LET ME HATE YOU

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"Fuck!"

Amaan collapsed onto the bed, his elbows resting on his knees, hands clasped before his lips. Locking Asmaira away had been a necessary move to regain his composure and clear his head.

The sheer hatred that flared when he saw Asmaira's resemblance to Raina had driven him to that drastic measure. He had warned her verbally, but her dismissiveness forced him to resort to a different kind of threat. However, he hadn't anticipated that finding her half-naked and squirming beneath him would make him completely lose control.

The sight of her broken state should have quelled his rage. Instead, it intensified, infuriated by his own tumultuous emotions for a woman he held responsible for Raina's final agony. He violently knocked the night lamp to the floor.

His chest heaving with untamed fury, he gripped the duvet and ripped it, the bedsheet and pillows suffering the same fate. He was baffled by his own ferocity, but the realization that he had nearly forced himself on Asmaira made him feel like a sexual predator.

He was not a man who used force to get what he wanted from a woman. Why had he almost lost control tonight? Was it genuine hatred for Asmaira, or merely an excuse to claim the woman who had been constantly occupying his thoughts?

How could he have become aroused by a woman he claimed to despise to his very core? Logically, he shouldn't have felt desire, even if she lay naked before him. But her flushed skin beckoned him, challenging his renowned self-control.

Grabbing the tossed cigarette box from the floor, he headed straight for the terrace, stopping only to light a cigarette. Closing his eyes, he took a deep drag, allowing the smoke to course through his throat and chest before exhaling a rattling puff.

During his marriage with Raina, their sexual life had been passionate, often beginning and ending their days with intense intimacy. He closed his eyes, recalling those memories, and then realized his extended celibacy was clouding his judgment. Taking another drag, he let the cold breeze soothe his heated body and intense desire.

Once he was sure he had his emotions in check, he walked back into the room and picked up his shirt. Slipping his arm into a sleeve, he opened the bathroom door with the other hand, intending to confront Asmaira with a clear mind. What greeted him, however, was her unconscious form lying on her stomach, her bare back exposed.

He immediately rushed to her side, unnerved by the sudden memory of how Samuel's attack had shattered her fragile state. He had initially allowed her to stay at home, cutting her some slack precisely to prevent her ordeal from turning into trauma and impacting her mental health.

Yet, blinded by his own rage, he had subjected her to the same kind of torment, resulting in her unconsciousness. Quickly taking off the half-buttoned shirt, he covered her and lifted her back onto the bed.

"Asmaira!" He patted her cheek, but she remained unresponsive.

"Fuck!" Raking a hand through his hair, he grabbed the water jug and sprinkled droplets over her face.

Her failure to regain consciousness confirmed his worries. Ashamed of his actions, he paced the room, his mind racing until Ross's face flashed into his thoughts. He knew he would risk his credibility as a friend, but Asmaira's condition was paramount.

He dressed her in a pair of her jeans and his hoodie, put on the same tuxedo shirt, and grabbed his car keys. Carrying her in his arms, he moved toward the exit but stopped mid-step, seeing a determined Feriha approaching his room.

Her wide eyes told him he was in deep trouble, but he couldn't afford to care. He marched past her, focused on his urgent task.

"What happened to her?" Feriha exclaimed.