when fate decided to play cruel. A slight misstep, and the world tilted beneath her. She stumbled gracelessly before crashing onto the cold marble floor, the sharp pain shooting through her left leg as a sprain twisted its way into her bones.
The agony was enough to make her eyes water, yet her pride burned fiercer than her pain. Instead of tears, anger spilled out in the form of furious screams. She clenched her jaw, her face flushed with frustration — the perfect portrait of an angry bird, caged by both pain and pride.
It was then that Zorain appeared. His hurried footsteps echoed before he dropped into a crouch before her, his sharp eyes narrowing as they scanned her contorted face. His expression softened, though his lips curved with the faintest trace of amusement at her stubbornly furious glare. He found her anger almost louder than her pain, as though Isra would rather curse the universe than admit weakness.
Zorain's POV.
I had just stepped out of my room, heading downstairs for dinner, when my gaze fell on Isra. She too had emerged, her steps quick, her presence as sharp as ever. But before I could even blink, she stumbled, crashing onto the floor, her voice echoing through the corridor. She wasn't just screaming from pain — no, her screams carried anger, frustration, and that never-ending storm she always seemed to carry within her.
She tried to stand, her stubborn pride making her push against the floor, but her leg betrayed her. Watching her struggle like that, something inside me tugged hard. She hated me, no doubt about that. She probably cursed my existence every damn second of the day. Still… I couldn't ignore her. Even if she threw tantrums like a spoiled queen, I had to help her.
She was still my sweetness, even though she hates me now.
I bent down in front of her, meeting those blazing eyes of hers. The anger in them could set a man on fire.
"Kya hai? Kyu aaye ho?" she snapped, more of a yell than words.
"Just came to help. You can't even stand by yourself," I said, keeping my voice calm. My hand reached forward to touch her injured foot, but she slapped it away instantly.
"Don't touch me, samjhe? I swear, I'll kill you." Her words were venomous, laced with pure hatred.
Agghh, this fucking girl. I clenched my jaw, forcing myself not to lose my patience. "I'm not gonna hurt you. Just helping. Lemme?" I asked again, softer this time, though softness felt wasted on her.
Her lips curved into a cruel smirk. "Haan, pehle bhi yahi bola tha, right? That you'd never hurt me. Aur phir kya kiya tumne? Slapped me. Promise breaker."
Her words sliced through me because… she wasn't wrong. I had promised, and I had broken it. Maybe I deserved every taunt she threw.
Before she could spit out another dagger from her bitter tongue, I lost patience. Without warning, I scooped her up in my arms, bridal style. She gasped, then erupted like a volcano.
"PUT ME DOWN! Leave me, damn it! I'd prefer death over your help!" She thrashed, punching my chest with her small fists. Her voice was dripping with rage, but all I heard beneath it was pain.
Since when did you turn this bitter, Isra? You used to be my sweet little girl… What the fuck happened to you? Or maybe… what the fuck did I do to you?
I carried her straight to her room and placed her on the bed. Ignoring her daggers-for-eyes, I sat beside her, gently placing her leg over my lap.
"Don't you dare touch me," she hissed, her gaze stabbing through me.
"Can't you just stop talking for once?" I snapped coldly, though my hands were careful, tracing around her swollen ankle.
She scoffed. "No. Kyunki kya pata? Iss so-called 'help' ke badle tum meri jaan hi lelo." Bitterness dripped from her voice like poison.
I didn't answer. What could I say? She wasn't wrong to think I was capable of hurting her — hadn't I already?
I pulled out the spray and applied it gently, the sharp minty smell filling the air. The whole time, she glared at me as though her eyes could carve holes into my chest. I finished, set the bottle aside, and spoke quietly.
"It's done. Don't move for some time. Just rest — it'll heal."
She scrunched her nose, making that annoyed face I knew too well, and fuck, against my will, I found it cute. But I didn't let my face betray anything. My mask stayed cold, unreadable.
"Get out." Her command came sharp and immediate.
I stood. I should have left right then. But before I knew it, before my brain could catch up to what my heart was doing, I leaned down… and pressed a soft kiss against her forehead. Just like I used to when she was small. My lips lingered for half a second too long before I pulled away.
Her silence screamed louder than her curses. She just stared at me, her eyes blazing with so much intensity it felt like she was burning holes into me.
Without another word, I turned and walked out. My chest felt heavy, my mind messy, but one thing was clear — no matter how much she hated me, no matter how much venom she spat, she was still my Isra. Somewhere.
Isra's POV.
That bastard. That insufferable, arrogant, Rascal. Jerk. A living nightmare disguised as a man. I swear on everything holy, I'll slit his throat one day and dance on his grave. How dare he? How fucking dare he cross his lines with me? First, he had the audacity to touch my foot, then—without even a flicker of hesitation—he lifted me up like I was some fragile little doll. And as if that wasn't already enough to boil my blood, he went and kissed my forehead. My forehead. Who the fuck gave him that right? Did I? No. Not in this lifetime, not in the next.
Who told him to help me? Nobody. I didn't beg, I didn't ask. Then why? Why the hell did he think he could just swoop in and do as he pleased? I hate him. I fucking hate him. Every time his face flashes in front of me, my blood pressure skyrockets. He already crossed so many damn boundaries. And still… still, he doesn't stop. That kiss—fuck—why was I remembering that damn kiss now? The way it burned on my lips, the way it sent my brain into chaos. I should've erased it from my memory. I should've killed him that very day. God, I swear, I will. One day, Zorain won't even see it coming.
But right now… my goddamn leg. My pretty, delicate leg was throbbing like hell, pain shooting up through every nerve like lightning striking again and again. I wanted to scream, curse, and tear the world apart, but all I could do was clutch at my ankle and hiss through my teeth like a wounded animal.
Soon enough, Grandpa walked in—my savior, my safe place. He carried a tray of food in his steady hands, the aroma of freshly cooked dishes filling my room. Without saying much, he sat beside me, his old yet gentle hands feeding me spoon by spoon, like I was still his little princess. Between bites, I spat out every detail of what had happened earlier, narrating my misery, cursing that bastard Zorain with every sentence. Grandpa listened, nodding, not interrupting, while I swore vengeance and complained like a storm on repeat.
That jerk thought he could touch me. He thought he could help me. He thought he could kiss me. He thought wrong. Because I, Isra Alvi, will burn him alive before I let him get away with it.
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Words: 1703.