Page 72 of The Redemption
I take another shot. And miss. The ball hits the edge of the pocket and bounces away uselessly.
“Great,” I mumble wryly. “Absolutely brilliant.”
I keep playing anyway. Not because I expect to improve, but because standing feels even worse. The lounge is quiet, almost empty at this hour, making it easier to stay lost in my own thoughts. That is, until I feel a presence nearby.
Raghav walks in.
There was a time when I always seemed to end up wherever he was, without even realising it. Now it feels like the roles have reversed. Wherever I go, I find him there.Or maybe he finds me.
I straighten slowly and finally glance over my shoulder. There he is, in a black shirt with sleeves rolled up, looking as composed as ever. No one would ever guess he was shot last night. There’s no sign of weakness in him. No hint of pain. Only a handful of people know what happened last night, and I’m one of them. Because that bullet was meant for me.
I take a step forward, instinctively wanting to ask him how his arm is and whether the wound is worse than it looked last night. But before I can reach him, one of the lounge staff walks up and starts speaking to him. So I stop myself and turn back to the table, forcing my attention onto the game again.
Another shot. Another miss.Wow. I never knew I’m so bad at this.
“At least I’m consistent,” I mutter under my breath, leaning down again, trying to line up the next shot, even though I already know it will not go in.
My hair keeps falling across my face, getting in the way. I push them back impatiently, and that’s when I feel him again. This time much closer than before. He’s right behind me.
Raghav isn’t the type of man who invades people’s space. This man knows his boundaries and enforces them without hesitation. And yet, right now, he’s standing close enough for his presence to send a tingle up my skin.
“You’re playing it all wrong,” his gruff voice comes from directly behind me, making me jerk.
I keep my eyes on the table, on the ball I’ve been failing to sink for the past five minutes. My grip tightens around the cue stick, a little too much.
“I don’t see anything wrong,” I counter, still not turning around.
“Your stance is off,” he argues. “Your wrist is too stiff. You’re locking the cue, and your angle is wrong. You’re forcing the shot instead of guiding it.”
Of course he catches all of it. Fine!
“Stop lecturing me.” I exhale, annoyed, and adjust my position slightly. “Is this okay now?” I ask, shifting my arm a little before glancing over my shoulder at him.
He doesn’t answer, just moves closer. Before I can process what he’s doing, he leans over me from behind, and his arm slides over mine on the cue stick, correcting my grip without hesitation. His other hand adjusts the position of my shoulder and aligns me with the table.
Why am I suddenly breathless?Perhaps it’s because when I bend slightly, the curve of my hips brushes against him behind me. The contact is brief.Barely there. But warm enough to send a strange rush through my body. And judging by the way Raghav goes completely still behind me, he feels it too.
“Don’t hold it like a weapon,” he murmurs low near my ear. “You’re playing pool, not picking a fight. Let it move freely.”
I swallow, because the angle with which our bodies are aligned right now is too difficult to ignore. I know I should pull away, but I don’t. Instead, I let him guide me.
“Look at the cue ball,” he whispers as his hand subtly adjusts mine. “Not just where it is. Look at where it needs to go. You’re not aiming at the ball you want to hit. You’re aiming at the point that will send it where you want.”
I follow his words and try to focus on the shot.
“Now see the line,” he continues. “From here… to there.”
His fingers press lightly, correcting my angle again. That’s when I realise it’s his injured arm. The same one that took the bullet last night.
My grip falters. I turn my head, trying to look back at him. “Your arm—”
“Ssh,” he cuts me off immediately. “Eyes on the table, Siya. Finish the shot.”
I let out a slow breath and force my attention back to the ball again. With his hand still guiding mine, I take the shot. The cue connects cleanly. The ball rolls, and for the first time since I picked up that stick, it drops perfectly into the pocket.
I blink, surprised and happy, but Raghav doesn’t step away.
“One more,” he replies, his voice a little too husky, and I more than willingly oblige.
