Twisted Threads

Chapter 2: Canvas of Escape

Zahra’s POV

I woke with the taste of restlessness on my tongue, the kind that no amount of sleep could wash away. The morning light filtered through the gauzy curtains, soft and golden, but it did nothing to warm the chill that had settled under my skin. I told myself it was the scandal brewing in whispers outside these walls—our family’s dwindling fortune, the sideways glances at university—but I knew better.

Khalid’s presence in the house had always been heavy, like a shadow that lingered too long in the corners of rooms. Lately it felt closer, as though the air itself carried his gaze. I hated how aware of him I’d become: the low timbre of his voice in the hallway, the way his cologne—oud and something darker—clung to the stairwell long after he’d passed. I hated it. I pushed it down.

Today I would not think of him.

Today belonged to Rami.

I slipped out of bed, the silk sheets cool against my bare legs, and padded to my easel. The half-finished canvas waited—an abstract swirl of deep indigo and bruised violet, colors that felt like bruises themselves. I picked up my brush, dipped it in crimson, and tried to lose myself in the stroke. Rami had once told me my paintings were like touching my thoughts. “They make me want to crawl inside you,” he’d whispered against my ear, his hand sliding up my thigh under the table at a crowded café. The memory sent a shiver through me now, sweet and sharp.

I closed my eyes and summoned him fully.

Rami. His clever mouth, the way it curved when he teased me about my “rebellious little secrets.” The way his fingers knew exactly how to coax pleasure from me—slow, deliberate circles until I was trembling, begging. Last week, in the back of his car after a late lecture, he’d pushed my skirt up and knelt between my seats. His tongue had been merciless, lapping at me until I came with his name muffled against my own wrist. Afterward he’d looked up, lips glistening, and said, “You taste like mine.”

Mine.

The word warmed me now. I set the brush down and let my hand drift lower, over the thin cotton of my nightdress, pressing lightly between my thighs. A soft ache bloomed there, familiar and welcome. I imagined it was Rami touching me—his long, elegant fingers parting me, sliding inside with that perfect pressure. I circled slowly, breath hitching, chasing the fantasy.

But the fantasy shifted.

The hand in my mind grew broader, the grip rougher. The scent that filled my lungs wasn’t Rami’s clean citrus cologne; it was something heavier, spiced, invasive. Dark eyes replaced warm brown ones. A deeper voice whispered my name—not tender, but possessive.

Khalid.

I yanked my hand away as if burned, heart slamming against my ribs. Shame flooded me, hot and immediate. No. I would not let him invade this, too.

I stood abruptly, stripping off the nightdress and stepping into the shower. The water scalded, and I welcomed it, scrubbing my skin until it pinked. I focused on Rami—on the plans we’d made. Tonight he would come to the old garden wall behind the university library. We’d meet in the shadows like always, his mouth on mine before words, his body pressing me against cool stone until the world narrowed to just us.

I dressed carefully: a simple linen dress that skimmed my curves, no bra, the fabric teasing my n*****s with every movement. For Rami. Only for him.

Downstairs, I passed Khalid in the corridor. He was leaning against the archway, coffee in hand, watching me with that unreadable intensity. His gaze traveled slowly—down the line of my throat, over the swell of my breasts, lingering at the hem that brushed my thighs. My skin prickled as if he’d touched me.

“Morning,” he said, voice low, almost gentle.

I nodded stiffly and kept walking, pulse racing. Outside, the sun was fierce, but it couldn’t burn away the memory of his eyes.

By evening, I was trembling with anticipation. Rami waited for me in the garden, handsome in the half-light, smile flashing as he pulled me into his arms. His kiss was hungry, perfect. His hands slid under my dress, cupping my ass, fingers teasing the edge of my panties.

“Missed you,” he murmured against my neck, teeth grazing. “Been thinking about this sweet p***y all day.”

I melted into him, arching as he slipped a finger inside me, then two, curling just right. I was wet for him—soaked—and he groaned approval. He spun me gently, pressing my palms to the wall, lifting my dress. I heard his zipper, felt the blunt heat of him nudging against me.

He thrust in slowly, filling me, and I moaned his name—Rami—like a prayer.

But as he moved, deep and steady, something fractured.

The hands gripping my hips felt too large. The rhythm too controlled, too knowing. The breath against my ear was too warm, carrying the wrong scent.

I squeezed my eyes shut, forcing the image of Rami’s face, his voice. But the pleasure twisted, sharpened into something darker, more forbidden. My body responded anyway—clenching, flooding, climbing toward release with terrifying speed.

When I came, it was violent, a cry ripping from my throat. Rami followed moments later, spilling inside me with a satisfied groan.

He held me afterward, kissing my temple, whispering sweet things. I smiled against his shoulder, but inside I was fracturing.

Because in that final, shattering moment, it hadn’t been Rami’s name on the edge of my tongue.

It had been Khalid’s.

And the worst part—the part that made me hate myself—was how fiercely my body had wanted it to be true.

I scrambled out of Rami's hold as I fiddled with my dress feeling unsure about myself more than anything else… IfIf I hadn't been able to stop myself in time, my relationship would've come to an end here and now, Rami has been everything to me since the day I met him… His calm presence always comforting always making sure to intentionally remember little thing that made me smile.

I can't feel anything for Khalid… II jjust can't.