Wrongly Accused

Chapter 57

Suhail's room was a shadowed lair, heavy with the metallic scent of dried blood and the bitter sting of his unresolved wrath. He stood before the mirror, his reflection a grim portrait of a man carved by vengeance, muttering curses that seethed with years of buried rage. His bloodied shirt clung stubbornly to his skin, matted with sweat and the remnants of his earlier savagery. With a snarl, he yanked at the fabric, but it resisted, mocking his impatience. "Bloody hell," he growled, his temper flaring. In a surge of fury, he ripped the shirt apart, the tearing sound slicing through the silence like a blade, fragments of cloth drifting to the floor to reveal the jagged scars etched across his chest, silent witnesses to his brutal past.

A sharp knock shattered his reverie. His head whipped toward the door, eyes narrowing to slits. "Who's there?" he demanded, his voice a low, dangerous rumble. Silence met him, stoking his irritation. His fists clenched, knuckles whitening. "I said, who's there?" he roared, the words laced with menace. No answer came. His lip curled, and he muttered, "I'll end whoever's wasting my time today." Storming to the door, he slammed it open, the hinges groaning in protest. "I swear to God, if you're..."

He stopped dead. Amaira stood before him, her ocean-blue eyes wide, locked on his bare, scarred torso. Shock flashed across her face, and she spun around, her cheeks blazing. Suhail's pulse spiked, and he ducked behind the door, cursing his recklessness. Clearing his throat, he rasped, "What are you doing here?"

Amaira, back still turned, gripped a tray tightly. "Sharmila sent me," she said, voice sharp. "She asked me to bring your medicine. She couldn't come by herself."

Suhail stayed silent, his jaw tight, her presence stirring an unwelcome flicker in his chest. He coughed, snatching a shirt from a hanger and pulling it on. "You can turn around," he said, gruffly.

"Don't read into it," she snapped. She set the tray on the floor with a clatter, the teacup wobbling. She scoffed, rolling her eyes without turning. "Don't need to." Stepping away, she added, "Just take it." As she retreated, she paused, voice cold. "And don't interpret my actions for anything." Her footsteps faded, leaving her words to linger like a challenge.

Suhail's gaze locked on the tray, a shadow of anguish flickering across his face, not from mirth but from the gnawing weight of his past sins. He bent down, retrieving the tray of tea and tablets, his hands steady yet burdened by memories of his failures. Closing the door with a hushed click, he placed the tray on a side table, his fingers brushing the pills before swallowing them with a sip of lukewarm tea, its acrid taste a faint echo of his guilt. He rummaged through a drawer, sifting through a pile of letters, each one a testament to his daily penance, and retrieved a tube of ointment for his blisters. As he smoothed it over his swollen lip and raw knuckles, his touch was soft, a silent apology for the violence he once wielded. From the drawer's depths, he pulled a photograph, its edges frayed from endless nights of longing, capturing Amaira's radiant smile in a stolen moment with his sister, her ocean-blue eyes alight with a fire he'd once tried to smother. His thumb caressed her image, reverent, trembling, as if she might dissolve beneath his touch. "Amaira," he whispered, his voice a low, broken rasp, thick with hard-earned truth, "I was blind, a wretched fool who thought I could possess your soul by force. I see it now, my love, your spirit is a flame I have no right to cage. I broke you, hurt you, and that truth cuts deeper than any blade. But I'm learning, Amu, learning to love you the way you deserve, with respect, with patience. I'd rather die than chain you again. You're my salvation, my reason to breathe, and I'll spend every day proving I'm worthy of your glance, not by demand, but by becoming a man who honors your freedom." His voice trembled, raw with desperate resolve, as he clutched the photograph, his scarred knuckles softening, his obsession transformed into a vow to redeem himself.

He took a fresh sheet of paper from the table, his daily ritual of seeking forgiveness, a lifeline to the hope that Amaira might one day see his change. This was his 1,500th letter, each one written since the day she walked away, a monument to his remorse. He began to write, his pen moving with deliberate care: "My dearest Amaira, this is my 1,500th plea, a marker of the days I've spent drowning in shame for what I did to you. I was a beast, driven by a twisted need to control, and I'm horrified by the pain I caused. Your absence is my punishment, a daily reminder of my failures. But I write to you, not to bind you, but to free myself from the man I was. I'm rebuilding, piece by piece, into someone who might one day stand before you without shame. I don't ask for your forgiveness lightly, I know I must earn it, through actions, through time. You are my heart's compass, guiding me to be better, to be worthy. If you ever read these words, know they come from a man who'd give his life to see you smile, not out of possession, but out of love, pure and untainted. I pray you'll see me anew, Amu, not as your captor, but as a man forever changed by you." His hand shook as he finished, the 1,500th letter joining the others, each word a brick in the path to atonement, his scarred fingers clinging to the hope that one day Amaira would see the man he was striving to become.