DECEPTION

13

Zarrar climbed the stairs behind her to the first floor, avoiding the urge to look over his shoulder.

They were being watched.

"What about your guard?" he asked, the weight of the man's suspicious gaze bore down on his back.

"He won't talk," she replied, her voice barely above a whisper.

He raised an eyebrow, unconvinced but decided to keep his doubts to himself. The sound of their shoes echoed through the empty staircase.

Marjan chewed on the inside of her cheek as she turned the lock on the door. She pushed it open and stepped inside, with him following closely behind.

I just want one night of peace. Please.

His words reverberated through her mind and she hadn't- couldn't refuse him. She had invited him inside her home. As she gazed at him, an unfamiliar presence in her living room, apprehension washed over her, the thought of what the next day might bring suddenly filled her with fear.

"You can sleep here," she said, showing him the guest room instead of a couch.

Zarrar removed his baseball cap and bunched it in his hands, his eyes meeting hers. "I know the risk you have taken by allowing me to stay here. You didn't have to do it. Thank you."

Marjan didn't reply, but the gratitude in his voice touched her heart.

As he closed the door to the guest room, Zaraar felt a wave of exhaustion wash over him. He dug his phone out of his pocket and sent a quick message to Saim to deliver a change of clothes in the morning. In the next room, Marjan ordered dinner before jumping in the shower. 

Stripping down to his briefs, the only article of clothing untouched, he hastily made his way to the restroom. The cool water cascading down his back did little to soothe the searing pain of his scraped skin or the burning sensation in his eyes. His chest ached, it hurt.

The events of the day played over and over in his mind, in a fit of anger, Zarrar slammed a trembling hand against the wall. He had suffered public humiliation for a crime he hadn't committed. Whoever orchestrated the events of that day would face severe consequences.

Suddenly, a firm knock on the door and a loud announcement of "Dinner is here" interrupted his hostile thoughts, and Zarar felt an overwhelming sense of gratitude. He jumped out of shower and wrapped a towel around his waist.

"I am coming," he said awkwardly.

The food was set on table, Marjan was devouring the kebabs when Zarrar shuffled into her periphery, he felt a pang of guilt for imposing on her hospitality, but his stomach grumbled in hunger.

Marjan had heard the squeaks of the bathroom slippers he wore but she had not anticipated him appearing before her in a bathrobe that barely reached his knees. Her eyes involuntarily darted downwards, catching a glimpse of the cotton hem grazing his thigh just above his knees. Her throat tightened, and she struggled to find her words.

"My clothes were dirty and stank of eggs," He explained, feeling a twinge of self-consciousness when he noticed her glance at him.

The open collars showed off his chest and the angry scratches from the afternoon brawl. Marjan quickly averted her gaze, focusing on her food as he sat and reached for a plate of biryani.

"There are clothes in the cupboard in your room," she told him.

Zaraar raised an eyebrow in surprise and retracted his hand to his side. "It didn't feel right to snoop."

Marjan couldn't help but notice the swelling on his knuckles when he clenched his fists, her lack of response grated on his nerves. He didn't know she was mentally taking note of the severity of his injuries.