Page 14 of Mrs. Pandey
Below, soldiers were moving in perfect sync as their boots pounding the earth, voices sharp, bodies disciplined. I scanned the field, and there he was. He was tall, broad-shouldered and confident as ever. He was speaking to the subedar, his body language as commanding as I remembered. Even from a distance, there was no mistaking him.
Captain Prashant Pandey.
He looked infuriatingly good in his olive-green uniform. Time had only sharpened him: his jawline more chiseled, his posture more powerful, and his aura more magnetic.
And just like that, the heat outside wasn’t the only thing burning. I could still feel him. Not just in my mind but on my skin. His hands, his lips, the way he whispered my name when no one else could hear. I shivered.
Once, we were in the same batch. We were equals and partners. He used to call me his storm: unpredictable, fierce, and wild. And now, he outranked me. I would have to salute him. The thought made my stomach twist.
I wasn’t sure if I was angry, or scared.
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Chapter 7
IRA
The sun was sinking low over the desert, painting the cracked ground with fiery and golden streaks. I stood beside a line of dusty armored vehicles, a clipboard clutched in my hand. I was checking fuel logs, making notes, trying to focus on anything but the undeniable fact that he was here. Every cell in my body buzzed with the knowledge of his presence, a low hum of dread and a spark of something I refused to name. My heart was beating faster than usual, and I felt sweat gathering around my neck.
I was nervous.
Then, I heard his heavy footsteps, the kind that used to make my heart leap with foolish hope, and now made my spine stiffen in quiet dread. I didn't need to look up to know who it was. My breath hitched, a familiar tension coiling in my gut.
"Lieutenant Solanki."
That voice. It was exactly as I remembered, a mix of rough grit and hard steel, with that tightly controlled edge he always used when he was moments away from losing his temper. Or, more precisely, when he was trying not to punch a wall or me.
I straightened slowly, deliberately, giving myself a moment before I turned and met his gaze with a forced smile.
Captain Prashant Pandey stood just a few feet away from me. His olive-green uniform was crisp, his beret tucked neatly under one arm, and the pips on his shoulders glinted in the fading light. His eyes were still that piercing hazel, like honey. He looked more muscular than I remembered and more handsome than before.
I snapped a salute. "Sir." My voice was steady, betraying none of the turmoil inside.
He gave a slight nod. "I was informed that Bravo Company's logistics oversight would fall under your section." His tone was formal, all business. He didn't show any hint that we ever shared a kiss, a bed, and secrets. He was my senior.
"Yes, Captain," I replied, my voice clipped and cold. "I've already sent the updated reports to your adjutant." I wanted to sound detached and efficient. I wanted to build a wall between us with every word.
A long beat of silence stretched between us, thick with unspoken history. My heart hammered against my ribs, a frantic drum against the silence, but I refused to let it show. I wouldn't give him that satisfaction, that glimpse into the chaos he stirred.
Prashant took a slow step forward, closing the small gap between us. His voice, surprisingly, softened slightly, a dangerous lure. "Barmer suits you. Dry, desolate, and full of unfinished stories."
My jaw clenched as my eyes narrowed. The audacity. The sheer Prashant-ness of that statement. "You must be exhausted from the transfer, sir," I shot back, injecting as much ice into myvoice as possible. "I suggest rest before you start throwing poetic shade."
A humorless chuckle escaped him, a sound that grated on my nerves. "Still sharp and still impossible."
"Still dramatic and still unwanted," I countered instantly, the words a reflex born from years of sparring with him. We stood mere inches apart now, breathing the same thick, hot air, neither of us willing to flinch, neither willing to break eye contact. It was a standoff, a silent battle of wills, and I felt the old, familiar fire ignite within me.
After that mission in Jammu, everything had fallen apart. Prashant had changed in a way I never recognized. He might look okay now, but I knew what he had become from inside. That man covered his darkness with a soft layer of charm.
His gaze searched my face, those stormy hazel eyes trying to pierce through my carefully constructed facade. His voice softened again, almost a murmur. "I didn't ask for this transfer, and I never wanted to come here."
My lips curled into a sneer. "Did I ask for your clarification?" The words were out before I could stop them, fueled by a resentment that had festered for too long.
He exhaled slowly, a long, controlled breath, then stepped back. The brief moment of intimacy, of raw honesty, vanished, replaced by the rigid posture of a commander. His voice returned to its formal, clipped tone. "You'll report to my office at 0600 tomorrow for a briefing on the desert patrol grid."
"Yes, sir," I replied, my entire being snapping back into soldier mode. All emotion was pushed down, buried deep. I was just Lieutenant Solanki, following orders.
He nodded once, a curt acknowledgment, and then turned, walking away without another word. His back was straight, his pace steady, just as disciplined and controlled as he had always been.
