CHAPTER FOUR
The scene before me draped the room in a terrifying atmosphere. It was so horrific that a strange convulsion seized my body.
"My God..."
Israr lay lifelessly across the bed, soaked and stained in his own blood. I stood there, stunned and paralyzed, unsure of what action to take; I was utterly consumed by shock. With faltering steps that felt more like dragging, I moved toward him.
Faint groans escaped his throat. With a voice barely audible, I called his name.
"Israr! Israr!"
His eyes fluttered half-open, gazing at me with confusion. He tried to speak, his face contorting with every surge of pain.
"Israr! Are you okay? I... what should I do?"
"Ya... Yas... bring... R... Ra... here..."
"The Big Khan?" I asked, startled.
"No!"
I understood immediately. He meant Ryan. I nodded frantically. "I understand. I'll be right back!"
My relationship with Israr had always been pleasant; in Ryan's absence, he looked out for me better than Isar did. But to be honest, I truly felt comfortable only with Ryan. My interactions with the others were born of necessity, even if my outward playfulness and our long history masked that truth.
As I hurried away, one question gripped my mind: why were there no bloodstains on the white marble floors? If he had been bleeding this profusely, surely a trail would have dripped across the hallway. Or had the hemorrhaging only worsened once he reached the room?
Oh, Yas, what does it matter now? What prisoner would these answers save from the gallows? The urgent reality was that Israr lay at death's door. If I were even slightly late, it would all be over.
I took the stairs in frantic bounds and reaching the first floor. I moved toward the salon, where I could see the aristocratic, stout guests.
"God, how am I supposed to call Ryan away?"
The Khan was settled into a large leather chair next to Ryan. The gathering seemed to be ending; one by one, the guests rose as Masih invited them toward the lawn for dinner. It was a perfect opportunity, but my time was limited. I stood in a secluded corner to stay out of the sight of those "meat-eating" aristocrats.
As they filed out, luck was on my side—Ryan was at the end of the line. I hid behind a cabinet set into the wall. Ryan followed with small steps. Why are you walking so slowly? Are you a bride?
Finally, the guests entered the garden. Ryan drew near.
"Sir!" I whispered, so softly I could barely hear myself. "Sir!"
Ryan stopped. I was terrified of being caught by the Big Khan; the glass walls of this hallway made me visible to everyone. If he saw me here, he would surely have my head. Ryan began to move again. This was my last chance.
"Ryan!"
That single word was enough. He stopped and looked back. He saw me, and I beckoned him over. With eyebrows arched in bewilderment, he stepped toward me. Before he could speak, I blurted out:
"You have to come to the third floor with me!"
"Did something happen?"
There was no time for explanations. I grabbed his hand and pulled. Like a child, Ryan followed without protest. We raced up the stairs.
"Yas, what's wrong? Why are you as white as a sheet?"
My breath was burning. We were right in front of Israr's door. I pushed the door open with trembling hands and ushered him inside.
"Yas—"
I cut him off. "Israr is in trouble. Look!"
Ryan spun around. The moment he saw Israr, he rushed to his side. "Israr! My brother! What happened? Why are your clothes bloodied? Israr!"
"Now is not the time for questions," I said. "You need to sew his wounds. Can you do it?"
Once Ryan confirmed Israr was still breathing, he let out a shaky breath and ran his hands through his hair. "Yes... yes, of course. Stay here. I'll be right back!"
He left, and I sat by the bed. Israr's condition was critical. He wasn't losing more blood—perhaps because he had none left to lose. I began to tap his face with small slaps. It worked. He opened his eyes halfway.
People say children of the same parents are alike in face and character. They lied. Take these three noblemen:
Ryan has an athletic frame, fair European skin, and bright hazel eyes. He is beautiful—to others, a celestial being; to me, the eldest son of Dawood Khan, the man who sits like a nightmare over our lives.
Israr is of medium height with pale skin and the bright blue eyes of his late mother. His best trait is his mercy. He handles his father's trade business.
Isar is tall like Ryan, with the dark, wheat-toned skin of the Khan. He never truly accepted me as a "fourth member" of their circle. He was always jealous of the attention Ryan gave me, and he is strangely dependent on Ryan.
The door opened, and Ryan returned with Isar and a medical kit. I stood up, leaving the bedside for Ryan, and headed toward the kitchen. They were here now; I was no longer needed.
I entered the kitchen to find my mother had already plated all the food. I felt a wave of shame; she didn't ask where I'd been, which only made me feel worse.
"Yas, why are you standing there? Come, let me plate some food for you."
"I'm fine, Mother. I'm sorry for disappearing..."
She smiled and stroked my hair. "Eat and go to sleep."
"No, I have to wash the dishes first. You go rest."
I convinced her to go down to the basement, promising that Masih would help me. Once she left, I decided to make a nutritious soup for Israr. I threw meat, chickpeas, beans, and rice into the pressure cooker.
As the soup cooked, Masih and a few others brought in mountains of dirty dishes.
"Did you eat, Masih jan?" I asked sweetly.
Masih, mid-sip of water, started coughing. I pounded on his back. "Are you okay?"
"Yes," he coughed. "But I don't think you are okay."
"Well," I said softly, "I haven't eaten, but I have to do these dishes. Can you help?"
Masih burst into laughter. "Haha! Oh, Yas, my little flatterer. I was wondering how this 'short squirrel' had suddenly become so polite."
"Polar Bear, I'm not flattering you. You have to help, or there's no food."
Masih stood up. "Fine, since our food is in the hands of 'Miss Squirrel,' I have no choice."
We worked together, Masih rinsing while I washed. We spent the next fifteen minutes joking and laughing. We were in the middle of a joke when the kitchen door slammed shut with a terrifying sound.
I stopped and looked back.
Contrary to my expectations, it was Ryan. He stood there like a wounded tiger, staring at us with a face consumed by burning rage...
END OF CHAPTER FOUR