13.

Her fingers dug deeper in the flesh of her skin, tightening her hold at her mouth to not let even a whisper out.

The footsteps became more loud, insinuating someone's presence in the room. Her heart thumped louder, as if it would come out of her chest anytime. She could feel her heartbeats, uneven and palpitated.

Was she about to die?

She didn't want to die yet.

Warm tears betrayed her eyes aggressively. Lips quivering under her clasped palm, sobs threatening to come out as she controlled her breath.

The creak in the middle of the closet provided a vivid eyeshot of the room. Though the darkness restrained from having a clear view, she could still see to a certain extent.

The footsteps approached deeper, her eyes widened in fear and agitation.

She has always thought about this time, when her death would be standing right in front of her, ready to leap at her and take her soul away. And she always thought that she won't back out or be afraid, she'll be happy to meet her Lord, she'll be happy to leave this unjust world and be at a place filled with comfort and tranquillity, away from the cruelty of this world.

But now that the time has come, she felt herself giving up. She realised at that instance that she couldn't die just yet, she can't afford to die just yet. There's not much she had done for her Lord, to worship him enough or to please him enough. Allah is the Most-Forgiving, the Ever-Forgiving, but he's also the Most-Just.

She wasn't yet ready to go to the grave and answer those questions. She wasn't yet ready to face her Creator.

Oh God, please let me live a little more.

The fear of a painful death and a disastrous grave-she was afraid of both.

The footsteps halted right outside of the wooden barrier, the sight of the black silhouette seeping through the creak of its rusted door.

Oh God, please...

The handle twisted, and she shut her eyes, pearls of tears falling softly against her cheeks. She thrashed her body deeper into the wooden surface, wishing it will split open and consume her in.

No, please. Not yet.

The door opened, and she held her breath, terrified at whosoever was standing there to take her life.

Finding the courage to open her eyes, her blurred gaze fell onto the big gun that the guy was holding, its muzzle touching the ground.

She bit the insides of her lower lip, fright and perturbation embracing her entirely.

She brought her gaze up, not wanting to see who it was.

But she did, nonetheless.

And her eyes stilled on the man for a moment.

A wave of ease washed over her, inspiring a fresh layer of tears yet again.

It wasn't anyone. It was him. And she was relieved. She was relieved that it was him, and nobody else.

"Are you hurt?" He asked, his voice calm and collected, yet dangerously low.

Her shoulders relaxed at the unusual comfort in his deep voice, the white salty liquid staining her skin with invisible trails.

"I-I'm fine," she shook her head slightly, her shoulders shaking as she clasped the back of her hand on her mouth to stop her sobs.

He stood there, watching her with no expression on his face. Denying the fact that something twisted in him at her vulnerability, he looked away and placed the gun beside the closet.

"Let's head down." He turned towards the door, sabotaging the urge to ask her once again if she was okay.

She managed to gather herself, rubbing the back of her hand at her eyes to clear her blurred vision.

She followed him, with weak steps and a semi-hazed mind. Whatever happened, happened so quickly and wildly, leaving her in a more unstable state of mind.

She didn't know she could continue, she didn't know if she had the strength anymore.

Her head spun with dizziness, every drop of step felt like she was drowning in an invisible ocean, like she was going to fall.

Tiger was a step ahead of her, his steps calm and steady while she contemplated to even move an inch forward.

The lights were now on, illuminating every corner. She blinked, massaging her temple lightly. Her eyes fell on the red trail of blood at the back of his neck, just right behind his ear as she squinted her eyes before it all turned hazy.

Her hand stretched to grab onto the railing instinctively, but her foot tripped, making her double over two steps as she lost balance.

A gasp left her lips, her eyes widening in surprise and fear.

The end of the stair zoomed into her vision before she felt a hand wrap around her own. Before she knew, she was yanked back.

Her eyes stayed wide, fixating on him with utter shock.

His hand was curled around her back, assuring her safety from tripping again as she just stood at the edge of the stair-step.

His deep whiskey eyes bored onto her, sending cold shivers down her spine.

The intensity of those pair of brown eyes had always managed to drown her in their celestial depths, confining her soul so gravely that she didn't want to be saved.

"Watch out, squirrel." His husky voice of sinful allure reverberated in her ears, her gaze too focused on the movement of his perfect lips.

Her stomach dropped, mind foggy with her focus zeroed onto him and nothing else.

"Huh?" She muttered, distracted-lost in his eyes and the warmth of his large, rough hands on her soft, delicate skin.

"I said, watch out, squirrel." He leaned in just an inch, his voice a pitch deeper while his face remained devoid of any emotion. Except his eyes, they held something, something sinful, tempting and sweetly dangerous.

He was close, his natural scent of woods and lavender invading her senses, she felt addicted.

Her stomach did a flip, an unbelievably stupid flip.

What the hell is wrong with him?

She detached herself from him, pushing his hands away. The emptiness clouding her skin at the loss of his warmth, a feeling she will die but won't admit.

"Get married already." A raspy voice came from downstairs as they both turned their heads to south, finding Warren standing at the end of the staircase with a bored frown sitting on his handsome face.

Blush crept up her cheeks insanely, shading her rosy cheeks a more deep colour of red as images of forbidden crossed her mind.

No, she did not just imagine herself with him, did she?

Tiger turned away, continuing his steps down.

She followed behind him silently, nibbling on her lower lip. Her eyes fell onto the wide open door as her speed slowed down.

The urge surrounded her to take a run but she was too late, because as if reading her mind, Tiger gripped her hand again.

She glanced at him, and he had that don't-even-try-again look on his straight face.

She rolled her eyes, and his hold tightened, firm enough to leave a mark later but loose enough to not break her bone into two.

The mere act of touch sent a chill down her spine, the wheels in her head spun crazily and her stomach dropped to the floor.

Same feeling she got a few moments earlier returned twice as large and wild but her guards were too high to recognize it as something else other than hatred.

When she was at the end of the stairs, she saw a trail of blood starting from the main door turning towards the middle and going deeper, disappearing at the back, like someone was dragged.

She paused as the realisation dawned upon her, gulping, her eyes remained on the disgusting screeched lines of blood.

"I have tied him up in the storage room. He's unconscious." As if to prove her intuition right, Warren informed, his voice tired and dull.

"Unconscious? Already?" Tiger raised his eyebrows, his long, rough fingers still curled around Hayat's wrists firmly.

"You literally shot him on the arm. What do you expect?" Warren scoffed.

"Whatever." Tiger exhaled, pulling Hayat with him to the room.

Disappointment settled deeply in her, she didn't want to be tied again. Having no other choice, she refrained from protesting this time, letting him guide her to the room.

"I'm not gonna be home for a while. " Warren shouted from behind.

Tiger halted in his steps, turning just his torso to look at him.

"Why?"

"I need to clear my head. Just gonna ride on my baby through the night." He winked, the sluttiness in his last sentence was so unmistakably evident, it made Hayat grimace in cringe and Tiger shake his head.

Hayat looked at Warren with disgust, which wasn't directed to him but his indecent choice of words.

"I'm talking about my bike." He laughed lightly at her expression.

"Be home till midnight." Said Tiger, resuming to drag her in.

-----

He stared ahead, eyes hard and focused as he took in his end destination.

The air buzzed with the collective anticipation, the murmurs of the crowd, and the low hum of engines ready to roar to life.

A few distance away were the rich boys showing their drifting skills with their supercars. The music was loud, the crowd was wild, the lights were blinding, the air was cold and the tension was thick, boosting his senses more.

His attention was aimed, not entertaining any distractions. The crowd was enthralled, vibing with the blasting music and swaying their bodies with the beats. Other bikers were lined up beside him, roaring their engines with enthusiasm.

He could see few girls gawking at him, whispering to each other with a hand covering their mouth, as to not let anyone hear about their little secretive conversation of how fuckable he was. He knew what he was and how he looked, he knew just what attracted people-mainly girls and few guys-towards him. It was his face, his impeccable, divine-like body, and his charming personality; personality which was made up for them, which wasn't his real self, which wasn't as dark as his soul.

And he liked it that way. People didn't need to know anything about him. They won't know if he doesn't show.

He leaned forward, inhaling deeply as he grabbed onto the handles of his bike. Pulling the brakes, the engine of his bike roared, the only sexy thing he could hear at that moment. Few girls awed and cheered, going crazy as their dates watched them with a jealous frown.

He smirked, knowing half of the boys present there already hated him.

In front of the starting line, a girl with a confident stride walked before the racers, her voice cutting through the din as she raised a hand. "Ready," she called, her voice clear and strong. The bikers leaned forward, muscles coiled, hearts pounding. "Set," she continued, and an almost palpable wave of focus swept through the competitors.

"Race!" she shouted, dropping her arm, and in that split second, he released the brake. The bike shot forward with a ferocious surge, and he felt himself momentarily losing grip on reality, swallowed by the speed and the rush of adrenaline. The world around him blurred, the sounds of engines and cheering melting into a single, exhilarating roar.

He leaned into the first turn, the tires gripping the asphalt with a satisfying grip. The wind whipped past him, tearing away the last vestiges of doubt and worry.

The beauty beneath him took him to an unknown place of satisfaction, a moment of distraction, a minute of peace, which he craved the most.

With the wind and rush of pumping adrenaline, he let himself be the 16 year old teen he was before colliding with the storms, when he first learned to ride a bike through one of his friends, he let himself feel the freedom he once swayed in, the prisoned freedom, yet a freedom.

As his motorbike moved with a raging speed, controlled yet furious, the roar of engines grew louder, approaching the halfway point of the race.

His focus was unbroken, each turn and straightaway executed with precision. But then, out of the corner of his eye, he saw another biker gaining on him. The rider was skilled, cutting through the pack with a relentless determination.

He smirked under his helmet, he knew this game, and he knew how to win. He rode with his constant speed, letting the other biker take the lead.

The biker surged ahead of him, speeding through the air. Warren could say the biker was skilled, but he was the master of this play.

He speeded up just a little, to not be obvious. The biker turned his head briefly, watching him still riding behind. As they approached a tight bend, he deliberately eased off the throttle, allowing his rival to pull further ahead. To the casual observer, it looked like he was losing his nerve, but in reality, he was setting a trap. He kept his eyes on the opponent, watching every move, waiting for the perfect moment.

The opponent, sensing victory, began to push even harder, taking risks with each turn. He could see the overconfidence growing, the small mistakes starting to creep in. As they hit a long straightaway leading into the final stretch, he knew it was time.

The end line was just a few metres away, the opponent, flowing in an unachieved win, slowed the speed-a mistake he was waiting for.

And just with that, he leaned forward, tightening his grip on the handlebars. With a sudden burst of speed, he closed the gap, coming just in the line as his opponent.

The opponent, startled, tried to recover, but it was too late. He had executed the manoeuvre perfectly, and now he was in the lead. The finish line was just ahead, the chequered flag waving in the distance. He pushed his bike to its limit, feeling the power and speed coursing through him.

The crowd's cheers grew deafening as he crossed the finish line first, victory secured. He slowed to a stop, breathless and exhilarated. Removing his helmet, he glanced back at the opponent, who was just now crossing the line, a look of disbelief on his face.

He smiled at the guy, who was now unbuckling his helmet.

"You're so good at it man. I see what you did there." The guy exclaimed, his face a mix of jealousy and amazement.

"You fell for my trick." Warren chuckled. He didn't have it personal with the guy, it's just his thirst of winning in races.

-----

"You are purposely ignoring me, accept it."

"I'm not, Gina. I just have been busy." Warren chuckled, no matter how many excuses he gave her, she was persistent.

But again, she was nothing more than a good one night stand from 2 years ago, and he specifically mentioned he didn't want any more business than that. She agreed, but that agreement was long forgotten now that she was high on alcohol and found him again.

"Sorry man, she's just tipsy." Her friend, Nate, tried to pick her up.

"I am not, you a**hole." She grabbed on to Warren's caller tightly, her voice slurred in the influence of alcohol. She dodged Nate's hands away, not wanting to go just yet.

"Your mom's gonna kill me today for sure. Ugh, just get up already." He whined, circling her one hand around his neck to support her up.

Warren laughed lightly with the other guys on the stalls beside him.

She finally gave up, and Nate sighed in relief, dragging her with him before bidding goodbyes to everyone.

"I didn't expect you to come today. You haven't shown up in a while." One of the guys exclaimed, pushing a glass of vodka to Warren as a silent offer.

"Not a while, it's been 8 months." Shaun, one of the members from their alliances, stated.

The event was organized once a while in two to three months, at the same place, with the same thrill and risk, by one of the biggest gangs of the country. Despite it being illegal, the participation and crowd was crazy every time.

This was where he met her.

He sighed, taking a sip of the alcohol as it burned his throat, the toxic smell disturbing his nose.

"I just didn't feel like coming." He answered, his voice raspy and rough.

The table fell silent, and he knew they knew. He didn't say anything after that, just took a few more sips and stared at the concrete and rocks.

"Oh, let's not get this so awkward. We're here to loosen up, c'mon. Cheers!" Kyle, a guy in his early 20s, raised the toast to ease up the tension, as everyone clinked their glasses together.

It was his third glass but he wasn't drunk yet, not that he was planning to—he had to ride back to the farmhouse by himself.

He pulled out his phone from his pocket, tapping on the screen twice as the device awakened. 12:48 PM, it read on the screen.

Perfect. He had some time to himself before he revved up his engine to ride back home.

He took a look around, moving the glass in the hold of his perfect long fingers to mix it with coke.

His eyes met a few girls, some already glancing at him while some were accidental. They all were beautiful, but none of them excited him anymore.

He tried to get himself excited, to forget the past, but it has always been with him, like an unwanted partner. The guilt in his heart was buried deep, it had been more than a year since that happened. But he couldn't forget anything. It always stayed with him, looming around him with all the other demons, hungry for a chance to get him deep into the dark hole, and be so loud and wild till he has to shut them off in the most excruciating way, till he had to cut them off by cutting his own skin, till he had to inflict a pain more violent than those voices playing in his head.

He closed his eyes, taking yet another sip. His eyes momentarily fell on a table, a group of people sitting all over there, right in front of him at a distance of a few feet away.

His gaze shifted back to the concrete on the floor. But he paused, a face appeared in front of his eyes, which he just saw.

And he wished it wasn't what he saw, she wasn't whom he saw. He inhaled, deeply.

It can't be her.

His eyes lifted up slowly, to the same table.

His breath got caught in his throat, looking at the person he least expected to be there. He gulped, taking in the breathtaking sight of her which was just as painful.

The chatter of the people around him died down, his ears only hearing the silence that rang around him, his eyes only fixated on her while everything else blurred out.

His heart clenched awfully, the muscles around his chest tightened as all the memories rushed back in his mind with the same speed he was riding with a few minutes earlier.

Why was she here?

She laughed at a joke a guy in front of her cracked, and even from a far wide distance, even with his heart aching and blood running cold, even his soul clenching with angst, she looked beautiful, angelic and the mere sight of her was enough to make his senses run wild.

She had her legs crossed beneath the wooden table, showcasing her perfect, smooth legs. The sleeveless black dress was tight, hugging her body like a second skin, her perfect figure that could make any man fold standing out. Her make-up was just on point, her lips painted in a deep wine shade of lipstick, her silver earrings dangling and shining in the lights, while her dark brown hair was beautifully waving with the light breeze around.

She brought a coupe glass of wine to her lips, her gaze wandering around briefly.

His subconscious alerted, but before he could turn his face away and avoid meeting her eyes, it was too late.

Her gaze met his, and if his heart wasn't pounding enough before, it sure was thumping crazily now, to the extent he felt it would come out.

His breath was trapped in his lungs, the ache in his heart growing wider and deeper, consuming him brutally. He wanted to look away, but her gaze-which was in as disbelief as he was-held him captive.

He tried to not let his face reflect his inner emotions, he tried to mask them so well, but he felt himself failing when she gave him a small smile, a sad, I-missed-you-but-you-don't-care kind of smile. He physically felt a creak, as if something in him broke and screamed, and shred his soul to uncountable pieces.

Please don't look at me like that, lily.

He tried to return the gesture back, failing miserably. His smile couldn't even reach his cheekbones, let alone his eyes. And something flickered in her eyes, something very apparent yet indefinable and imperceptible.

She looked away, her once delighted aura now replaced with gloominess. She wasn't laughing now, though the people around her were still chattering and joking. She was pretending to smile, and it was obvious, painfully obvious to him. And he hated to accept that he was the reason.