Note: MINORS AND AGELESS BLOGS DO NOT INTERACT. This content is intended for audiences 18+ only.
A/N: this is the first part of my headcanon series which I'll post regularly from now on, for this one I just wanted to give MY headcanon for each fuckable male character of Dhurandhar. Without further explanation- ENJOY<3
1. Hamza:
Hamza... He is a Gentle Dom. He wants you to surrender, but he’ll guide you through every step of that surrender - literally. I'm talking- talking you through it and praising you into heaven for taking it.
Physics: He's above average, definitely nice and thick, filling you up reaaaally nicely. He's beefy, so he's stronger than you, you basically disappear under him every time you fuck and you love it.
Kink: Impact play (light) and Praise Kink. He loves the sound of a sharp palm against your skin followed immediately by his soothing voice. Size Kink: You will look small next to this fridge- and he will love it - no matter your size or weight- he's constantly picking you up and fucks you in the shower holding you up- trust this man is STRONG.
Turn-Ons: Hearing you say "Please." He needs to hear the desire in your voice. He loves eye contact during the most intense moments and oh boy- he loves Thighs. Let me tell youuu- this man goes crazy for your thighs ans grabs them everywhere you go. He's such a sucker for lingerie as well, buying you so much that he could just open a damn shop of his own.
In Bed: He talks... a lot. "Look at me. Tell me you feel that. Good girl just like that." He’s very big on "checking in" without breaking the mood, using his thumb to wipe away tears or sweat, always has his hands on you. He's experimental, lets you try things you wanna try and even gives up dominance sometimes, letting you take charge by Riding him for example.
Favorite Positions: Missionary, definitely. He loves your pretty face, the look in your eyes, how your lips part when you moan, he goes crazy for it. He likes every position that he can see you face with nicely, but missionary is definitely his favorite. Honorable Mention: Riding and Mating press
Aftercare: High-effort. He will carry you to a warm bath, wash your hair, and wrap you in one of his oversized shirts. He’ll whisper how proud he is of you until you fall asleep- he's the KING of Aftercare my friends
2. Rehman:
Rehman is a man that is in control- also in bed- ESPECIALLY in bed. His actions are loud...very~ He is a "Munch" through and through— eats pussy for breakfast lunch and dinner and will always ask for dessert. He views your pleasure as his primary duty and his greatest reward.
Physics: Do not think because he's more on the Average size that he doesn't know how to work with it. Damn- this man can FUUUCK. He's lean, but muscular and he's strong- his hands are rough- and feel amazing against your skin and pushed into your mouth.
Kink: He's a chronic Pussy-Eater and loves Sensory Deprivation. He loves blindfolding you so you can only feel the heat of his breath and the skill of his tongue- Another thing he's very fond of is Orgasm Control~ he looves telling you to hold it back until you are cross eyed and shaking all over. Tbh, he just likes giving you orders~
Turn-Ons: Watching your face while he’s between your legs- yes I don't make the rules this man loves Pussy LOOK AT HIM. He also loves "marking"—leaving bruises or hickeys where only he knows they exist, he likes to make you wear lingerie under your clothes all day or he makes you wear vibrators with him relentlessly using that remote.
In Bed: He’s a "taker" when it comes to your pleasure. He will stay down there nose deep in your bits for hours if he has to. If you try to pull him up, he’ll just grip your thighs tighter and growl, "I didn't say you were done yet." He makes you BEG for him to fuck you, and once he gives you what you wanted he isn't stopping before he gave you at least 3-5 orgasms ON HIS DICK ALONE. (Ulfat so lucky-)
Favorite Positions: Well maybe I didn't say it yet but- BRO NEEDS PUSSY IN HIS FACE TO SURRIVE OKAY- SIXTY-NINE is his favorite. Being able to taste you making a mess on his tongue AND fucking your pretty mouth? Yeah. This man is in heaven. Honorable Mentions: Reverse Cowgirl and Spooning
Aftercare: Very physical and grounding. He needs skin-to-skin contact. He’ll pull you onto his chest, legs tangled, and just breathe you in, rubbing his chin against your neck, he would often watch you because, after that many earth shaking toe curling orgasms, you'd pass out right after sex, but you know that you're always taken care of<3
3. Uzair:
Uzair is the most "creative" of the bunch. To him, sex is a playground- He’s playful, unpredictable, and likes to push boundaries. One night he might be sweet; the next, he’s treating you like his favorite sextoy
Physics: DAMN, big dick energy- wow. Hes definitely big, not as thick tho, still definitely more than ENOUGH. Hes athletic and surprisingly flexible for his Height. He uses his Tallness to manipulate your body into positions you didn’t know were possible girl-
Kink: Exhibitionism/Risk & Edging. He loves the thrill of "almost getting caught"—locking a door at a party or being loud in a room with thin walls or fucking you outside or in a damn elevator- hes HORNY everywhere and he likes how shy you get about maybe being caught. He is the king of edging you until you’re crying for it, hes such a damn tease.
Turn-Ons: Feistyness. He loves it when you try to take control or talk back, just so he can "punish" you for it- he loves fighting for dominance with you. Also, This man stares at your Ass sooo much- that even other people notice. He loves to grab it and spank it while walking by, and your reactions to it.
In Bed: It’s high energy, girl he can fuck you for houurs- There’s a lot of laughing, biting, and hair-pulling, from both of you, He might record a voice note of your sounds just to play it back to you later, or film you to watch it later. He wants to be your most "memorable" experience- trying EVERYTHING you wanna try, from dressing you up to Public sex, Vanilla to SM, hes in for it as long as you two are fucking and happy after it.
Favorite Positions: Oh boy. He likes many- but if he has to pick one, it's the Pretzel.- You two are entangled and so fucking close- he uses his flexibility and puts you in a position that forces your body to be all accessible to him, to reach down and pinch your clit, pull your head back for breathless kisses or spanking these pretty open thighs of yours. Honorable Mentions: Doggystyle and infront of a mirror
Aftercare: Playful and sweet. He’ll order late-night takeout, feed you fries while you’re both naked in bed, and joke about the marks he left on you. He’ll stay up late just talking and kissing your forehead, he makes you laugh and feel save with him, but also tease you about how high-pitched your moans got while he pounded you.
4. Iqbal
Iqbal doesn't do "light." He is a Hard Dom into heavy BDSM. For him, your submission is his biggest pride. He loves to be in charge and take care of your needs while fulfilling his own.- Yet. He's always checking in, and he makes sure you have your safeword memorized and feel save with the more extreme side of his.
Physics: Thats a big cock let me tell you and its thick too- it might scare you first and lemme tell you he LIKES that. He scarred, tall , muscular and intimidating. Just his presence in the room makes the air feel thinner and girl guess what's gonna feel fuller soon-
Kink: Bondage (Rope/Cuffs), Breath Play, and Fear Play. He likes the primal aspect of intimacy. He wants you bound and helpless, relying entirely on him for your next breath or your next peak. He has you tied to bed or the Doorframe with your legs spread open in place and there's nothing that could get him harder than seeing how excited you are to be taken care of by him, getting wet with just the clink of the cuffs. He likes chasing you around for fun, overpowering you easily.
Turn-Ons: Absolute obedience. The way you shiver when he enters the room with a set of leather cuffs. He loves the contrast between his rough, weathered skin and your softness. He loves your Consent. He loves to check on you ans you saying "fuck don't stop I love it-"
In Bed: It’s intense and often silent, punctuated only by his low commands. "Don't move," or "Take it." He uses toys and tools with clinical precision. There is a deep, dark heat in his eyes that tells you he is worshiping you even while he’s being the one in charge. Then again- it can get very loud- screaming in pleasure while his hand slaps your ass- your crys into his biceps while he bends you over and fucks you- its really a mix if two extremes.
Favorite Positions: Prone bone. girl I can't even- like do I have to explain- you pressed down with him behind you pounding you while your face is either pressed into the pillows screaming or resting on your cheek while you have to tell him you want it harder?!- yes. The answer is yes. Honorable Mentions: Double Decker and up against the wall/door with your hands tied behind your back
Aftercare: This is where the softness, the protector comes out. After a heavy session, he is incredibly gentle. He will personally check every mark, apply ointment to any rope burn, and hold you in a protective embrace that makes the rest of the world disappear. He’s the "weighted blanket" of partners, always telling you how amazing you were and that you are most precious to him.
That is it for this Part of my Headcanon series- I'll write this along with the next fics- also you can comment whatever you wanna read next!
NOTE: MINORS AND AGELESS BLOGS DO NOT INTERACT! This content is intended for audiences 18+ only!
A/N: Okay.. heh. I mentioned once before I had this idea that I'm an old school Bollywood lover, and this song is just ugh. It's so sexy! Listen to it while reading this or don't whatever- I had a blast writing this, enjoy!<3
Warnings: HEIGHT DIFFERENCE, heavy tension, suggestive themes, teasing, Reader is simping hard, forbidden love, annoyed!Hamza, public sex, oral (f. recieving) sex on a bike in the rain, WET IN MORE THAN ONE WAY~ unprotected sex, creampie
The Mall was a world away from the dust-choked alleys of Lyari, but for you- the daughter of Rehman Dakait, the air felt just as heavy, all the time. It fucking annoyed you-
Always with a bigass silent Bodyguard by your side, never feeling like you ever had actual free-time... until your Father hired Hamza a few months ago.. damn. He was way too fine to not enjoy being under his protection.
You moved through the high-end boutiques with grace, your silk dupatta trailing behind you like a whisper.
Behind you, always exactly three paces back, was Hamza. He didn't look like a shopper. He looked like a storm held in check by a black shirt.
Hamza was your father’s most trusted blade—the "right hand" who had survived more street wars than you had seen birthdays.
He was older, his face etched with a rugged, stoic handsomeness that spoke of secrets and scars. To the world, he was a ghost; to you, he was the only man you had thought about for the last few months..
"Hamza, look at this!" you said, pausing in front of a storefront. You picked up a deep emerald shawl, the fabric catching the light. turned, draping it over your shoulder, and stepped closer to him—close enough to smell the faint, intoxicating scent of sandalwood and tobacco that clung to him. "Do you think the color suits me? Or is it too much?"
Hamza’s eyes didn't flicker. He scanned the perimeter of the mall first, his gaze sharp and professional, before finally settling on you. He didn't look at the shawl. He looked through you.
"It’s fine," he said, his voice a low, gravelly rumble that vibrated in your chest.
"Just 'fine'?" You stepped even closer, your hand intentionally brushing his forearm. The muscle beneath his sleeve was like granite.
You felt a spark jump from your skin to his, but he didn't flinch. "You’re supposed to be my protector. That includes protecting me from making a fashion mistake, doesn't it?"
You leaned in, tilting your head so your hair brushed his shoulder, your voice dropping to a teasing lilt. "Is it that you don't like the color, Hamza? Or are you just afraid to look at me for more than a second?"
"I am here to ensure you return to your father in one piece," he replied, his tone as cold and distant "The color of your clothes is irrelevant to that mission."
You sighed, a sharp huff of frustration, and turned away. Spending the next hour being a terror—trying on shoes you didn't want, making the shopkeepers scramble, and constantly darting into his personal space.
You would "accidentally" stumble, so he had to catch your elbow, or ask him to hold your bags just so you could watch the way his knuckles whitened.
But he was a vault. No matter how much you flirted, no matter how much you pushed his buttons or used the status as the Dakait’s daughter to tease him, he remained a statue of duty.
The Disappointment .. it was driving you insane.
By the time you exited the mall, the sun had been swallowed by a bruise-colored sky. The humidity of Karachi was thick, pressing down on the city like a wet blanket.
you felt a hollow ache in your chest. As the daughter of the most powerful man in Lyari; men usually tripped over themselves to catch your eye. But Hamza... Hamza acted as if you were a chore. A high-stakes, annoying, dangerous chore..
As you reach the parking lot, the air is so thick you can almost taste the salt from the Arabian Sea-
Hamza’s motorbike wasnt parked far, He swings a leg over it with a rugged grace that makes your heart hammer against your ribs. He looks so effortless, so dangerously masculine in this moment- and those thighs-
"Get on," he commands. "The weather is turning."
Ah fuck- he interrupted your thoughts again.
"Let it turn," you mutter, almost pouty, crossing your arms. "I’m in no rush to get back to the cage."
"On. Now." It’s the voice he uses with the soldiers in the street. It’s a command, and despite your pride, it sends a shiver of thrill down your spine.
You climb on behind him. The bike is narrow, forcing your thighs to bracket his. Just as you settle, the clouds finally rupture.
It isn't a rain; it’s a deluge. Within seconds, your silk outfit is translucent, clinging to your curves like a second skin.
The cool rain hits your warm skin, but the only thing you can feel is the heat radiating from Hamza’s back.
"Hold on," he growls over the sudden roar of the storm.
You don't hesitate. You wrap your arms around his thick middle, lacing your fingers together over his stomach. You press your chest firmly against his back, feeling the hard ridges of his muscles.
It makes you chuckle softly, being close like this never disappointed in making you blush.
You can feel his heart beating—not the slow, steady rhythm you got used to these last months, he seemed to be a bit more nervous.
As the bike roars to life and tears through the rain-slicked streets of Lyari, the world disappears. There is only the spray of water, the vibration of the engine between your legs, and the man in your arms.
The wind whips your hair into his face, and you feel him tilt his head back, inhaling the scent of your damp curls.
He doesn't pull away. Instead, he reaches one hand down, covering your joined hands with his own, his thumb grazing your knuckles.
The rain is pouring, the streets are flooding, and for the first time, you aren't the daughter of a king—and he isn't a servant. You’re just two people caught in a storm that’s been brewing for years.. ah thats at least what you imagined in your pretty head.
The rain isn't just falling anymore; it’s a physical weight, a torrential curtain that turns the neon lights of the Lyari outskirts into blurred smears of color.
The streets are transforming into rivers, the black asphalt slick and treacherous. Hamza’s bike skids slightly as he maneuvers around a stalled rickshaw, and you feel his thigh muscles tighten like iron under your grip.
He pulls the bike over beneath the crumbling overhang of an old, colonial-style warehouse—a skeletal relic of a different era. The engine dies with a final, throaty growl, leaving only the deafening roar of the monsoon hitting the corrugated metal roof above.
"We wait here," Hamza says, his voice cutting through the water. He dismounts, his black shirt now a second skin, mapped perfectly over the broad expanse of his shoulders and the hard lines of his back.
You slide off the seat, your legs feeling heavy and electric. Your silk tunic is ruined, soaked through and clinging to every curve of your body, turning transparent under the flickering streetlamps.
You see his eyes dart to you—really look at you—and for a split second, the mask doesn't just crack; it shatters.
His pupils blow wide, his breath hitching in the back of his throat as he takes in the sight of you, drenched and defiant.
But then, the iron shutters go back up. He looks away, his jaw working as he stares out at the rain.
"I’ll call your father.. We need a car. The bike won't make it through the flood."
"No," you say, a mischievous heat rising in your chest despite the chill of the rain. "No phone calls, Hamza~"
Before he can grab your arm, you turn and run. Not toward the street, but deeper into the shadows of the abandoned building.
"Stop!" he barks, his boots thudding on the concrete as he pursues you.
The interior of the building is vast, filled with the scent of damp Earth and aged wood. High above, the roof leaks, sending thick pillars of water crashing down into the center of the floor. It’s a rhythmic, heavy sound—tip, tip, tip—echoing like a heartbeat against the stone.
You stop in the center of one of those watery pillars. The rain here is cleaner, cooler. You tilt your head back, letting the water wash over your face, laughing as you spin in a slow circle.
"You’re going to get sick," Hamza’s voice growls from the shadows.
He’s standing just at the edge of the light, watching you. His hands are clenched at his sides, his knuckles white.
"Is that what you’re worried about, Hamza?" You step toward him, your wet feet silent on the floor. "Or are you worried that if you stay in the dark with me for too long, you’ll forget whose man you are?"
You can see the way his law tightens at your words- his mask of disinterest slipping more and more..
You run your hands through your soaked hair, pushing it back from your face, letting your fingers trail down your neck, over your collarbones, stopping just above the swell of your breasts where the silk is most translucent.
You hum, the melody low and sultry, barely audible over the loud storm..
He takes a step forward, drawn in like a moth to a flame he knows will consume him.
"Enough," he rasps, but his voice lacks its usual steel. It’s thick with a hunger he’s spent years starving..
"Make me stop then~" you challenge. You move closer, the space between you vanishing until you can feel the heat radiating off his body, fighting the cold of your wet clothes...then again you slip away with a chuckle, disappearing behind a pillar.
The challenge hangs in the air, thick and suffocating like the humidity of the monsoon. You see the muscles in his jaw ripple, his eyes darkening into twin pits of obsidian.
For a second, you think he’s going to lung—but instead, you let out a low, melodic chuckle that echoes off the high, rusted rafters.
You duck behind a stack of rotting wooden crates, your breath coming in shallow hitches. The cold rain on your skin is a sharp contrast to the fire burning in your belly. You peek through a gap in the wood.
You see him. He’s standing in a shaft of moonlight that has pierced through a hole in the roof. His wet shirt is plastered to his torso..making your imagination run wild~
"You’re playing a dangerous game," Hamza’s voice rings out, closer than you expected. It’s no longer the voice of a servant. It’s deep, territorial, and vibrating with a raw edge of desire. "You think because you are Rehman’s daughter, you are safe from me? Do you think I don’t have a breaking point?"
You move again, slipping behind a rusted iron boiler, your heart drumming a frantic rhythm against your ribs.
"I think you’ve been hiding behind that 'Right Hand' title for too long," you whisper-shout, teasing him. "I think you’re terrified that if you touch me, you won’t be able to stop. And you hate not being in control, don't you, Hamza?"
You hear a low, dangerous sound—half-growl, half-laugh—that sends a shiver straight down your spine.
"I have spent so long watching you," he says, his voice now directly behind the crates you just vacated. "Keeping my hands at my sides while you walked past me. Smelling your perfume on the upholstery of the car and wanting to burn the world down just to have one minute alone with you.."
The honesty in his voice makes your knees weak. This isn't just flirting anymore; this is the truth of a man who has been living in a self-imposed purgatory.
You try to move to the next set of pillars, but your wet foot slips on a patch of oil-slicked concrete. You gasp, your hand reaching out to steady yourself, and in that split second of vulnerability, the shadow moves.
Before you can even regain your balance, a massive, warm hand clamps around your waist.
You let out a small, startled cry as you are jerked backward. Your back hits his chest with a dull thud, the impact knocking the air from your lungs. His other arm snakes around your front, pinning your arms to your sides in a crushing embrace.
He’s a wall of heat. The cold rain dripping from your hair is instantly sizzled away by the sheer temperature of his skin.
He spins you around in his grip, his movements blurringly fast, and slams you back against the cold stone of a support pillar.
His hands move to your wrists, pinning them above your head against the stone. He’s hovering inches from your face, his chest heaving as he fights for air. The smell of him is intoxicating—
"Caught you," he rasps.
The silence that follows is louder than the thunder outside. You look up at him, your chest rising and falling against his, the wet fabric of your clothes offering no barrier between your skin and his. His eyes are scanning your face, searching for fear, but all he finds is the same desperate hunger that’s consuming him.
"Now what, Hamza?" you whisper, your voice trembling. "Are you going to take me home? Are you going to tell my father I was being difficult?"
His grip on your wrists tightens, not enough to hurt, but enough to show you exactly how much power he’s holding back. He leans down, his lips brushing against the shell of your ear, his beard grazing your sensitive skin..
The silence following your question is heavy, vibrating with the residual energy of the storm outside. You’re pinned between the cold, unyielding stone of the pillar and the furnace-like heat of Hamza’s body.
You can feel the sharp intake of his breath, the way his lungs expand against your chest, and the frantic, heavy thud of his heart—a rhythm that finally matches your own.
"I should.." he sahs his voice dropping to a register so low it’s almost a growl.
His eyes drop to your lips, then lower, tracing the path of the rainwater as it trickles down your throat and disappears into the soaked silk of your tunic.
His hand moves with agonizing slowness as he reaches for your dupatta, which is draped haphazardly over your shoulder, heavy and darkened by the rain.
He doesn't just take it off; he uncurls it from you like he’s peeling back a layer of your soul. His knuckles brush the sensitive skin of your collarbone, and the contact sends a jolt of electricity through you that makes your breath hitch..
He tosses the wet silk aside, and it hits the floor with a soft, sodden thwack that sounds like a gavel coming down.
"Instead," he whispers, leaning in until his lips are a mere hair’s breadth from yours, "I stop being your father’s dog.. And you stop being a tease.."
He doesn't wait for you to answer. He lunges, his mouth crashing onto yours with a desperate, starving ferocity.
Its a deep, hungry kiss, gentle- yet full of emotion and starving hunger..
It tastes of the metallic tang of the rain, and the raw, unrefined passion of a man who has died a thousand deaths in the silence of his duty.
You let out a muffled moan, your hands flying to his chest, grabbing fistfuls of his damp shirt to pull him even closer, if that’s even possible.
He groans deep in his throat, a sound of pure, unbridled surrender. One of his hands slides up to cup the back of your head, his fingers tangling in your wet hair, tilting your face to deepen the kiss.
His tongue slides against yours, claiming you with a territorial hunger that makes your knees turn to water.
He moves his hands down, gripping your waist with a strength that should be frightening, but it only makes you feel more alive than you ever have.
He hauls you upward, and you instinctively wrap your legs around his hips, your wet thighs gripping the rough denim of his trousers.
The friction is a revelation. He backs you harder against the pillar, his mouth moving from your lips to the sensitive curve of your neck.
He bites softly at the junction where your shoulder meets your throat, and you cry out, the sound lost in the roar of the thunder.
"You’re mine," he growls against your skin, his voice possessive and raw. "Not your Father's daughter. Not a prize to be protected. Mine."
“Mine”—it isn’t a question. It’s a claim, a flag planted in the middle of a war zone.
Your head falls back against the cold stone, a jagged breath escaping your lips. The word anchors you. For years you’ve been a pawn, a princess, a target, or a daughter. But under the weight of Hamza’s hands, you feel like a woman for the first time in your life.
"Haan.." You gasp, your fingers digging so hard into the muscles of his shoulders that your nails leave crescent moons in the damp fabric.
The sound seemed to shatter the last of Hamza’s iron-clad restraint. He groaned, a low, guttural sound that started deep in his chest and vibrated against your lips.
This wasn’t the stoic protector anymore; this was a man who had been burning alive in silence for months, and you were the only cool water in sight.
He pulled back just an inch, his forehead resting against yours, his breath coming in jagged, hot puffs. His eyes, usually so controlled and vacant, were dark—almost black with a raw, predatory hunger.
"You have no idea," he rasped, his voice sounding like gravel grinding together, "what you’ve been doing to me. If your father saw me right now, he’d have my head on a stake."
"Then let him," you whispered, your voice a sultry challenge. You reached down, grabbing the hem of your soaked silk tunic and pulling it slowly over your head.
The wet fabric clung to your skin, resisting, making every inch of the reveal an agonizingly slow tease. When it finally fell to the dirt floor, you stood before him in nothing but your lace underwear, your skin shimmering with droplets of rain and sweat.
Hamza’s gaze traveled down your body with the weight of a physical touch. You saw his Adam’s apple bob as he swallowed hard. The discipline that defined his life was crumbling in real-time.
"The ground is filth," he muttered, his eyes snapping back to yours, filled with a sudden, dark resolve.
He stepped away from you, the loss of his heat making you shiver for a fraction of a second.
He strode out into the torrential downpour, his silhouette a dark shadow against the grey curtain of the storm. For a moment, you thought he might have regained his senses, but then you heard the heavy kick of his motorcycle’s engine.
He didn't ride away. He backed the heavy machine into the shelter of the building, the headlight cutting a sharp, yellow beam through the shadows. He kicked the kickstand down, the bike leaning slightly, its leather seat wide and still warm from the engine’s heat.
He turned toward you, water streaming down his face, his shirt now completely translucent. He didn't say a word.
He simply reached out, his large, calloused hand wrapping around the back of your neck, and pulled you toward the bike.
Lifting you effortlessly, your legs wrapping around his waist as he sat you back against the leather seat of the motorcycle. The contrast was electric—the cool dampness of the air against your skin and the radiating heat of the bike’s engine between your thighs.
Hamza stepped between your knees, his hands sliding up your thighs, his palms rough and hot. He leaned in, his lips grazing the sensitive skin of your neck, just below the ear.
"I've spent every night imagining this," he confessed, his teeth nipping at your collarbone, sending a jolt of pure fire through your nerves. "Watching you walk through that house... watching you look at me like you knew exactly what I was thinking."
"I did know," you whimpered, your head falling back, exposing the long line of your throat to him. "I wanted you to stop being so perfect. I wanted you to break."
"Congratulations," he growled against your skin. "You broke me Shona.."
You let out a soft, triumphant laugh that was more of a breathy purr, your head falling back against the handlebars.
"Only took me so many months," you teased, your eyes fluttering open to find him watching you with a terrifying, singular focus.
"I was starting to think you were made of stone, Hamza. I was starting to think you didn't have a pulse."
To prove your point, you slid your hand down his chest, feeling the frantic, heavy thud of his heart against his ribs. It was racing—wild and untamed.
"I have a pulse," he muttered, his large hands settling on your waist, his thumbs digging into the soft dip of your hips. "You just spent ninety days trying to stop it."
"Is that what you call it?" You arched your back slightly, the movement intentional, watching the way his pupils blown out until his irises were just thin rings of amber. You reached out, your damp fingertips tracing the line of his jaw through his beard, then lower, flicking the top button of his soaked shirt. "I thought I was being very subtle."
Hamza let out a dry, humorless huff, his hands tightening on your hips.
"Subtle? You wore that red dress to the gala and spent the entire night standing in my line of sight, sipping champagne and looking at me over the rim of the glass. I had to grip my holster so hard I thought I’d snap the leather."
"And here I thought you were just being extra vigilant," you whispered, leaning forward until your lips brushed the shell of his ear. You nipped the lobe, hearing his breath hitch. "You're a very good actor, Hamza. But you're a terrible liar."
Little did you know how right you were..
His response was to hoist you higher onto the leather seat of the bike. The cold metal of the frame contrasted sharply with the searing heat of his palms.
He moved with a sudden, rough grace, his hands sliding from your waist to the backs of your thighs, spreading them wide so he could step even closer.
"I'm not acting now, Shona" he rasped.
He moved his hand to the back of your head, his fingers tangling in your wet hair, pulling just enough to force you to look at him.
His gaze dropped to your mouth, then lower, to where your lace bra was translucent and clinging to you.
"Tell me to stop," he challenged, his voice a low, dangerous vibration. "Tell me you want your bodyguard back. Tell me you want the man who stands at the door and says 'Yes, Miss' and 'No, Miss'."
You reached down, your fingers catching the hem of his shirt, tugging it upward to reveal the ridged muscles of his stomach, the dark hair that disappeared into the waistband of his trousers.
You didn't tell him to stop. Instead, you leaned in, trailing your tongue along the pulse point in his neck.
"That man was sooo boring," you murmured against his skin, feeling the shudder go through him. "I want the man who’s looking at me like he wants to devour me. I want the man who’s currently wondering if the bike can hold our weight." You hummed.
Hamza’s grip on your hair tightened, his knuckles grazing your scalp. A dark, predatory smile flickered on his lips—the first real expression of emotion you’d seen from him that wasn't duty-bound.
"The bike can hold," he promised, his voice dropping an octave, becoming something raw and purely carnal. "The question is.. can you?"
He didn't wait for an answer.
He leaned down, his mouth crashing onto yours again, with hungry authority.
You met him move for move, your hands roaming over his back, feeling every scar and every muscle of the man you had finally, successfully, pushed over the damn edge.
The storm outside was loud, but as your legs wrapped around his waist and pulled him flush against you, the only thing you could hear was the sound of his heavy breathing and the silent, shattering end of his restraint.
You sat perched on the black leather of the bike, the yellow beam of the headlight casting long, flickering shadows against the brick walls.
You were down to your lace underwear—a delicate, white set that looked almost glowing in the dim light, the fabric soaked through and clinging to your skin in a way that left nothing to the imagination.
Hamza didn't move. He stood between your knees, his hands hovering just inches from your hips, his chest heaving as if he’d just run a marathon. For a man who lived his life by a code of absolute observation, he was suddenly, violently expressive.
His eyes traveled over you with a slow, agonizing reverence. He tracked the way the rainwater rolled down the curve of your throat, pooling in the hollow of your collarbone before disappearing into the scalloped edge of the lace.
When his gaze finally settled on your breasts, he made a sound—a low, pained growl. The thin lace was no match for the cold air; your nipples were peaked, straining against the fabric, and the sight seemed to physically wound him.
"You are..." he started, his voice cracking, "pure ruin."
He finally reached out, his large, calloused thumbs hooking into the top edge of the lace bra. He didn't pull it away immediately. He let his knuckles brush against the soft swell of your skin, the friction of his rough hands sending sparks through your nerves.
He watched your face, watching your eyes flutter shut as he slowly, methodically peeled the lace back.
The cool air hit your damp skin, making you shiver, but the heat of his gaze was almost heavy enough to touch- As the fabric fell away, your tits were fully bared to him, shimmering in the rain.
Hamza let out a shaky breath, his hands trembling—a sight that made your heart hammer against your ribs. To see the legendary, unflappable Hamza shaken to his core by the sight of your tits was the ultimate satisfaction.
"Look at you," he whispered, his palms finally coming up to cup your tits, his thumbs grazing them with a gentleness that made you whine low in your throat. "I’ve spent months wondering if you were real. If any woman could actually be this perfect."
You arched into his touch, your fingers tangling in his wet hair, but as he lowered his head to taste the skin he’d just uncovered, a spark of playful defiance flared in you.
You weren't just going to let him have his way while he stayed armored in his clothes.
It wasn't enough. Fuck-
As his mouth grazed your nipple, you suddenly shifted. You planted one bare, damp foot firmly against the center of his chest—right over his heart—and pushed.
Hamza stumbled back a step, startled, his eyes snapping up to yours. He looked like a man who had been jolted out of a trance.
"Unfair, Hamza," you said, your voice dripping with honeyed mischief. You leaned back on your elbows against the handlebars, your chest thrust forward, legs spread as you kept your foot pressed against his firm pectoral muscle.
"I’m sitting here shivering in the rain, completely exposed, and you’re still dressed like you’re about to go on a patrol."
You flexed your toes, digging them into the damp fabric of his shirt, feeling the hard ridges of muscle beneath.
"Take it off. All of it. I want to see exactly what I’ve been trying to get my hands on all these months."
A dark, slow smirk finally spread across Hamza’s face— "Impatience doesn't suit a lady of your station," he teased, though his hands were already moving to his belt.
"I’ve never been much of a lady," you countered, your eyes dropping to his hands.
He didn't take his eyes off you as he unbuckled his tactical belt, letting it drop to the floor with a heavy, metallic clank.
Next came the shirt. He ripped the buttons open with a lack of care that made your breath hitch, the fabric fluttering to the ground to reveal a torso that looked like it had been sculpted out of dark marble.
He was covered in scars—thin white lines across his ribs, a jagged mark near his shoulder—each one a testament to the violence of the world he lived in.
"Satisfied?" he asked, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous rumble as he moved to his trousers.
"Not even close," you whispered.
As he shed the rest of his clothes, the air in the outpost seemed to vanish.
He was massive, all over..his body all muscle and raw power- his cock already hard just from banter and playing around.
He stepped back into the space between your legs, his skin radiating a heat that rivaled the bike's engine.
He didn't wait for your permission this time. He grabbed your ankle, sliding your foot off his chest and draping your leg over his shoulder. He leaned in close, his nose brushing against yours, his scent—rain, tobacco, and pure man—overwhelming your senses.
"You're really something, Shona.." he rasped, his hand sliding up your inner thigh to the last remnant of your lace. "You got me on my knees for you..needy..dont expect me to be gentle~"
You reached out, your hands sliding over his slick, muscular shoulders, pulling him down toward you. "I didn't ask for gentle, Hamza. I asked for you."
He reached out, a single finger tracing the petal-soft skin of your inner thigh, moving upward until he reached your pussy.
He groaned at the contact, his thumb grazing your clit through the white lace with a deliberate, heavy pressure that made your hips buck off the leather.
"You're soaking," he muttered, his eyes fixed on the way you reacted to him. "And it’s not because of the storm..You’ve been wanting this as long as I have, haven’t you?"
"Stop talking, Hamza," you pleaded, your head falling back against the handlebars, your breath hitching into a jagged moan. "Just... please."
"I've spent a hundred nights standing outside your door, listening to you move around," he whispered, leaning in until his breath was hot against your wet skin. "Wondering if you were thinking about me while you touched yourself. Wondering if you were this fucking wet for me.. if those sounds you made were for me to hear only.."
He kneeled down suddenly, leaned forward, pushing the fabric that was still covering your soeaking wet Pussy aside- His tongue darting out to taste you.
The sensation was electric—the roughness of his tongue against your hypersensitive skin sent a jolt through you that made your toes curl. You cried out, your fingers finding his hair, pulling him closer, desperate for the pleasure.
He was relentless.. a starved man.
He used his mouth and tongue with a calculated precision, slowly pressing his flat tongue against you, parting your folds as he licked up and down all the way from your enterance to your clit and back, nudging his nose against your clit while his tongue teasingly pushed into your pussy. He was finding every nerve ending, every hidden spark, until you were sobbing his name into the rafters.
"Hamza, please... I can't—".
Your moans echoed through the empty, dark building, it was a symphony of gasps and pleas, music to his ears.
He didn't just want to taste you. He wanted to devour you, show you just how weak you had made him.
Once he couldn't bare it anymore, he stood up abruptly, his eyes burning with a dark, triumphant fire.
He didn't give you a second to recover. He grabbed your waist, lifting you slightly so he could easily pull down your lace panties.
"You're so wet for me, it's going to be a sin.." he growled against your lips.
He guided his hard, throbbing cock to your entrance, the tip of him thick and scorching hot. Then, he pushed inside.
Fuck...
He paused there for a heartbeat, savoring the way you stretched around him, the sheer friction of the contact making both of you tremble.
"You want this?" he demanded, his voice a rough command. "Tell me you want your bodyguard to ruin you."
"Haan-," you gasped, your nails drawing blood on his shoulders. "Ruin me, Hamza. Do it now."
He lunged forward, a single, deep thrust that buried him inside your clenching, tight Pussy.
The sensation was overwhelming—a perfect, sliding fit made possible by the rain and your own desperate need. You let out a broken scream, your legs locking around his waist to pull him even deeper.
"Hamza- oh fuck-" "You're fine, Baby, you're taking it perfectly for me..good girl"
He praised you, resting again to let you get used to his size and thickness filling you up.
This time, it was you leaning in for a kiss, maybe to calm your nerves- your beating heart that was basically jumping out of your chest. He gave you the time you needed, but once you whispered a soft "..Move.." to him, he grabbed your thighs and snapped his hips against yours.
The friction was incredible—the wetness of the rain and your own arousal making every slide of his body feel like liquid fire.
He didn't pace himself. He couldn't. The months of standing guard, of watching you from the shadows with a stoic face while his blood boiled, exploded into a rhythm that was deep, hungry, pushing your limits. His cock twitched inside you, causing you to clench even more around him.
"You're a mess," he groaned into the crook of your neck, his teeth nipping at the sensitive cord of your throat. "Look at what you’ve done to me. I’m fucking drowning in you.."
His hands were shoved underneath your thighs, hooking them even wider and pulling you against him until there wasn't a whisper of air between your skin. Pounding inside you.
Every time he slammed forward, the motorcycle rocked on its kickstand, the metal groaning in protest, but you barely felt the cold steel. All you felt was him fucking you, hard, deep and with an intensity that made you see stars.
You were a wreck beneath him. Your hair was a wild, damp tangle across your face, your skin flushed a deep, bruised pink, and your voice had long since gone hoarse from crying out.
You reached back, your hands blindly grasping at the handlebars of the bike, your knuckles white as you used the machine to push back against him, your hips meeting his frantic energy with a desperation of your own.
"Harder, Hamza... don't you dare stop," you gasped, your eyes rolling back.
He let out a low, guttural roar, He was relentless, his muscles ripping under his skin as he drove you toward the edge. The sound of the rain hitting the tin roof above was a deafening, chaotic symphony, but it paled in comparison to the wet, rhythmic slap of skin on skin and the hitching, desperate sounds of your shared breath. You looked so lewd, so fucking desperate for him-
He pulled back just enough to look at you, his face a mask of pure, tortured ecstasy. He saw the way your lips were parted, the way your chest heaved, and the way your eyes were fixed on him with a terrifying devotion.
"I’m going to ruin you for anyone else," he hissed, his fingers digging into the leather seat beside your hips. "After tonight, you’ll never be able to look at me without remembering exactly how the shape of my cock fills you out perfectly.."
He hit a spot deep inside you that made your entire body go rigid. A white-hot spark ignited in your core, spreading outward until your nerves were screaming.
,,Yes!- Yes! Ahh!-"
His hands, massive and scarred, slid under your hips and shifted you with an easy, terrifying strength
. He turned you slightly sideways on the leather seat, forcing you to lean back against the heavy metal of the bike’s handlebars. He hiked one of your legs up high, draping it over his broad shoulder so that you were pinned open, completely vulnerable to the the raw hunger in his eyes.
"Hold on," he commanded, his voice a dark, jagged thread of sound.
You reached back, your fingers white-knuckled as you gripped the cold chrome of the bike's frame for leverage. The position was deep—agonizingly, fucking deep.
When he lunged back into your Pussy from this new angle, the breath was punched out of your lungs. It wasn't just a physical act anymore; it was an assault on your senses.
The vibration of his growls, the rhythmic creak of the motorcycle’s suspension, and the stinging cold of the rain spray hitting your heated skin created a sensory overload that pushed you to the brink.
"Hamza... please," you sobbed, your head thrashing against the seat, tears of pleasure forming in your eyes.
He was a man possessed. He watched every flinch of your muscles, every tremor of your thighs, his jaw locked so tight the bone looked ready to snap. He pounded into you with a relentless, driving force, his sweat mingling with the rainwater dripping from the roof until you were both slick, shimmering, and lost to the heat.
The tip-tip of the rain on the corrugated metal seemed to speed up, matching the frantic pace of his hips. You felt the pressure building in your lower stomach, a coiled spring of tension that was becoming unbearable. Every time he fucked his thick cock into your tight, needy Pussy, you felt how you got closer to cumming.
"Look at me," he rasped, his hand coming up to cup your jaw, forcing your clouded eyes to meet his. He wanted you to see the man who was breaking every vow he’d ever made. "Stay with me."
You wrapped your free arm around his neck, pulling him down until your sweat-slicked chests collided. The friction of the movement, the heat of his skin, and the sheer power of his finish finally sent you over the edge.
,,OH FUCK!- AAHH!-"
Your vision fractured into white light as your muscles clamped around him in a violent, rhythmic pulsing. You came, you came so fucking hard you forgot how to breathe for a second.
You screamed his name, the sound lost to a sudden, deafening crack of thunder that shook the very ground.
Hamza let out a low, primal roar of his own, The tightening of your Pussy around his cock enough to make him lose his mind. He buried his face in the crook of your neck, his teeth grazing your skin as he pounded into you, slower, but much more harder and deeper, until he came. He fucked his cum into you-his entire frame shuddering as the last of his iron discipline was washed away by the storm.
For a long minute, he kept thrusting, as if he couldn't get enough of being inside you.
The only sound was the dying rumble of the thunder and the ragged, synchronized gasping of two people who had just crossed a point of no return..
Hamza remained buried in the crook of your neck for a long time, his heavy weight a grounding presence as your heart slowly returned to a normal rhythm.
When he finally pulled back, he didn’t immediately reach for his clothes. Instead, he stayed between your legs, his large hands lingering on your waist with a gentleness that felt entirely new—and entirely dangerous.
You looked up at him, your vision still slightly hazy. A wide, breathless smile spread across your face—a look of pure, unadulterated joy that felt strangely out of place in such a gritty setting. You reached up, your damp palms cupping his face, your thumbs tracing the hard line of his cheekbones.
"Hamza," you whispered, your voice bubbling with a sweet, naive excitement. "That was... I never felt so good before- i knew you were the one for me~."
His expression flickered—a flash of shadow passing over his dark eyes. "You shouldn't say things like that, Shona" he muttered, though he didn't pull away. He leaned into your touch almost unconsciously, like a man starved for affection. "The world we live in... it doesn't allow for me to be the one for you.."
"I don't care," you countered, your eyes bright and defiant. You leaned forward, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to his lips—a stark contrast to the bruising hunger of moments ago. "I don't care what my father thinks. I don't care about the deals or the politics. I’m the daughter of Rehman Dakait, and if I want you, I’m going to have you. He can’t stop us. My Father always praises you, my Mother loves you! Hamza hes never going to say no to me..!"
Hamza felt a cold chill run down his spine that had nothing to do with the damp air. He looked at your face—so full of hope, so convinced that love could somehow shield you from the blood and iron of your father's world..and his hidden mission.
He knew his mission had just become an impossible knot. He wasn't just a spy anymore; he was a traitor to his mission- falling for the Daughter of one of his biggest Targets..how much she would hate him if she only knew..
He should have been cold. He should have told you this was a mistake. But as you tucked your head under his chin and sighed with a contented, sweet smile, his resolve crumbled.
He wrapped his arms around you, pulling you into his chest with a fierce, protective ache. He buried his face in your wet hair, inhaling the scent of rain and silk.
"You’re going to be the death of me," he murmured into your hair, his voice breaking with a sudden, devastating softness.
"Then at least you'll die happy," you teased, nipping at his shoulder.
He didn't laugh, but he tightened his grip, his eyes staring out into the dark, receding rain. He was in deep—far deeper than he ever intended—and as he looked at your joyful, trusting face, he knew he would burn the whole city down before he let anyone take this away from you..
Note: MINORS AND AGELESS BLOGS DO NOT INTERACT. This content is intended for audiences 18+ only.
Warnings: HEIGHT DIFFERENCE, heavy tension, suggestive themes, stranger danger, teasing, shy! reader, seduction, Hamza being an absolute menace, gunplay, thighriding, talking you through it?! I went a bit crazy here-
Kind of ooc!-Hamza because he has no love interest in this au. (besides reader ofc)
PART 1 of ?
A/N: First of all- thank you all so much for liking the first part of the Rehman fic so much! It means so much to me, and the second part is gonna be released soon! for this one, really I just fantasized about how juicy Hamza is and - yeah. I'm just like you all - feral! Enjoy!
-nazma
"You’re trembling, and we haven’t even touched yet.. It makes me wonder... if I finally reach out and take what I’ve been staring at all night, will you break? Or will you finally be able to look me in the eye, jaan?"
The smell inside the great hall was so intense—cloying with the scent of expensive jasmine, heavy oud, and the underlying metallic tang of the power gathered under one roof.
It was a wedding of alliances, not love, and as the daughter of a man whose signature could move borders, you were more of an ornament than a guest.
You retreated to the edge of the balcony, clutching a glass of sparkling water like a shield. Your heels clicked softly against the marble, a timid sound drowned out by the roar of laughter from the inner hall.
All night you had tried to catch your breath- you needed fresh air- desperately. You were used to huge parties, my- you usually attend festives twice as big as this one but..for some reason- you felt uneasy.
Wherever you stepped in this huge, well decorated and beautiful scenery- you felt like you had to flee- run off- get out of here..
Outside on the balcony- the air was fresh, welcoming you with a chilling hug that made you let out a relieved, relaxed sigh..
Then, the temperature of the air seemed to shift ever so slightly again-
It started as a prickle at the base of your neck. You looked toward the center of the room, past the flower arrangements, and saw Rehman Dakait..
He was familar, very much so, since you had seen him more often than you would have liked to- speaking of buiness with your Father behind closed wooden doors or bringing way to expensive gifts to your Birthdays- gifts not even a real relative would be generous enough for.
He couldn't be the reason why your body screamed for you to run away..no.
As you kept watching him, he was laughing, his hand resting on the shoulder of a man you hadn’t seen before.
The stranger was tall—towering, really—with a frame that seemed to absorb the light around him. He wasn't laughing. While Rehman commanded the room with noise, this man commanded it with silence and his eyes, dark and predatory, weren't on the bride or the groom-
They were fixed directly on you while the slightest hint of a smile displayed on his lips.
You looked away quickly, your heart hammering against your ribs. His gaze felt like a physical hand on your shoulder- for a woman like you, always shielded from intense gazes or inappropriate conversations, it felt like he tried burning holes into your Lehenga with his eyes.
It was him- the reason of your heartbeat increased- the reason why you needed to get outside and take a break from his gaze
When you risked a second glance, he was closer. He hadn't walked; he had drifted, cutting through the crowd like a blade through silk.
He leaned down to whisper something to Rehman, his eyes never leaving yours. Rehman glanced over, gave a knowing, jagged grin, and patted the man’s arm before turning back to a group of men to discuss.. who knows what..
The stranger began to walk toward the balcony-
Every instinct told you to run back to your father, but your feet felt rooted to the stone. As he stepped out of the light of the hall and into the shadows of the terrace, the sheer scale of him became terrifyingly clear..
"The air is cleaner out here," he said. His voice was a low, gravelly hum that vibrated in your chest. "But you look like you’re trying to disappear, jaan."
You gripped your glass tighter, your knuckles turning white. "I just... I don't like crowds."
"A shame," he murmured, stepping into your personal space. The scent of sandalwood and tobacco enveloped you. He was so close that the heat from his body felt like a fever. He looked down at you, his shadow completely swallowing your smaller frame. "Because a girl like you? You were made to be looked at."
The air between you became impossibly thin as he spoke, his voice dropping into a register so low it felt like a physical vibration against your skin.
You felt your breath hitch, trapped in your lungs, as your back pressed firmly against the cold stone of the balcony railing. There was nowhere left to retreat. He stepped even closer, his large frame acting as a wall that shut out the music, the laughter, and the light of the wedding. In his shadow, the world felt private, dark, and dangerous..
Your head was tilted back at a sharp angle just to maintain eye contact, making you feel painfully small, painfully exposed. You tried to swallow, but your throat was dry. You could see the subtle pulse in his neck and the way his dark eyes tracked the frantic beat of the pulse in your own.
You wanted to look away—to find safety in the floorboards—but the intensity of his gaze was like a hook. A traitorous heat began to spread from your chest down to your fingertips, a direct contradiction to the way your knees felt weak. You weren't just intimidated; you were hyper-aware of every inch of him: the breadth of his shoulders, scent of his unusually long, curly hair, his dark and intense eyes- and the fact that if he moved just two inches closer, your chests would touch any second.
You took a step back, forcing yourself to look away and break eyecontact.
,,I should go back inside..-" was all that you were able to say in this moment, causing him to give you an amused smile.
Hamza didn’t move away. Instead, he leaned down, his face hovering just inches from yours. He didn't touch you—not yet—but he let his hand rest on the railing right next to your waist, his arm a heavy barrier that boxed you in.
"a shame.." he murmured, his breath ghosting over your lips, smelling of dark coffee and something dangerously masculine. "Is it because you’re afraid of me? Or because you’re afraid of how much you want to..actually stay right here Jaan?"
He let his gaze drop slowly, lingering on your mouth with a heavy, deliberate hunger that made your stomach flip.
"Rehman thinks I’m here for the business," he whispered, his voice a sandpaper caress. "But I haven't heard a word anyone has said since I saw you standing by the door. My mind has been... elsewhere. Occupied by the thought of how quiet you’d be if we weren't in a crowd.."
,,You dont even know my name- what do you-"
The challenge in your voice—small, breathless, but there—seemed to amuse him. It was the first spark of resistance he’d seen all night, and it only made the hunt more interesting.
"I know the way your heart tries to jump out of your chest when I step into your space," he rumbled, his voice dropping into a dangerous, silken register. "I know the way you bite your lip when you think no one is watching. Names are for the people inside that hall, jaan. They care about titles. I care about the way you look like you’re about to shatter if I so much as breathe too hard against your skin.."
The intensity was too much. Your breath hitched, and your gaze broke, sliding from his dark, searching eyes down to the sharp knot of his tie. You couldn't look at him anymore; the raw hunger in his expression made you feel like you were standing on the edge of a sheer cliff. You focused on the gold watch at his wrist, the heavy cufflinks—anything but the man himself.
"Look at me," he commanded. It wasn't a shout; it was a low, velvet pull.
You shook your head slightly, your chin dipping lower. The shyness felt like a physical weight now, heating your cheeks to a deep crimson. You felt his hand move—not to grab you, but to catch your chin between his thumb and forefinger. His touch was searing, his skin calloused and firm. He didn't force your head up; he simply waited, his thumb tracing the line of your jaw with agonizing slowness.
"If you're going to remember a man who ruined your night," he whispered, his face so close you could feel the heat radiating from his skin, "at least remember his name."
He waited until you finally, fearfully, flicked your eyes back up to his—a fleeting, wide-eyed contact that lasted only a second before your lashes fluttered shut again.
"Hamza," he finished, your reaction making him smile ever so slightly again.
His hand didn't move- it was still caressing the edge of your jaw- his eyes not loosing focus on your trembling lips for a second.
His thumb continued its slow, torturous path along your jawline, tracing the curve of your bone as if he were memorizing a map. The roughness of his skin against your soft cheek was a contrast that made your toes curl inside your silk heels. You were still trapped between his towering frame and the cold marble, the silence of the terrace amplified by the distant, muffled bass of the wedding music.
"Hamza," you whispered back, the name feeling heavy and foreign on your tongue.
The sound of his name coming from your lips made his eyes darken, a flash of something primitive and satisfied crossing his features. He leaned in even closer, his chest now a mere hair’s breadth from yours. You could feel the solid, rhythmic thud of his heart—steady, unlike your own, which was frantic and shallow.
The height difference felt more pronounced than ever. You felt like a small bird caught in a storm, tucked under the eaves of a massive, dark building. Every time you tried to lift your eyes to his, the sheer heat in his gaze forced them back down to the hollow of his throat.
"You're so small," he murmured, his voice thick with a sudden, rough edge. He let his hand slide from your jaw to the nape of your neck, his fingers tangling slightly in your hair, holding you in place not with force, but with the sheer magnetism of his touch. "So delicate. I feel like if I squeezed just a little too hard, you’d simply vanish."
He dipped his head, his lips hovering just a fraction of an inch from the sensitive skin below your ear. You let out a soft, involuntary shiver, your knees threatening to buckle. The scent of him—woodsmoke and pure, masculine heat—was making it impossible to think.
"Look at me," he urged again, his thumb now pressing firmly into the soft skin behind your ear.
You tried. You really did. You flicked your eyes up, catching the sharp, predatory curve of his brow, but the moment your gaze met those dark, bottomless pits of his eyes, you felt a jolt of pure electricity shoot down your spine. You gasped, your head dropping again, your forehead almost resting against the lapel of his blazer. You were shaking now—visible, rhythmic tremors that you couldn't suppress.
Hamza let out a low, dark chuckle that vibrated right through you. He didn't let go. Instead, he used his other hand to grip the railing on the other side of you, effectively caging you in his arms without even a full embrace.
"You’re trembling, and we haven’t even touched yet.. It makes me wonder... if I finally reach out and take what I’ve been staring at all night, will you break? Or will you finally be able to look me in the eye, jaan?"
He paused, his breath hot against your skin, waiting for an answer you were too breathless to give.
"I think," he continued, his voice dangerously low, "I'd like to find out which one it is."
Hamza’s gaze broke from yours for a fraction of a second, but the pressure of his hand at the nape of your neck didn't waver. He looked over his shoulder, his eyes sweeping the balcony and the glass doors leading back to the gala with the cold, calculated precision of a man checking for witnesses.
The party roared on behind the glass—a sea of gold, silk, and false smiles—but out here, in the shadows he created, none of that mattered. Satisfied that Rehman and your father’s associates were sufficiently distracted by their champagne and politics, he turned back to you.
"Come," he commanded. It wasn't a request.
He didn't grab your hand. Instead, he placed his palm firmly against the small of your back, his touch heavy and possessive, guiding you away from the railing. You should have stayed. You should have turned back toward the light, toward the safety of the crowd and the people who knew your name. But as he began to walk, his long strides forcing you to move quickly to keep up, you found your feet moving in perfect synchronization with his.
It was as if he had cast an invisible tether around you. Every time your arm brushed against the fine wool of his sleeve, a fresh wave of heat rolled through you. You felt like a moth being drawn toward a dark, beautiful flame, fully aware of the danger but unable to turn away.
He led you through a side door, away from the main ballroom and toward a wide, dimly lit staircase. As you climbed, the thumping bass of the music began to muffle, replaced by the rhythmic clack of your heels and the heavy, steady footfalls of the man beside you.
The higher you went, the thinner the air seemed to become. The upstairs corridor was lined with heavy oak doors and lit by flickering sconces that threw long, dancing shadows against the walls. Here, the scent of the wedding flowers was gone, replaced by the scent of old wood and the overwhelming, spicy aroma of Hamza’s cologne.
He stopped in front of a heavy door at the very end of the hall, where the music was nothing more than a faint heartbeat beneath the floorboards.
"Why am I doing this?" you whispered, the question finally breaking through the haze of your shyness. You were looking at his chest, at the way his breathing remained perfectly calm while yours was a jagged mess.
Hamza didn't answer immediately. He reached out, his large hand wrapping around the brass handle of the door, but he didn't turn it yet. He looked down at you, his eyes hooded and dark, reflecting the dim amber light of the hallway.
"Because you've been bored your entire life," he said, his voice a low, gravelly truth that made your heart ache. "And because you know that tonight, for the first time, someone is looking at you and seeing exactly what's hidden under all that silence."
He leaned down, his face inches from yours, his height making the ceiling feel like it was closing in. "And because I haven't let go of you yet. And you haven't asked me to."
With a slow, deliberate click, he turned the handle and pushed the door open into the darkness of the room beyond.
The door clicked shut behind you, the sound final and heavy, severing the last thread of connection to the world downstairs. Hamza reached out, his fingers brushing the wall until he found the switch.
A soft, warm amber glow flooded the room, revealing a sprawling master suite—expensive furniture, heavy velvet drapes, and a wide, expansive bed that seemed to dominate the space.
The silence here was absolute, save for the frantic sound of your own breathing.
Hamza didn't move toward the bed. He stayed by the door, his towering frame nearly reaching the top of the frame. He watched you with a quiet, hungry curiosity, his hands shoved casually into his pockets, though the tension in his shoulders told a different story.
"You're bolder when there's no one watching," he observed, his voice a low rumble that seemed to bounce off the walls.
You took a small, tentative step further into the room, your fingers tracing the edge of a polished vanity. "Maybe I'm just curious," you whispered, finally finding the courage to look at him for more than a second. Up close, under the steady light, he was even more striking—the sharp angles of his face, framed by this wild looking beard.. the slight scar near his temple, the way his dark hair was perfectly styled despite the wind on the terrace.
"Why me? There were hundreds of women down there. Women who... who know how to talk to men like you."
"Men like me?" He took a slow step forward, and you instinctively backed up until your calves hit the edge of the bed frame.
He didn't stop until he was directly in your space again, forcing you to crane your neck back. "And what kind of man do you think I am?"
"khataranaak ho..." you breathed, the word coming out as a confession. " aur adhiir ho.."
"jab puraskaar iintajaar ke laayak hota hai to maiin bahut dhairy rakhata huuin" he countered. He reached out, his hand hovering near your waist, not quite touching but close enough that you could feel the heat radiating through your Lehenga.
"aur jab se maine us parityakt ghar mein kadam rakha hai, tab se keval aap hii dekhane laayak haiin. tum ek rahasy kii tarah lag rahe ho maiin baakii raat ko ujaagar karana chaahata huuin."
As he shifted closer, his blazer pulled back slightly, and that’s when you saw it..
Tucked into a leather holster against his ribs was the cold, matte-black grip of a handgun. The sight of it sent a jolt of pure, icy fear through your veins. Your breath hitched, and you recoiled, your eyes wide as you stared at the weapon. The reality of who—and what—he was crashed down on you.
"You're... you have a..."
Your voice failed you, your hands trembling as you clutched the silk of your skirts.
Hamza didn't flinch. He didn't try to hide it. Instead, his eyes turned into something darker, more intense. He saw your fear, and instead of backing off, he used it to draw the circle tighter.
"Does it scare you?" he asked, his voice dropping to a velvet whisper. He reached up, slowly unbuttoning his jacket and shucking it off, tossing it onto a nearby chair.
Now, in just his crisp white dress shirt, the holster was fully visible—a stark, violent contrast to the luxury of the room.
"I... I've never been this close to one," you admitted, your voice small.
Hamza took your hand. His grip was firm, his skin searingly hot against your cold fingers. He didn't lead your hand to his face or his chest. Instead, he guided your trembling fingers toward his side.
"Don't be afraid of the metal," he murmured, his breath hot against your forehead as he loomed over you. "It’s just a tool. It only does what I tell it to do."
He stopped your hand just inches from the weapon. You could feel the heat of his body through the thin cotton of his shirt, the solid muscle of his ribs beneath your knuckles.
"Touch it," he commanded softly.
"Hamza, I can't—"
"Touch it," he repeated, his thumb stroking the back of your hand, grounding you. "Feel how cold it is. And then feel how hot I am. Tell me which one you’re really afraid of."
Your heart was drumming a frantic rhythm against your ribs as you finally let your fingertips graze the cold, textured grip. It was freezing, a heavy weight that represented everything dangerous about the world he lived in.
But as your hand rested there, so close to his heart, the fear began to morph into something else—a dizzying, high-stakes adrenaline that made your head light.
He leaned down, his lips brushing against the pulse point at your neck. "There," he hissed, his voice thick with approval. "See? You’re not breaking. You’re waking up."
His hand stayed over yours, guiding your fingers to wrap fully around the cold grip. With a click that sounded like a gunshot in the silent room, he disarmed the holster. The weight of the weapon was shocking in your small palm—heavy, dense, and unapologetically lethal.
But he didn’t pull away. He took your wrist, his fingers like a scorched iron cuff, and moved your hand—and the gun—upwards until it was pressed flat against the center of his chest, right over his heart.
"Hold it there," he rasped.
The cold metal was now sandwiched between your palm and the thundering heat of his body. Through the thin fabric of his shirt, you could feel the violent, steady beat of his heart. It was fast—just as fast as yours. The realization hit you like a wave; this man, this giant who seemed so composed, was just as affected by the proximity as you were.
"You’re holding my life in your hand now," he murmured, stepping into the final inch of space between you. Your breasts brushed against his chest, the gun the only thing separating your heart from his..
Something shifted inside you.
Slowly, deliberately, you tilted your head back. For the first time, you didn't just glance at him; you met his dark, predatory eyes with a steady gaze of your own.
The air in the room seemed to ignite. Up close, his eyes weren't just dark—they were an obsidian storm, reflecting nothing but your own wide-eyed reflection. You saw the hunger there, the absolute focus, and the flicker of genuine surprise that you were finally staring back.
"I’m not afraid of the metal, Hamza," you whispered, your voice steadier than it had been all night. You pressed the gun harder into his chest, feeling the muscle beneath it jump in response. "And I’m not afraid of the man holding it."
A low, guttural sound escaped his throat—half-growl, half-chuckle.
His hand left your wrist and moved to your waist, his large fingers splaying across the small of your back and pulling you flush against him. The height difference meant your face was perfectly aligned with his throat, but you didn't hide. You kept your chin up, your eyes locked onto his, refusing to be the first to blink.
"There she is," he breathed, his voice a rough, prideful velvet. "I knew you were hiding in there. All that silence, just waiting for the right hand to break it."
He leaned down, his nose brushing against yours, his gaze dropping to your lips and then snapping back to your eyes-
He didn't take his eyes off yours as his hand slid over yours, his large fingers prying the weapon from your grip with a slow, deliberate grace. The weight vanished from your hand, but the tension only doubled.
With a swift, fluid motion, he didn't put the gun away. Instead, he brought the cool, flat side of the barrel up, resting it against the top of your chest, just above the neckline of your dress. The contrast was electric—the biting chill of the steel against your overheated skin.
"My turn," he hummed, the sound vibrating through the metal and into your bones.
Before you could gasp, he placed his other hand on your hip and firmly spun you around. Your back hit his chest, your smaller frame completely eclipsed by his height and breadth.
He pressed you back against him, his arm wrapping around you like a band of iron, while the hand holding the gun stayed resting against your collarbone, marking you.
He dipped his head, his face disappearing into the crook of your neck. "You've been so brave," he whispered against your skin, his lips grazing the sensitive cord of your throat.
He began to kiss a slow, searing path from your ear down to your shoulder. Each press of his lips was heavy and purposeful, marking you as his own while the cool metal of the gun acted as a constant, grounding reminder of the danger you were dancing with.
You arched your neck, your eyes fluttering shut as a low moan caught in your throat. You felt small, protected, and utterly possessed all at once.
"Hamza..." you breathed, your hands reaching back to grip his forearms, feeling the hard, coiled muscle beneath his sleeves.
"I've got you," he rasped.
He turned you again, this time with a frantic sort of hunger. He put the gun aside for now-
His hands came up to frame your face, his thumbs wiping the flush on your cheeks. He looked at you with an intensity that made your knees turn to water, his shadow looming over you in the amber light.
"Look at me," he commanded softly, and you did. You met his gaze, wide-eyed and wanting.
He leaned down, bridging the final gap with agonizing slowness, giving you every second to run. But you didn't. When his lips finally met yours, it wasn't a gentle brush; it was an invitation to a storm.
The kiss was deep and demanding, a collision of his raw power and your burgeoning desire. He guided you through it, his tongue tracing the seam of your lips until you opened for him, a soft whimper escaping you.
He tasted of dark honey and salt, his hands sliding down to your waist to hoist you up, forcing you to stand on your tiptoes just to keep the contact.
He was teaching you how to want him, his movements slow and rhythmic, pulling you into his pace until the rest of the world—the wedding, your father, the danger—ceased to exist the only thing that existed right now was him- and this feeling deep inside you. Arousal.
While the kiss had you basically on cloud nine already, Hamza moved towards the bet, sitting down on it- not breaking the kiss while his hands traveled lower to your hips, grabbing them firmly.
As you finally pulled back- out of breath and with cheeks matching the red curtains in the bedroom- he slowly eyed you.
You could swear you've seen him think for a second- just ever so faintly- as you watched your breath.
,,..Take this off for me.."
His voice interupted your own thoughts in a demanding, low voice that surprised you.
,,Take it off..? what- do you mean-"
Before you could finish your sentence, he had to gun back in his right hand, tilting the weapon toward the Skirt of your Lehenga.
,,Its only gonna be in the way..meri jaan"
He smirked at you, his head tilting lightly as he watched your shocked reaction. The fact that he had brought you so far- it made him confident he could make you do anything for him.....good.
His free hand lightly grazed over the fabric of his pants, slowly patting his thigh while his eyes never left your face.
You realised with a soft gasp- he wanted you to..take off your clothes and sit on his thigh..
A rush of pure shock and excitement jolted though your body- the thought alone- it was enough to make your knees weak.
You gave into those primal feelings- too curious- no..way too turned on to not do as he demanded.
With a gracefully move of your hands and some light tugging, the skirt of your lehenga hit the floor- fabric so heavy it made a soft thud sound as it dropped to the floor.
You must have your damn mind..showing yourself like this- to a total stranger! But..
It was too late.. was it not? there was no way you could escape him now anymore..and you didn't even want to anyway.
A growl escaped his lips, a low and dangerous sound.
He moved the gun, patting his thigh with it as he watched you move towards him- then stopped you.
,,These too.." he breathed, looking up to you as he lightly pushed the cold metal of the weapon under the rim of your underwear, lightly playing with it before letting it snap back against your skin.
,,I want to feel your pussy pressed right against my thigh.."
Your breath got stuck in your throat- no man ever dared to speak this way to you..and my- was it impactful.
You slowly pulled off your underwear, dropping it on the floor stepping out of it as you approached him further.
He looked more than pleased- he looked like he wanted to eat you up- reaching his free hand to gently pull you in, making you sit down on his thigh.
He gasped out- feeling his muscles tighten as he pressed you onto him, then gun still in his other hand and slowly trailing down from your stomach to your pussy.
,,Beautiful.." he breathed out, leaning in close enough for you to feel his breath brush against your face again ,,and so wet already.."
The gun dropped from his fingers finally- it had served its purpose- as his big warm hands wrapped around your hips, guiding them slowly, making you grind against his thigh.
,,Hamza- ahh-" you moaned out softly, letting him take control over your body and mind. It felt dangerously good- your pussy grinding down on his thigh, his muscle lightly twitching at the impact- your clit jumped- your breath hitched.
,,Good..keep grinding like that meri jaan.. fuck yourself on my thigh.."
He encouraged you, his voice deep and growly- but yet- soft- like he wanted to reassure you its okay.
He showed you just how to move- how to push your hips forward and grind down on his lap patiently, holding you save in place.
You moved your hips forwards, grinding against him with another moan. ,,Yes- like this- nice and slow.." he groaned, his fingers gently tugging into your skin.
His pants got stained quickly from your juices, a dark wet spot that got bigger with each thrust of your hips- what a wonderful way to ruin a new pair of pants..
,,Go a bit faster now..dont be shy.. Ive got you.."
He leaned in more, resting his forhead against yours- the air between you two way to thin to breathe properly..but you didn't need air right now anyway..just him.
,,haan..ahh~" you leaned right into him, your nose brushing against his as you moved your hips faster, gliding up and down his thighs more needy- your hips rolling against him like you're in a trance.
faster.. again he guided you, moving his leg lightly which made you moan out loudly.
With each movement you teased yourself- your clit was fully stimulated, pressed and rubbed against his thigh- while him shifting his leg or simply flexing his muscle made her jump and pulse even more.
His hands around your hips slowly slipped to your ass, lightly squeezing before the grip got firmer and he started to move you, harder, pushing you down against him to make it even more intense for you..
he loved having you pushed against his body, enjoying your moans against his face- how you now desperately held onto the back of his head- your small fingers grabbing onto his long, luscious hair.
,,Thats it, just like that..make yourself cum on me.." he groaned, his lips crashing against yours again in an hungry, demanding kiss.
You moaned against his lips, biting them in a playful way while you felt self control slipping away- so good- the sensation, the air around you that felt like it's on fire, it brought tears to your eyes as you got close
By now you were bouncing on his leg- chasing the feeling that made you forget everything- the wedding- the fact you shouldn't even have talked to this man- a stranger, that so very easily captured you and melted you in his hands like ice..
You pulled away from the kiss as your orgasm shaked you through your core- it was a raw and overwhelming storm of feelings taking over your body and mind- Hamza flexed his muscle against your pussy- forcing the filthiest sounds out of your pretty mouth.
,,Oh fuck- yes fuck-!" You threw your head back, gasping and moaning while lightly circling your hips against his thigh still- unable to stop yet, riding out your orgasm fully.
,,Fuck look at you...that's exactly the girl I've seen all day...hiding behind this shy facade.." he groaned, closing the space you created by leaning your head back with crashing his lips against the skin of your throat, kissing over it feverishly while your fingers played with his long curls.
Your breath slowly calmed down, and you were finally able to face him again, gulping softly.
The eyecontact was intense, so many unsaid things screamed through them as you looked at each other for what felt like an eternity- and a smile formed on your lips as your hand traveled from his head to his face, lightly ans playfully tugging and his beard before caressing his face.
,,You did so well Jaan.."
His voice praised you, low...but softer than before- almost affectionate.
He gave you a smile, gently tugging some of your by now wild hair behind your ear, then pressed a kiss against your lips
,,Get dressed..the wedding is over soon. But don't worry..I know exactly where to find you..just leave your window open."
He smirked at you- an expression that you liked very much by now..
,,Are you going to kidnap me?" - "would you like that?" You had to chuckle. You would like it for sure.
,,Go on," he murmured, his voice a low, gravelly caress. "Go back to your father’s side. Play the shy, dutiful daughter for just a little longer."
The cool silk of your skirt felt like a foreign skin as you smoothed it down, your fingers still tingling from the weight of his hands..
You paused at the door, your hand on the brass handle. For the first time all night, you didn't look down. You looked back at him, your lips swollen and your eyes bright with a fire you hadn't known you possessed.
"And when will I see you again, Hamza?"
"I told you," he said, leaning back a bit. ,,zi know where to find you..i won't let you wait long for me meri jaan.."
reassured and with a smile you slipped out of the room.
As you walked back down the long corridor, the muffled music from downstairs began to swell, but it didn't feel oppressive anymore. You felt electrified.
Your heart was still racing, not from fear, but from the delicious, illicit thrill of what had just transpired.
You smoothed your hair, tucked your chin, and re-entered the ballroom—appearing to the world as the same shy girl, while inside, you were screaming with the excitement of a woman who had finally been seen.
The heavy oak door clicked shut, sealing the room in amber-lit silence.
The moment the latch engaged, the warmth vanished from Hamza’s expression. The smirk that had seemed so genuine, so heated, didn't just fade—it died..slowly but surely.
So far so good.. his calculated glances worked..the first step was done..
NOTE: MINORS AND AGELESS BLOGS DO NOT INTERACT! This content is intended for audiences 18+ only, since later chapters will involve Smut!
A/N: Hi my pyaaris! It is so nice to be back and the love and support i recieve from you guys is absolutely insane! Thank you so much for almost 600 Followers! Its absolutely insane to me that so many people read and love what i write and ill continue to make you happy and write lots for you.
Now, for this Fic.. it is based on a Dream i had shortly after watching the movie. Jaskirat's story sat with me, affected me, still does- so much that i really wished his story continued. Where's he now? Where did he go? Without sugarcoating anything and being realistic about everything, i started to write. I hope all of you will enjoy / appreciate this fic, since it became my favorite very fast. Enjoy!
Warnings; agegap, traumatic experiences, mention of selfharm / suicide, mention of assault, violence against women, violence in general, injuries, sepsis, big trigger warning for this chapter.
Part 1 of ?
The floorboards didn't creak. They were as tired as he was, settled into a permanent, sagging silence.
Jaskirat stood on the wooden chair—a cheap, rickety thing he’d found in a junkyard—and looked at the wall. It wasn't a wall he saw, but a void. The ceiling fan above him hummed with a low, rhythmic vibration that felt like a heartbeat he no longer wanted to share. The coarse hemp of the rope was a rough caress against the skin of his neck, a stark contrast to the softness of the life he had once known. Before he had to bury himself under Hamza, a man that was driven by Revenge. A man he buried 3 years ago, right next to Jassi, a 21 year old boy with a soft smile and big dreams..
He stood perfectly still. His breathing was shallow, disciplined—the breath of a soldier, a ghost, a man who had mastered the art of being invisible.
Outside, the wind whipped through the desolate plains of this nameless town, rattling the corrugated tin roof of his shack. But inside, there was only the gravity of his own existence, pulling at his heels, begging him to just finally kick.. To let go. To end the noise.
His mind, usually a fortress of iron-clad focus, began to fracture.
He wondered about the Government. The men in dark suits who had once kidnapped him from the Police Transport. Did they still look for him? Or had they finally checked a box in a dusty file, marking him as 'Expendable Assets Lost'?
Maybe they knew he was alive. Maybe they let him run because a broken tool is of no use to a machine. He had been their finest blade, sharpened in the fires of vengeance and tempered in the blood of his enemies. But even the strongest steel snaps if you bend it too far. They had pushed him until he wasn't a patriot anymore—just a hollowed-out shell filled with the echoes of screams. He hoped they had forgotten him. He hoped they had accepted his disappearance as a final act of desertion, a silent respect, perhaps.
But the government was a shadow. His family... they were the sun. And the sun burned.
Yalina...
Her name felt like a laceration. He could almost smell the faint scent of jasmine on her skin, hear the way her breath hitched when he laughed. He had left her in the dark. To her, he was a martyr or a criminal—a man buried in a Pakistanj prison or a grave in a foreign land. He had let her believe he was dead because the truth was more dangerous. If he were alive, he was a target. If he was a target, she was leverage.
He closed his eyes, and he could see Zayan..
His son would be older now. Would he remember the way Jaskirat’s hands felt—those same hands that were now reaching for the rope? Would Zayan grow up hating a father who chose a flag over a family? Or would he simply grow up with a hole in his heart where a man’s shadow used to be?
And his mother. His sister. They were mourners of a living man. He imagined them on festival days, perhaps lighting a lamp for him, perhaps whispering his name in prayers meant for the departed. They would never know he was standing in a shack in a small town, 400 miles away, preparing to make their nightmare a permanent reality. They would never know he survived the police, the betrayals, Lyari, Rehman Dakait, Major Iqbal..and the revenge, only to be defeated by a Tuesday night in a room that smelled of dust and despair.
The loneliness wasn't a feeling anymore; it was a physical weight. It sat on his shoulders, heavier than any weight he’d ever carried. For three years, he had been a man with no name. He had worked in fields, cleaned grease from engines, anything where people wouldn't ask his name.
He had spoken fewer than a thousand words in three years.
He was a ghost haunting his own life. Every night, the silence of the shack grew louder, screaming at him about the things he had done—the necks he had snapped, the lies he had told, the blood he had spilled in the name of a 'greater good' that now felt like a punchline.
What was a warrior without a war?
What was a man without a home?
The chair beneath him felt unstable. He liked that. He liked the honesty of it.
He looked at his hands. They were calloused, scarred, and steady. Even now, at the edge of the abyss, his body refused to tremble. It was a soldier’s body, trained to endure. But his soul was tired. It was frayed at the edges, unraveling into nothingness. He had fought for his country, he had fought for revenge, and he had fought to survive.
But he had nothing left to fight for now.
He took a deep breath, the rope tightening slightly. The air was cold. He thought of the endless fields, the fresh punjabi air of his hometown, and the warmth of a kitchen that was now a thousand lifetimes away. He thought of the man he used to be—the one who believed in honor, in justice, in the future.
That man was gone.
"Forgive me.." he breathed, to Yalina? His son? Perhaps his Mother and Sister? To his best friend, Pinda? Which he had lost in the battle? Maybe to all of them..?
He looked ahead, his gaze fixing on a knot in the wood of the wall. One movement. A shift of weight. A release.
The world stayed quiet. No one was coming to save him. No one even knew he was there.
He shifted his weight to the balls of his feet, the chair groaning in anticipation.
"Just one step," he thought. "Just one step to go home."
A scream.
It wasn’t the wind. It wasn’t the phantom echo of his own nightmares or the screams of the men he had left behind. It was real. It was high, sharp, and jagged—a sound that tore through the silence of the Town like a rusted blade.
Jaskirat froze. His muscles, honed by decades of survival, reacted before his mind could catch up.
"Ignore it." his soul whispered. "It’s not your war. You’re already dead."
He closed his eyes, tightening his grip on the rope, forcing his weight back onto the center of the chair. He waited for the silence to return, for the void to reclaim him.
"Nahin! Chhodo mujhe!"
The voice came again, closer this time, followed by the sickening sound of a heavy blow—meat hitting meat—and the clatter of something metal hitting the cobblestones. Then came the laughter. It was a guttural, jagged sound—the laughter of men who knew no one was coming. In these backstreets, in the labyrinthine shadows, a scream was just background noise. People closed their shutters. They turned up their radios. They minded the business of staying alive.
Jaskirat stared at the wall. "Let it go.." he told himself.
But the woman’s sob wasn't fading. It was turning into a wet, desperate wheeze.
Something inside Jaskirat’s chest—something he thought he had successfully killed three years ago when he crossed the border back into India, only to realize he no longer fit in the world he had fought to protect—snapped. It wasn't a sense of duty. It wasn't patriotism. It was a primal, ugly instinct...the instinct of a son, of a brother, of a true man.
He didn't untie the noose. He reached up, his fingers moving with a terrifying, mechanical speed, and sliced through the hemp with a small, sharpened piece of scrap metal he kept in his pocket.
The rope fell. Jaskirat stepped off the chair.
Everything went do fast, almost like in a trance.
He didn't use the door. He moved through the back window, his boots hitting the dirt with the silence of a predatory cat. The air in Toen was thick with the smell of fear. He moved through the shadows, making sure to stay unoticed.
He rounded the corner of the alleyway behind his shack.-
The scene was bathed in the flickering, sickly yellow light of a dying streetlamp. It was exactly as his intuition had mapped it.
Three men. They were young, fueled by a toxic mix of cheap chemicals and the arrogance of the predator. One held a knife, spinning it casually. The second held her down—a young woman, her clothes torn, her face a mask of terror and blood. The third was unbuckling his belt, his face twisted into a grin that made Jaskirat’s vision turn a searing, monochromatic white.
She looked so small. She looked like the world he had failed. She looked like the innocence he had traded for a gun and a fake passport....she looked like Jasleen.
Jasleen... the flashback to that night he found her in that tiny hutt.. alone- hurt.. like this girl right now. She had no facial similarity to his sister whatsoever, but the scenery...something in him snapped.
Jaskirat didn't shout. He didn't give a warning. A spy doesn't announce his presence; he merely changes the environment.
The man with the knife was the first to feel it. He didn't even hear Jaskirat approach. One moment he was laughing, and the next, a hand like a vice gripped his wrist, twisting it until the bone screamed. The knife dropped, but before it hit the ground, Jaskirat caught it in mid-air.
With a fluid, horrifying grace, Jaskirat drove the butt of the knife into the man’s temple
Not a killing blow, but enough to shut his world down. The man crumpled like a suit of empty clothes.
The other two froze. The one holding the woman looked up, his eyes widening as he saw the silhouette of a man who looked like he had crawled out of a grave.
"Kaun hai tu?!" the man stammered, scrambling to rise.
Jaskirat didn't answer. He didn't have a name to give.
He stepped into the light. His face was a mask of cold, dead stone. He grew older, on the edge of 50 by now, but he didn't loose his bite, the hard work on the fields kept him in shape.
The second man lunged, swinging a heavy iron pipe. Jaskirat didn't flinch. He stepped into the strike, narrowing the distance. He took the blow on his shoulder—a dull thud that would have broken a normal man’s collarbone—but Jaskirat didn't even blink. He buried his elbow into the man’s throat.
The sound was like a dry branch snapping. The man fell back, clutching his neck, gasping for air that wouldn't come.
Then there was the third. The one who had been touching her.
He had backed away, pulling a snub-nosed pistol from his waistband. His hands were shaking. "Peechay hat! Main goli maar doonga!"
Jaskirat kept walking. His heart wasn't racing. It was steady. For the first time in three years, the noise in his head had stopped.
"Dar se kaanp rahe ho?" Jaskirat said. His voice was a low, gravelly rasp—the first time he had spoken in months. It sounded like grinding stones.
"Main keh raha hoon, ruk ja!"
"You won't pull that trigger.." Jaskirat said, his voice devoid of emotion. "Because if you do, you lose your only chance to run. And I am the only thing you should be running from."
The man fired.
The bullet grazed Jaskirat’s ribs, tearing through his shirt and leaving a red-hot trail across his skin. Jaskirat didn't even break his stride. He was on the man in a heartbeat. He gripped the gun, his thumb jamming behind the hammer so it couldn't fire again. With his other hand, he seized the man’s throat and slammed him against the brick wall with a force that cracked the masonry.
He held him there, inches off the ground. The man’s legs kicked uselessly.
"She was crying." Jaskirat whispered, his eyes boring into the man’s soul. "And you liked it..!"
He could have killed him. It would have been so easy. A sharp twist, a sudden thrust. He could feel the familiar pull of the abyss, the hunger of Hamza to finish the job. The government had spent millions of rupees to turn him into a weapon that didn't know how to mercy.
But then, he heard a small, trembling gasp from behind him.
He looked back. The woman was huddled against a crate, her eyes wide with a different kind of fear. She wasn't just afraid of the men who had attacked her. She was terrified. Terrified of seeing something gruesome.
He didn't kill the man. He slammed his head against the brick once, twice, until the man went limp, and then he dropped him like the trash he was.
The alley fell silent, save for the heavy, ragged breathing of the two survivors.
Jaskirat stood in the center of the carnage. His rib was bleeding. His shoulder was screaming in pain. The noose was still waiting for him in the shack, but the cold, clinical clarity of the mission had replaced the fog of that thought.
He turned slowly toward the woman.
You flinched, pulling your torn shawl tighter around your shoulders. Your hair was a mess, and a dark bruise was already forming on your cheek.
She's young— he thought. Too young to know the kind of darkness that lived in the heart of the man standing before her.
Jaskirat reached out a hand, then immediately pulled it back, realizing how terrifying he must look. He cleared his throat, the sound painful.
"Are you..." he paused, the word 'okay' feeling like a lie. "Can you walk?"
You stared at him, chest heaving. You looked at the three broken bodies on the ground, then back at the man who had appeared from the shadows like a vengeful deity.
"Who... who are you?" You whispered, your voice trembling.
Jaskirat looked toward his shack, toward the life he had tried to end, and then back at the woman he had accidentally saved. The government didn't know he was here. His family thought he was a ghost. He was a man with no country, no name, and no future..
"Nobody." he said, his voice softening just a fraction.
He moved toward you, not with the predatory grace of a soldier, but with the hesitant, broken gait of a man trying to remember how to be human. He reached down and picked up your fallen bag, handing it to her with a hand that—for the first time in three years—was finally beginning to shake.
"Come.." he said. "You can't stay here."
As he helped her up, your fingers brushed against his calloused palm. The contact felt like an electric shock. To him, it was a reminder of a world he had abandoned. To you, it was the first anchor in a world that had just tried to tear you apart.
"You're bleeding.." you said, your voice small but clear.
The silence between your two started right after he had helped you up, and lasted until you finally found your voice again.
Jaskirat didn't turn around. "It’s nothing.."
"It’s not nothing. That bullet... it hit you. I saw it."
"Keep your head down and keep walking." he rasped. His tone wasn't cruel, but it was thick with a finality that discouraged conversation. It was the voice of a man who had spent years giving orders that meant the difference between life and death..
You fell silent for a moment, but the adrenaline pulsing through your veins wouldn't let you stay quiet. You were a teacher; you spent your days explaining the world to children, finding logic in chaos. But there was no logic to this man. He lived in a shack that looked ready to collapse, yet he fought like a storm.
"I’ve lived in this neighborhood my whole life.." You started again, stepping over a puddle of stagnant water. "I’ve never seen you. And I would have noticed someone like you."
Jaskirat’s jaw tightened. "That was the point."
"Why did you help me..?" You asked, your curiosity finally outweighing your fear. "Most people... they would have just closed their doors. Especially here. Especially tonight.."
Jaskirat stopped so abruptly she nearly ran into his back. He turned, and the yellow light of a distant moon caught the scars on his face—scars that told stories of wars and betrayals he would never put into words.
"I didn't help you to start a conversation." he said, his eyes hard. "I helped you because the noise was annoying. Now, keep moving. We are three blocks from the main road. Where do you live?"
You flinched at his coldness, but you didn't look away. There was something beneath the frost in his voice—a deep, resonant exhaustion that you recognized. It was the look of someone who had seen the end of the world and was frustrated that it was still turning.
"The blue gate near the dispensary.." you whispered. "My father... he’s the doctor there."
Jaskirat nodded once and resumed walking, his pace slightly faster.
As they neared the edge of the residential district, where the houses were built of sturdier brick and the streetlamps actually worked, you felt a strange shift. The terror was being replaced by a profound sense of debt. You looked at his hand—the one that had held the gunman by the throat—and saw that his knuckles were split and raw.
"My father..!" You began again, more confident this time. "He can help you. If you come inside, he can stitch that wound properly. He won't ask questions. He’s used to people who need help without being asked who they are.."
"I don't need a doctor," Jaskirat said.
"You might. Infection in this heat is a death sentence. And you took a blow to the shoulder with an iron pipe. You aren't even flinching, but I know it hurts."
Jaskirat stopped again, this time turning fully to face her. He looked at you—really looked at you—for the first time. Young..around 25, eyes filled with an earnestness that felt like a physical weight on his chest.
"Listen to me.." he said, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous hum. "I am not a man to worry about, I am not a neighbor. I am a ghost. You go inside that house, you lock the door, and you forget you ever saw me. You tell your Father about these boys, but you do not mention the man from the shack. Do you understand?"
"I can't do that." You challenged, your voice trembling but firm. "You saved my life. I don't care if you think you're a ghost, Ghosts don't bleed, and they don't save a girl from being hurt. Only living good people do."
Jaskirat felt a spike of genuine irritation, masked by a deeper, more uncomfortable emotion. She was digging into him, her words acting like a probe into a wound he’d spent three years cauterizing.
"What is your name?" You asked suddenly.
The question hit him like a physical blow. Jaskirat. The name felt heavy, forbidden. It belonged to a soldier of India. It belonged to a husband in a fading photograph. It belonged to a man who was supposed to be dead.
"I don't have one." he said.
"Everyone has a name."
"Not tonight."
You stepped closer, refusing to be dismissed. "Fine. Then keep your name. But remember this: the blue gate. If the wound gets worse, if you find yourself with nowhere to go, or if those men have friends who come looking... you come to the blue gate. My family owes you.. I.. owe you this."
They reached the end of the alley. Ahead of them stood a modest but well-kept house. A sturdy blue iron gate stood at the entrance, a symbol of safety in a neighborhood that offered very little of it. A light was on in the upper window; someone was waiting up for her.
Jaskirat stayed in the shadows of the last building, refusing to step into the light of your home. He watched you stand by the gate, your hand on the latch.
"Go inside." he commanded.
You paused, looking back at the dark silhouette he had become. You looked at the blood soaking into his shirt, and then at his eyes.
"Thank you.." she whispered. "For the noise being annoying."
A ghost of a smile—something so faint it might have been a trick of the light—touched Jaskirat’s lips for a fraction of a second before his face returned to its stony mask.
"Lock the gate, be safe." was all he said.
He stood there, motionless, as you pushed the heavy iron open. He watched ypu walk to the front door, heard the frantic voices of your family as they saw her torn clothes and bruised face. He heard the door slam and the bolt slide into place.
Only then did Jaskirat turn away.
He walked back toward the darkness, his hand clutching his side. The adrenaline was fading, and the pain was beginning to bloom—a sharp, hot fire in his ribs and a dull, throbbing ache in his soul.
He thought of the noose hanging in his shack. He thought of the chair.
But as he looked at his hand—the hand you had almost touched—he realized he couldn't go back to the rope. Not tonight..
4 days later;
It had been four long days since the night in the alley..
For you, those four days were a blur of whispered conversations and stifled gasps. Your mother had spent the first forty-eight hours hovering over you, applying cooling pastes to the bruise on your cheek and weeping silently into her dupatta. Your older brother, Rohan, had spent that same time pacing the porch, his hand white-knuckled around a cricket bat, cursing the men who had laid a hand on his sister.
But your father, Dr. Rathore, had been the quietest of all. He had listened to your story with the clinical intensity of a man used to diagnosing hidden traumas. He didn't ask about the attackers; he asked about the man who had stopped them.
"You said he didn't use a weapon?" your father had asked on the second night, his brow furrowed as he cleaned your minor scrapes.
"He was the weapon, Papa" you had whispered. "He didn't move like someone who was angry. He moved like someone who was... certain."
Every afternoon, after the school bell rang and the children dispersed into the dusty streets of the village, you took the long way home. You walked past the row of dilapidated shacks on the outskirts—the place where the seasonal laborers and the drifters lived.
You looked for a man with a beard matted with dust. You looked for a man with a shoulder that should be sagging and a side that should be burning with the fire of an untreated bullet graze.
But there was nothing.
The worry was a constant, low-frequency thrum in your chest. You knew the reality of wounds in this heat. You knew that even a man made of iron could be felled by a microscopic infection. You pictured him lying on a dirt floor, his body shivering with a fever he refused to acknowledge, his pride keeping him from the blue gate you had promised him safety behind.
Dinner on the fourth night was a quiet affair. The house felt smaller than usual, crowded by the unspoken presence of the stranger.
"He hasn't come," your mother said, placing a bowl of dal on the table. She looked at your father, her eyes pleading. "If he is as badly hurt as she says, he might not be able to come."
Rohan looked up from his plate, his jaw set. "I’ve been asking around at the grain market. Nobody knows a man like that. A few people mentioned a 'silent one' who works for them from time to time, but they say he hasn't shown up for work since Tuesday."
You felt a cold knot tighten in your stomach. Tuesday was the day after the attack..
"Men like that don't want to be found.." your father said softly, stirring his tea. "In my years of practice, I’ve seen them before. Soldiers who have seen too much. Men who carry wars inside them long after the guns have gone silent. They think that by staying alone, they keep the world safe from the darkness they carry."
"But he’s not the darkness," you argued, leaning forward. "He saved me. He took a bullet for a stranger. Papa, if he dies in some corner of this town because he’s too proud or too broken to ask for help, how can we live with that?"
Your father looked at you, really looked at you. He saw the way your hands trembled when you spoke of him—not with fear, but with a desperate, protective urgency.
The room fell into a heavy silence. The ceiling fan whirred, cutting through the thick, dry air.
Your father stood up suddenly, his chair scraping against the floorboards. He walked over to the corner of the room and picked up his worn leather medical bag. He checked the seal on the antibiotics, the rolls of sterile gauze, and the bottles of antiseptic.
He looked at the bruise on your face, now fading to a dull yellow, and then at the door.
He reached out and squeezed your shoulder, a silent acknowledgement of the bond you had formed with a man you didn't even know.
"A doctor’s duty doesn't stop at the doorstep," your father said, his voice firm. He looked at you, then at the coat hanging by the door.
"You're the only one who knows exactly where he must live" he said.
He stepped toward the exit, his shadow long against the wall. He paused at the threshold, the moonlight catching the grey in his hair, before turning back to you.
"Bring me there."
You didn't wait another second.
The dry creek bed was a graveyard of discarded industry. Stacks of cracked bricks stood like jagged tombstones under the pale, indifferent light of a Rajasthani moon. Here, the air didn't just feel dry; it felt dead.
"Is this it?" your father whispered, his voice hushed as if afraid to wake the spirits of the place.
You nodded, your heart hammering against your ribs like a trapped bird. "The one with the corrugated tin roof. He... he appeared fron the shadows behind it that night..!"
Rohan walked slightly ahead, a heavy flashlight in his hand. The beam cut through the darkness, illuminating swirling dust and the skeletal remains of rusted machinery. When the light hit the door of the small, square hut, your breath hitched.
The door was slightly ajar. It hung crookedly on a single hinge, swaying a fraction of an inch in the breeze with a rhythmic, metallic clink-clink-clink
"Stay behind me." your father commanded, his professional mask slipping into place.
As you stepped onto the threshold, Rohan swung the flashlight into the room.
The beam swept over a floor of packed earth, a single wooden chair that had been shoved violently into a corner, and a length of hemp rope lying coiled like a dead snake in the center of the room. Finally, the light landed on a low, wooden cot in the corner.
Him.
He was sprawled on his back, his legs hanging off the edge of the thin mattress. His chest was bare, his skin a terrifying, sickly grey. Even from the doorway, you could see the dark, angry streaks of red creeping upward from his ribcage—the telltale map of sepsis marching toward his heart.
"Oh, God.." you gasped, rushing forward despite your father’s warning.
He didn't move. The man who had moved like a hurricane in the alley was now as still as a fallen statue. His eyes were closed, the lashes dark against his sunken sockets. His breathing was shallow, a ragged, wet sound that rattled deep in his throat.
Your father was on his knees beside the cot in an instant. He pressed two fingers to Jaskirat’s neck.
"His fever is high.." your father muttered, his hands moving with practiced speed. He peeled back the blood-stiffened rag Jaskirat had used to bind his side.
You recoiled. The graze from the bullet had turned into an ugly, weeping crater. The surrounding flesh was swollen and purple, pulsing with the poison of the street-level filth that had entered his bloodstream.
"Rohan, help me..!" your father barked. "We have to get him into the truck. Now. If he stays here, he won't see the sunrise."
Rohan moved to the head of the cot, his initial suspicion of the man replaced by a grim, soldierly respect for the state of his injuries. Together, they began the grueling task of lifting him.
Jaskirat groaned—a sound of pure, unadulterated agony that seemed to come from the very marrow of his bones. For a brief second, his eyes flickered open. They were bloodshot, unfocused, and wild. His hand shot out with a speed that shouldn't have been possible for a dying man, his fingers locking around Rohan’s throat.
"No!" you screamed, grabbing his arm. "It’s us! We're helping you!"
The sound of your voice seemed to act as a tether. His gaze drifted toward you, the predatory fire in his eyes fading into a confused, glassy haze. His grip loosened, his hand falling back to the dirt with a heavy thud.
"Yalina...?" he wheezed, the name barely a ghost of a sound.
"No.." you whispered, your heart breaking for a woman you didn't know. "It’s me, From the alley. Please, let us help you..!"
He didn't speak again. He slumped back into unconsciousness, his body becoming a dead weight in their arms.
The drive back to the house was a nightmare of silence and speed. You sat in the back of the truck, Jaskirat’s head resting in your lap. He was burning. You could feel the heat radiating off him through your clothes, a dry, searing fever that made him tremble in violent, sudden jolts.
You used a corner of your dupatta to wipe the sweat from his forehead. Up close, without the mask of his terrifying competence, he looked so...hurt.
"Who are you..?" you whispered to the wind as the truck rattled over the uneven roads. "What did they do to you...?"
You thought of the rope you had seen on the floor of the shack. You realized with a jolt of horror that he hadn't been annoyed by noise, he was distracted from taking his life.
When you arrived at the blue gate, your mother was already there, holding it wide. She didn't ask questions. She saw the state of the man and immediately began clearing the table in the small clinic room attached to the house.
The next few hours were a blur of antiseptic and blood.
Your father worked with a grim intensity. He didn't have the equipment of a major hospital, but he had the hands of a man who had spent forty years stitching the world back together. You stood by his side, handing him instruments, cleaning the sweat from his brow, and holding Jaskirat’s arm steady when his body convulsed in a fever-dream.
"The sepsis is deep.." your father said, his voice tight. "The bullet didn't stay in, but it took pieces of his shirt with it. It’s been festering for days."
He began the process of debriding the wound—cutting away the dead, infected tissue. Jaskirat didn't wake up, but he began to thrash. His muscles corded like steel cables, his body fighting the very hands trying to save him.
"Hold him!" your father shouted.
Rohan leaned over Jaskirat’s chest, pinning his shoulders, while you gripped his hands. His palms were rough, covered in scars..
"He's fighting a war in there.." Rohan muttered, struggling to keep the man down.
Jaskirat began to mutter in his delirium. It wasn't just Hindi. There were snatches of Urdu, Punjabi, fragments of a dialect you didn't recognize, and names—so many names.. Yalina...Zayan, Rehman-Bhai, Uzair...Pinda, Jasleen..
There was the same question in everyones eyes at this moment;
What in gods name happened to this poor man?
As the first streaks of lavender and gold began to bleed across the Jaipur sky, the chaos in the clinic finally subsided.
The wound was cleaned and dressed in thick layers of white gauze. An IV drip was hanging from a makeshift stand, slowly pumping high-dose antibiotics into his veins. The fever hadn't broken yet, but the terrifying grey tinge of his skin had faded into a pale, exhausted white.
Your father slumped into a chair, his surgical mask hanging around his neck. He looked older than he had that morning.
"He's stable.." your father said, his voice raspy. "For now. But the next twenty-four hours will tell us if his heart is as strong as his will."
Rohan and your mother had gone to get some rest, leaving you alone in the quiet room with the man who had no name. The only sound was the steady drip... drip... drip... of the IV and the distant call of a morning bird.
You pulled a chair close to the bed. You watched the way his chest rose and fell—slow, steady, and stubborn. He was a stranger.. He was a man who had tried to die, and yet, here he was, breathing the air of your home.
You reached out, hesitantly, and touched the back of his hand. It was still warm, but the unnatural heat was gone.
"You're save now.." you whispered.
In the quiet of the morning, you stayed there, a silent guardian over a fallen warrior. You knew that when he woke up, he would likely be angry. He would be confused. He would maybe even try to run... But as the sun rose over the blue gate, you knew one thing for certain: the silence of neither his or your life would ever, ever be the same again after this night..
NOTE: MINORS AND AGELESS BLOGS DO NOT INTERACT! This content is intended for audiences 18+ only!
A/N: Girls im so sorry you waited so long on this! I've been sick and busy with other projects but i think right now i have things sorted much better! Enjoy this chapter<3
Warnings: height difference, agegap, scary!Hamza,threatening, power dynamics, mention of kidnapping, blackmailing, foul language, mention of harm (not actually happening) manipulation, reader being very naive, Hamza feeling super guilty, oral (f recieving) crying.
Part 5 of...?
The morning sun didn’t rise so much as it bled into the room, a soft, pale gold that filtered through the heavy curtains of his place.
It was a cruel contrast to the storm Hamza had unleashed across the city’s airwaves.
You stirred against the silk pillows, the transition from sleep to wakefulness feeling like a slow drift through warm water. Your body felt heavy, languid, and marked by a deep, grounded ache that reminded you exactly where you were. For a moment, the events of the previous night—the ultimatum, the car ride, the terrifying coldness in Hamza’s eyes—felt like a fever dream.
Then, you felt the solid, unyielding heat of him beside you.
Hamza was already awake. He was propped up on one elbow, his silhouette dark against the morning light. He wasn't looking at a phone or a television; he was looking at you. His expression was unreadable, a complex tapestry of possessiveness and a haunting, quiet regret that you were too blissful to decipher.
"Morning, jaan.." he murmured. His voice was like low-octave music, vibrating through the mattress and into your skin.
You reached out, your fingers tracing the scar on his forearm, feeling the pulse beneath the skin. "How long have you been awake..?"
"Long enough." he said, his hand coming up to stroke your hair away from your face. His touch was incredibly gentle—the touch of the man who had cradled you during your sleep, not the man who had blackmailed your father three hours ago..
You sat up slowly, the sheet pooling around your waist. The reality of the situation began to settle in. "I... I should probably check my phone...! My father is going to have the national guard out looking for me. I need to go back and figure out how to explain this.."
A flicker of tension crossed Hamza’s face—so fast you almost missed it. He couldn't let you see the news. Not yet. He couldn't let you see your father’s broken face on every screen in the country, pledging his soul to a man like Rehman to buy back a daughter who was currently lying in her "kidnapper’s" bed.
"No.." Hamza said, his voice firm but soft. He caught your hand, pulling you back down toward him. "You aren't going anywhere today."
"Hamza..? I have to..!" you protested, though your heart wasn't in it. The thought of leaving this bubble of warmth for the cold marble of the Minister’s mansion felt like a sentence. "He’ll be out of his mind with worry. If I just go back and tell him I was with a friend, maybe—"
"He won't accept me, never."
The words were blunt, sounding like a confession. Hamza looked away, staring at the far wall, playing the role of the vulnerable lover with a precision that was as beautiful as it was terrifying.
"Your father is a Minister. He is a man of 'reputation' and 'legacy..'" Hamza continued, his voice thick with a calculated bitterness. "And what am I? To him, I am a ghost. A man with blood on his hands and no name. If you walk back through those gates today, he will lock you in a golden cage and I will never see you again. He will find a way to take you away forever.."
He turned back to you, his dark eyes shimmering with a manufactured fear that pulled at every protective instinct you had. "I’m scared, jaan. I’ve never had anything worth keeping before. If you leave now, I lose you. I know it."
You felt a wave of fierce love wash over you. The powerful, dangerous man who had intimidated you last night was now admitting his deepest fear: losing you. You threw your arms around his neck, pulling him close.
"He can't keep us apart.." you whispered fiercely. "I won't let him."
"Then stay." he urged, his lips pressing into the pulse point of your neck. "Stay here. Just for a while. Let the world settle. Let me find a way to... to make this right so he has no choice but to accept us. If you go back now, it's over."
You hesitated. The thought of your father’s face flashed in your mind—the man who tucked you in, who called you his jewel. But then you looked at Hamza. You felt the raw, desperate need in his hold. You thought about the three weeks of silence and the agony of being without him.
"Okay..." you breathed, the word sealing your fate. "I'll stay. I'll turn the phone off. I'm yours, Hamza. I already chose that.."
He squeezed you so tightly it almost hurt, a jagged breath escaping his lungs. It was a victory, but a heavy one.
He had successfully isolated his "asset." He had ensured that you wouldn't see the headlines: Minister Siddiqui Defects to Rehman Party; Cites 'Personal Revelation.' You wouldn't see the grainy, shadowed photo of your own sleeping form that was currently being used to dismantle your father’s career.
"You're a good girl.." he whispered, the endearment tasting like copper in his mouth.
He stood up, his massive frame blocking the light. "I'm going to make tea.. We have nowhere to be, and the world can wait."
As he walked out of the bedroom, he paused at the door, looking back at you. You were sitting in the center of the bed, wrapped in his duvet, looking like a queen in a fortress of his making. You smiled at him, a bright, trusting thing that made his stomach turn.
He stepped into the kitchen and picked up his own phone. A message from Uzair was waiting.
"Siddiqui is on the 9:00 AM broadcast. He’s reading the script. Every word. The party is in shock. Rehman is pleased."
Hamza deleted the message and set the phone face down. He moved to the stove, his hands steady as he began the domestic task of making breakfast for the woman he had just effectively stolen.
Outside, the city was in chaos. Your father was a broken man, weeping in his private chambers between takes. The political landscape of the country was shifting on its axis. But inside the walls of Hamza’s Home, the air was thick with the scent of sleep and the quiet, romantic hum of a man who had won everything—and lost his soul in the process..
He came back into the room a few minutes later with two mugs. He sat on the edge of the bed, watching you drink, his hand resting possessively on your knee.
"What are you thinking about?" he asked softly.
"About how lucky I am..!" you said, leaning your head on his shoulder. "That you didn't leave me. That you came back for me."
Hamza closed his eyes, the irony of your words cutting deeper than any blade. He kissed the top of your head, his grip tightening.
"I’ll always come back for you.." he vowed. It was the only truth he had left.
He had turned your father into a puppet and you into a captive, all under the guise of the most honest, romantic care you had ever known. And the most terrifying part? He was going to make sure you never, ever found out.
In this bubble of romance, care, and intimacy, three days had passed—three days of silk-soft mornings and whispered promises that had effectively erased the world outside for you.
To you, this was a romantic exile, a necessary cocoon to protect a love your father would never understand.
To Hamza, it was a masterclass in psychological warfare.
It was 3:00 AM. The air in the bedroom was cool, scented with the fading traces of expensive perfume and the sharp, masculine tang of the cigarette Hamza held between his teeth. You were fast asleep beside him, your head pillowed on his thigh, one hand draped across his stomach in a gesture of absolute, unconscious trust.
Hamza’s face was illuminated by the blue glow of a burner phone. He took a long drag of the cigarette, the cherry glowing bright in the dark, before he hit the dial button.
The Minister picked up on the first half-ring.
"Hamza?" Siddiqui’s voice was a ghost of its former self—thin, reedy, and vibrating with the kind of exhaustion that ages a man a decade in a week. "Is she... please, is she still there?"
Hamza didn't answer immediately. He exhaled a long, slow plume of smoke, watching it curl toward the ceiling. With his free hand, he reached down and began to idly coil a lock of your hair around his finger. He tugged it gently—just enough to make you murmur in your sleep and nuzzle closer to his hip, but not enough to wake you.
"She’s right here, Minister," Hamza finally rasped, his voice dropping into that predatory, silken register. "Right where I want her.. She’s sleeping like a babe.. You’d be surprised how well she sleeps after she’s been... properly disciplined.."
"You monster..!" Siddiqui choked out. He sounded like he was falling apart. "I’ve done everything. I gave the speech. I signed the alliance. Rehman has the votes. Why haven't you let her go?!"
Hamza gave a low, cruel chuckle that made the hair on the back of your neck stir, even in sleep.
"Because I’m enjoying the company.. Your daughter is a fascinating creature, Siddiqui. She’s spent her whole life surrounded by your lies and your 'prestige,' but it turns out all she really wanted was a man who knew how to break her.. She’s quite fond of me now. She follows me from room to room like a grateful little pup."
"Stop it..!" the Minister pleaded, the sound of his weeping audible through the line. "Don't speak about her like that. She’s a lady—"
"She’s a woman." Hamza corrected, his eyes cold as he watched your peaceful face. "And she’s my woman now..You should see her. She’s stopped asking for you. She hasn't mentioned your name once in forty-eight hours. I think she’s finally realized that the 'powerful' Minister Siddiqui is just a frightened old man who can't even find his own child..~"
Hamza flicked an ash into a tray on the nightstand, his fingers never leaving your hair. He was being intentionally foul, painting a picture of a broken, violated girl to keep the Minister in a state of total, paralyzed terror. It was a strategy of absolute leverage: the more the father believed his daughter was being destroyed, the more he would do to "save" her.
"I’m going to do something for you, Minister." Hamza said, his tone mocking. "Because you’ve been such a loyal servant to Rehman these last few days. I’m going to let you talk to her. Tomorrow morning. I’ll wake her up, and I’ll let you hear her voice."
There was a sharp, strangled gasp on the other end. "Really? You... you swear?"
"I swear." Hamza said, his eyes narrowing as he watched you sigh and shift, your hand moving to grip the fabric of his sweatpants. "But listen to me very carefully. If you say one word about the police, one word about the photos, or one word that makes her think anything is wrong, the call ends. And you won't get another one. Do you understand?"
"I understand. I’ll do whatever you say! Just let me hear her...!"
"Good.." Hamza hissed. "I’ll call you at 9:00 AM sharp. Don't be late. I have things to do with her tomorrow, and I don't like to be kept waiting."
He cut the call before the Minister could offer another word.
Hamza sat there for a long time, the silence of the room pressing in on him. He felt a flicker of something—disgust? Regret?—at the way he had just spoken about you.
He looked down at the way you were curled against him, so innocent and so utterly deceived. He had told your father you were a broken dog, when in reality, you were the only thing that made him feel like he hadn't completely rotted from the inside out.
He leaned down, snubbing out his cigarette, and gathered you up into his arms. He pulled you onto his chest, your weight a grounding pressure against his heart.
"I’m sorry.. jaan.." he whispered into the dark, his voice now thick with a heavy, secret tenderness. "But I have to keep him scared. I have to keep the world away. If he thinks you're happy, he'll fight. If he thinks you're lost, he'll obey.."
You stirred, your eyes fluttering open just a crack, bleary and full of love. "Hamza? Are you still awake?"
"Just watching you.." he murmured, his thumb tracing your lower lip. "Go back to sleep. I’ve got a surprise for you in the morning. I’m going to let you call your father. I think I’ve convinced him that we deserve a chance.."
Your face lit up with a sleepy, dazzling smile. You didn't see the ice in his gaze or the phone hidden beneath the pillow. You only saw the man who had stayed, the man who was fighting for your "freedom."
"Thank you.." you whispered, kissing his jaw before drifting back into the dark. "I knew you could do it. I knew you were a good man.."
Hamza held you tighter, his jaw set. If you knew.. he thought.
In the morning, you were shaken awake not by the sun, but by the sensation of Hamza’s lips against your ear and his large, warm hand cupping your cheek.
"Wake up, jaan..~" he whispered, his voice like velvet over gravel. "I have a gift for you.."
Your eyes fluttered open, blinking against the brightness. You felt soft, languid, and deeply loved. When you saw the phone in his hand, your heart did a frantic little dance.
"Is it...?"
"Your father.." Hamza said, a small, encouraging smile playing on his lips—a smile that never quite reached his cold, watchful eyes. "I told you I’d fix it. He’s waiting to hear your voice. Just tell him you’re happy. Tell him you’re safe."
He hit the speakerphone and held the device between you, his other arm draped possessively over your shoulders, pulling you into the crook of his chest. He was so close you could feel the vibration of his chest when he breathed.
"Baba?" you breathed, your voice thick with emotion.
There was a ragged, choked sound on the other end—a sob that was quickly stifled.
"My jewel... oh God, is that you? Are you...
are you really there?"
"It’s me, Baba! I’m okay. I’m so sorry I disappeared, but I’m safe. I’m with Hamza."
You looked up at Hamza, beaming, completely unaware of the gun-metal silence on his end.
"He’s been so good to me. He’s taken such good care of me. Please, don't be angry. He’s not what you think."
Silence stretched from the other side, a heavy, agonizing void. You couldn't see your father’s face—the way he was likely clutching his chest, his knuckles white, knowing that if he said the word "kidnap" or "blackmail," the line would go dead and his daughter would vanish forever..
"I... I see.."
Siddiqui’s voice came out as a broken whisper. It sounded like he was speaking through a mouthful of glass.
"If you’re... if you’re happy, then that’s all that matters. Are you eating? Are you sleeping?"
"I’m sleeping better than I ever have..!" you said, letting out a small, bubbly laugh of relief, missing the way Hamza’s grip on your shoulder tightened just a fraction. "We spend all our time talking. He’s so romantic, Baba. I think... I think I’m in love. I know it’s fast, but you have to meet him. You have to give us your blessing."
A sharp, hitching breath came from the phone. To you, it sounded like a father’s surprise. To Hamza, it was the sound of a man’s spirit finally snapping.
"I’ve already... given him everything he asked for.." your father managed to say, the double meaning lost on you. "Anything for you. Just stay safe. Please, just stay safe."
"I miss you so much.." you said, a tear of joy prickling your eye. "I’ll see you soon, okay? I love you."
"I love you more than life, my jewel. Never forget—"
Hamza’s thumb hovered over the red icon. "That’s enough for today.." he said smoothly, his voice projecting a false warmth. He cut the call before your father could finish his sentence, the silence of the room returning like a physical weight.
You turned in Hamza's arms, throwing your hands around his neck. "Thank you! Thank you for letting me talk to him. I knew he’d understand once he heard how happy I am."
Hamza kissed your forehead, his touch lingering, almost protective. "I told you I’d take care of it, pyaari. Now, why don't you go take a long shower? I need to step out onto the balcony for a moment—business, unfortunately. The world doesn't stop just because we’re happy."
You nodded, blissfully compliant, and headed toward the ensuite. The moment the door clicked shut and the sound of running water filled the air, Hamza’s face transformed. The lover vanished. The "good man" evaporated.
He stepped out onto the balcony, the morning wind whipping his shirt against his frame. He redialed the Minister's number.
Siddiqui answered before the first ring was done. "You animal! You absolute, soulless animal! How could you make her say those things? How could you make her think—"
Hamza lit a cigarette, leaning his elbows on the railing as he looked out over the city he was currently dismantling. He let out a slow, mocking plume of smoke.
"Make her?" Hamza chuckled, a dark, vibrating sound of pure malice. "I didn't make her say anything, Minister. That’s the beauty of it. She truly believes I’m her savior. She truly believes you’ve had a 'change of heart' and accepted our little union. She thinks we’re a romance for the ages.."
"I will kill you.." Siddiqui hissed, though there was no strength left in the threat. "I will find a way to tell her the truth. I will tell her about the photos, about the blackmail, about the recordings—"
"And she’ll hate you for it," Hamza interrupted, his voice turning ice-cold.
"Think about it, Siddiqui. To her, I am the man who worshipped her, who protected her, who 'persuaded' her father to be kind. If you tell her the truth now, you aren't saving her. You’re destroying her world. You’ll be the villain who tried to ruin her happiness with lies because you couldn't handle her choice. She’ll never look at you again without seeing a liar."
The sound of the Minister’s broken, hitching sobs came through the speaker. Hamza leaned in closer to the phone, his eyes tracking a bird circling in the distance.
"You’re going to keep playing the part..grow pair." Hamza commanded, his voice a low, lethal growl. "You’re going to be the supportive father. You’re going to keep passing those bills Rehman wants. Because the moment you slip, the moment you make her doubt me... I’ll stop being the 'romantic' she loves, and I’ll become the monster you fear.
He flicked the cigarette butt over the railing, watching it fall.
"She’s mine now, Siddiqui. In her mind, in her bed, and in her soul. You’re just the man who pays the bills for the world I’ve built for her. Don't call again unless it’s to tell me the vote passed."
He ended the call and stood there for a moment, the wind cooling the heat of his rage. He took a deep breath, smoothing his expression until it was once again the mask of the man you loved.
He walked back into the bedroom just as you emerged from the bathroom, wrapped in a towel, your skin glowing and your eyes bright with hope.
"Everything okay?" you asked, tilting your head.
Hamza walked over, wrapping his arms around your damp waist and pulling you flush against him. He buried his face in the crook of your neck, inhaling the scent of jasmine and innocence.
"Perfect.." he murmured. "Everything is exactly as it should be."
The steam from the bathroom still clung to your skin, making you feel soft and vulnerable in the morning light.
You wrapped your arms around his waist, pressing your cheek against his broad, warm chest. "You look so deep in thought.." you murmured, your voice muffled by his shirt. "Are you worried about us? Because I’m not. Not anymore."
Hamza went stiff for a fraction of a second—a hairline fracture in his composure that you were too blinded by love to notice.
"You really believe in me..don't you?" he asked. His voice was unusually thick, the gravelly edge softened by a sudden, sharp spike of guilt that felt like a physical weight in his chest.
"Of course I do..!" you said, pulling one of his hands to your lips and kissing his knuckles. "You didn't have to do any of this. You could have left me that night at the gate. You could have walked away when things got complicated with my father. But you stayed. You fought for me."
Hamza flinched inwardly. Each word of praise was like a lash across his back. He had never considered himself a "good" man, but there was something uniquely agonizing about being worshipped for a virtue he didn't possess. He had built a pedestal for himself out of lies, and now he had to watch you climb onto it with a smile on your face.
He pulled you into a hug, but it wasn't the possessive, dominant hold of the previous nights. It was desperate. He buried his face in your hair, his fingers trembling just enough to be felt.
"I’m not a hero, jaan.." he whispered into your ear. "Don't make me into something I’m not.."
"You’re my hero..!" you countered, pulling back to look him in the eye. You reached up, cupping his face, your thumbs tracing the hard line of his jaw. "I know you’ve done things you aren't proud of. I know your world is dark. But with me... you’re different. I see the way you look at me when you think I’m not watching. You have a good heart, Hamza Ali Mazari. Even if you’re trying your best to hide it."
A wave of genuine self-loathing crashed over him.
He thought of the recording he’d played for your father—the sounds of your intimacy twisted into a weapon of terror. He thought of the photo of you sleeping, used as a bargaining chip for political votes. He looked at your bright, hopeful eyes and felt like a man who had stolen a diamond only to realize he had no place to keep it that wasn't covered in filth.
For the first time in the entire mission, Hamza felt the urge to tell you everything. To fall to his knees, confess the blackmail, that he uses you, that hes a spy, that Hamza isn't even his name, and let you decide his fate.
But he knew the moment he spoke the truth, the light in your eyes would go out forever. You wouldn't just leave him; you would break. And he realized, with a terrifying clarity, that he would rather live as a monster in your heart than a memory in your hate.
"I don't deserve you.." he managed to say, the honesty of it bleeding through his mask.
"Well, you have me.." you whispered, leaning in to press a gentle, lingering kiss to his lips. "So you’d better get used to it Jaan~"
You spent the next hour in a bubble of domesticity that felt like a dream. You insisted on making him tea, humming a song your mother used to sing, while he sat at the small kitchen table watching you. Every time you turned around and caught his eye, you gave him a small, conspiratorial smile, as if the two of you were the only people left on earth.
You brought the mugs over and sat on his lap, your legs draped over his thighs. You began to talk about the future—the things you wanted to show him, the trips you’d take when "everything settled down."
"I want to see the mountains with you..!" you said, resting your head on his shoulder. "Somewhere cold, where we can just stay inside and never look at a phone again."
Hamza took a sip of the tea, but it tasted like ash. He held you tighter, his hand stroking your back in that rhythmic, calming way you loved. He was a man trapped in his own trap. He had won the political war, but he had lost the ability to look at himself in the mirror without seeing the man who had tricked his queen into a cage.
"The mountains, mhm?~" he repeated, his voice hollow. "Yeah. I’d like that."
He realized then that he could never let you go. Not because of Rehman, and not because of the mission. He could never let you go because if you ever walked back into the real world, the lie would shatter, and he would lose the only thing that made him feel human. He was a King who had built his palace on a foundation of glass, and as he held you, listening to your dreams for a future that was built on a lie, he knew he would spend the rest of his life making sure the glass never broke.
"I love you, Hamza.." you whispered, your voice full of a pure, unadulterated devotion.
He didn't say it back. He couldn't. Instead, he leaned down and kissed you with a sudden, fierce intensity—a kiss that was meant to silence the truth, to drown out the guilt, and to keep you exactly where you were: safe, happy, and utterly his.
The house had begun to feel less like a temporary refuge and more like the center of the universe. Over the last week, the jagged edges of the outside world had been sanded down by the domestic rhythms you and Hamza had carved out together. The initial tremors of fear and the high-voltage shock of the ultimatum had settled into a steady, warm hum of shared meals, long silences filled with comfortable weight, and the intoxicating sensation of belonging to someone who looked at you like you were the only living thing in a desert.
It was a Tuesday afternoon, the kind of sluggish, golden-hued time where the sun stretched lazily across the hardwood floors. You were tucked into the corner of the sofa, your back pressed against Hamza’s broad chest. His legs were spread, framing yours, and his arms were a heavy, protective mantle around your waist. The television was on—some mindless documentary about the migratory patterns of birds—but neither of you was truly watching.
Hamza’s chin rested on the crown of your head. Every few minutes, he would press a slow, lingering kiss to your hair, his breath hitching slightly as he inhaled your scent. To you, it felt like the ultimate sanctuary. You felt cherished, shielded from the political storms and the suffocating expectations of your former life. You didn't see the way his eyes occasionally flickered toward the door, or the way his jaw tightened whenever a car passed by on the street outside. You only felt the steady thrum of his heart against your spine.
"Hamza?~" you whispered, tilting your head back to look at him.
"Hmm?" he hummed, his hand idly tracing patterns on your forearm, his thumb grazing the soft skin of your wrist.
"I was thinking... about what you said. About how my father is starting to accept us.." You bit your lip, a spark of hope lighting up your eyes. "I don't want to hide anymore. I don't want us to be a secret that lives in the dark. I want him to see us—the real us. Not the version he has in his head, but the way you look at me. The way you take care of me..!"
Hamza went still. The rhythmic motion of his thumb stopped. For a second, the only sound was the muffled narration of the TV. The guilt he had been suppressing for days flared up like a raw nerve. He had spent the last week systematically dismantling your father’s life, using your absence as a garrote to force the Minister into total political submission. The idea of your father coming here—to the very place where you were being held under a magnificent delusion—was a tactical nightmare.
But then, he looked at your face. You looked so radiant, so convinced that love could bridge the chasm between a street-bred soldier and a Minister of State.
He realized that to keep the lie alive, he had to escalate it. If he refused to let you see your father, the Home he made for you would start to feel like a prison.
The suspicion would begin to grow. He had to be the hero of this story, the one who invited the enemy into his home to prove his devotion.
"You're right..!" Hamza said, his voice dropping into a low, resolute register. He shifted, turning you in his arms so he could look you directly in the eye. He cupped your face, his palms warm and slightly rough. "I'm tired of the shadows, jaan.. I'm tired of feeling like I’ve stolen you. I want to stand in front of him, in the light, and tell him that I’m not going anywhere. I want him to see that you aren't a hostage to my world—you’re the queen of it."
Your heart soared. You threw your arms around his neck, burying your face in his shoulder. "I knew you’d say that. I knew you were brave enough..!"
Hamza closed his eyes, his expression twisting into a mask of sharp, internal agony that you couldn't see. He wasn't brave..he was a shark circling a sinking ship. But he played the part to perfection.
"Call him.." Hamza urged, pulling back and reaching for the phone on the coffee table. He handed it to you, his gaze steady and encouraging. "Invite him for tea tomorrow morning. Tell him we’ll be waiting. Tell him it’s time we sat at the same table."
Your hands trembled with excitement as you took the phone. You hit the speed dial for your father, your breath coming in short, happy gasps.
Across the city, in a darkened office where the air smelled of stale coffee and desperation, Minister Siddiqui lunged for his phone the moment it vibrated. He hadn't slept in forty-eight hours. His eyes were bloodshot, and his prestigious suit was rumpled. He lived for these calls—the only proof that his daughter was still breathing.
"Baba?" you said, your voice ringing with a clarity and joy that sounded like a physical blow to the man on the other end.
"Jewel? Is everything... did he hurt you? Why are you calling at this hour?" Siddiqui’s voice was a frantic whisper, his eyes darting toward the door of his office as if the walls themselves were listening.
"No, Baba! Everything is wonderful.." you said, glancing at Hamza, who was watching you with a calm, supportive smile, his arm draped over the back of the sofa. "I have the best news. Hamza and I... we talked. And he wants you to come over. He wants us to be a family. He said he doesn't want to hide anymore."
There was a silence on the other end so profound it felt like the line had gone dead. To you, it seemed like your father was stunned by the sudden olive branch. In reality, the Minister was paralyzed by terror.
He knew Hamza. He knew that an invitation to the safe house wasn't a gesture of peace—it was a summons. It was a move to show the Minister exactly how much control Hamza had over his daughter’s heart and mind.
"He... he wants me to come there?" Siddiqui stammered, his voice cracking.
"Tomorrow morning..for tea..!" you said, leaning into Hamza’s side. He reached out and tucked a stray lock of hair behind your ear, a gesture of such casual intimacy that it made you glow.
"Please, Baba. Do this for me. I want you to see how happy I am. I want you to see that he’s a good man. If you just talk to him, without all the politics and the anger, I know you’ll see what I see."
Hamza leaned in closer, his lips near the receiver, his voice loud enough for your father to hear but soft enough to sound like an endearment to you. "We’ll have everything ready for you, Minister. I think it's time we cleared the air, don't you?"
The double meaning was a jagged blade. Clear the air. It meant reiterate the terms of your surrender. It meant watch me hold your daughter while you smile and thank me for it.
You could hear your father’s heavy, labored breathing. You imagined him sitting in his grand office, perhaps moved to tears by the chance to reconcile.
"I'll be there." the Minister finally whispered, his voice sounding hollowed out, like an old tree struck by lightning. "Tomorrow morning. Send the address... I'll come alone. Just... let me see her. Let me see my girl."
"I'll send it right now! Oh, Baba, thank you. I love you so much!" you cried, your eyes brimming with happy tears.
"I love you, jewel. More than you could ever know."
You ended the call and practically vibrated with relief, tossing the phone aside and throwing yourself into Hamza’s lap. You showered his face with kisses—his forehead, his cheeks, his jaw through his beard. "You did it! You actually did it. He’s coming. Everything is going to be perfect now, isn't it?"
Hamza caught your wrists, holding you still for a moment. He looked at you with a gaze that was so heavy with unspoken things it made your breath catch.
He saw the pure, unadulterated love in your eyes, and for a split second, the monster in him wanted to scream the truth just to end the charade. But then he remembered the stakes. He remembered Rehman, the mission, and the fact that he had already gone too far to ever turn back.
"Yes, jaan.." he murmured, pulling you down for a kiss that tasted of iron and honey. "Tomorrow, everything changes. I’m going to make sure he understands exactly where you belong."
You snuggled into his chest, closing your eyes and dreaming of a peaceful morning tea, of handshakes and forgiveness.
"Tomorrow morning.." Hamza whispered into the silence, his voice a chilling promise. "It's all going to be settled."
You drifted off into a light, happy sleep, cradled by the man you trusted above all others, while the Minister sat in his office and began to write a letter he knew he might never get to deliver. The stage was set for a tea party that would either cement a dynasty or finalize a destruction, and as the moon rose over the safe house, the only person in the world who felt truly safe was the girl who didn't know she was the prize in a game of blood.
The air in the living room of the house had thickened, turning into something heavy and pressurized, like the atmosphere before a catastrophic storm. The morning sun, which had felt so hopeful through the bedroom windows, now seemed to expose every jagged edge of the reality you had been living in.
In the center of the room, the small, polished wooden table served as the border between two warring worlds.
On one side sat your father, Minister Siddiqui. He looked diminished, a man whose expensive, tailored wool suit now seemed two sizes too large for his sagging frame. He was a man of the city, of marble halls and air-conditioned offices, and his soft, slightly chubby features were pale and mapped with the exhaustion of a thousand sleepless hours. His hands were clenched into tight, white-knuckled fists on the tabletop, trembling with a mixture of suppressed rage and an all-consuming, visceral terror. Every time he looked at you, his eyes brimmed with a desperate, watery light, but the moment his gaze shifted to the man sitting across from him, that light flickered out into a cold, hollow dread.
On the other side sat Hamza.
He didn't look like the man who had whispered poetry into your ear an hour ago. He looked like a mountain of dark, tectonic energy. He was sitting with his legs spread wide, his heavy boots planted firmly on the floor, claiming every inch of the space as his own. He was a massive, daunting presence; his shoulders were so broad they seemed to swallow the light behind him, his chest and arms thick with the kind of functional, dense muscle that came from a lifetime of violence rather than a gym.
His long, dark locks were pulled back, but a few stray strands framed his face, drawing attention to the sharp, predatory lines of his jaw and the dense, well-kept thicket of his full beard. To the world, he was a warlord in civilian clothes. To your father, he was the devil himself.
Hamza leaned back, his posture one of supreme, terrifying confidence. Between his fingers, he held a lit cigarette, the smoke curling lazily around his head like a crown of grey mist. He didn't look at the tea that had been meticulously prepared; he only looked at your father. His stare was unblinking, a cold, amber-eyed glare that seemed to strip the Minister of his title, his power, and his dignity.
The silence was a physical weight. Your father’s fists were vibrating against the wood, the only sound in the room being the faint, rhythmic ticking of a clock and the slow, deliberate exhale of smoke from Hamza’s lungs.
You stood by the side of the table, your hands clasped nervously in front of you. You could feel the heat radiating off Hamza—a raw, masculine intensity that usually made you feel safe, but today, in the presence of your father’s trembling form, it felt like standing next to an open furnace. You wanted to speak, to bridge the gap, to tell your father that Hamza was kind, that he was the man who held you when you cried. But the words died in your throat. The tension was too thick to pierce.
Hamza finally moved. It was a slow, deliberate shift of his weight that made the leather of his chair groan. He didn't look at your father as he spoke; he turned his head toward you, and in an instant, the predatory mask shattered.
The ice in his eyes melted into a warm, honeyed glow. He reached out, his large, calloused hand covering yours where it rested on the table. His touch was incredibly light, almost reverent, a stark contrast to the sheer bulk of his frame. A small, tender smile played at the corners of his mouth, hidden slightly by his beard, but visible in the way his expression softened just for you.
"Jaan.." he murmured, his voice dropping into that low, intimate cadence that always made your heart skip. "Why don't you go into the kitchen and check on the sweets? Your father and I have a few things to discuss. Just some... men talk. Private matters."
You looked from Hamza’s gentle face to your father’s terrified one. "Are you sure? I wanted to tell him about the—"
"Later." Hamza promised, his thumb grazing the back of your hand in a slow, rhythmic circle. He looked at you with such feigned sweetness, such a convincing display of a man simply wanting to bond with his father-in-law, that you felt a wave of relief. "Go on. Give us five minutes. I want to make sure the Minister understands exactly how much you mean to me..~"
You smiled, the tension in your shoulders finally breaking. "Okay..! Don't be too hard on him, Hamza. He’s had a long week..!"
"I’ll be a perfect gentleman." Hamza lied, his smile widening just enough to show a hint of teeth.
You leaned down and pressed a quick kiss to Hamza’s cheek, noticing the faint scent of tobacco and sandalwood that clung to him. You waved a small, encouraging hand at your father, who looked like he was watching his daughter walk toward a cliff.
"I’ll be right back, Baba!" you said.
The moment you turned your back and walked toward the kitchen, the warmth in the room vanished as if a door had been slammed shut.
Hamza didn't move until the kitchen door clicked shut behind you. Then, the smile died.
He leaned forward, his massive chest looming over the table, bringing his face inches away from your father’s. He took a long, final drag of his cigarette and exhaled the smoke directly into the Minister’s face. He didn't say a word. He didn't have to.
He simply stared.
The silence returned, but this time, it was lethal. Hamza’s eyes were like flint, hard and unyielding, watching the way the Minister’s fists shook, watching the way a single bead of sweat rolled down the older man’s temple. Hamza looked like a wolf deciding where to bite, his presence so authoritative and dangerous that the air itself seemed to vibrate with the threat of what he could do.
Your father sat frozen, his breath hitching in his chest, his eyes locked on the mountain of muscle and hair across from him. He wanted to scream for you to come back, to tell you the truth, but his throat was paralyzed.
They sat there, two men at a table, a king and a captive, caught in a glare that held the weight of a thousand secrets and a single, devastating truth: you were gone, and the man holding you was never, ever going to let you go.
The kitchen door was closed. You were out of sight. And for the first time since the tea had been poured, the real conversation began without a single word being spoken.
The kitchen door clicked shut, the soft latch sounding like the dropping of a guillotine blade in the sudden, suffocating silence of the living room.
Hamza didn’t move for a long moment. He simply sat there, a massive, immovable wall of muscle and shadow, letting the smoke from his cigarette drift across the table to sting the Minister’s watering eyes. The tender, romantic mask he had worn for you didn’t just slip—it disintegrated, revealing the cold, jagged flint of the man beneath.
He leaned forward, his elbows hitting the wood with a heavy thud that made the teacups rattle. His physical presence was overwhelming; next to the Minister’s soft, aging frame, Hamza looked like a prehistoric predator carved from granite. His long, dark hair caught the light, and his beard moved slightly as he bared his teeth in a slow, mirthless grin.
"You look like you’re having a heart attack, Siddiqui.." Hamza rasped, his voice a low, lethal vibration that seemed to crawl up the Minister’s spine. "Breathe. You wouldn’t want your precious jewel to come back in here and find you slumped over the biscuits, would you?"
The Minister’s knuckles were white, his fists shaking so violently the table began to hum. "You... you filth.." he hissed, his voice cracking with a decade of suppressed rage. "What have you done to her? She sounds like a stranger. She looks at you like you’re a god..!"
Hamza let out a short, dry bark of a laugh, flicking his ash onto the floor without breaking eye contact. "She’s a fast learner. I’ll give her that. I have to admit, I was shocked at first—shocked to see just how many manners I had to beat into her soul. You raised a spoiled brat, Minister. A girl who thought the world owed her a smile because of her father’s name."
He leaned in closer, his face inches from the older man’s, the scent of tobacco and cold steel filling the gap between them. "But look at her now. Well-behaved. Attentive. I’ve refined her, Siddiqui. I’ve stripped away the Minister’s daughter and left only what belongs to me."
"I’ll kill you..!" the Minister whispered, the words sounding pathetic even to his own ears. "I’ll have the ISI tear this house apart! I’ll see you flayed..!"
Hamza didn't even flinch. He just stared, his amber eyes cold and unblinking. "With what hands? The ones currently signing Rehman’s legislation? The ones that just handed over the swing votes for the next decade? You’re a neutered dog, and we both know it."
He reached out, his massive hand slowly closing around the neck of the teapot, his grip tight enough that the ceramic groaned. "And even if you could kill me... what then? Do you think she’d thank you? Do you think she’d run back to your marble halls and play the dutiful daughter again?"
Hamza leaned back, a cruel, triumphant light dancing in his eyes. "She’s mine now. Completely. Body, mind, and every pathetic little dream she has. If you took her from me today, she’d go crazy within a week. She’d spend every night screaming for the man who 'saved' her from the cold world. She’d look at you and see a murderer, a liar who stole her happiness. I’ve woven myself into her very blood, Siddiqui. You can't excise me without killing the girl you love."
The Minister let out a broken, strangled sob, his head bowing for a second. The weight of the psychological cage Hamza had built around you was more terrifying than any physical bars.
"Why?" Siddiqui gasped. "Why do this to her?"
"Because she was the only currency you cared about.." Hamza replied, his voice turning clinical. "And because, frankly, I enjoy the work. There is a certain... satisfaction in taking something so 'pure' and making it recognize its master."
He took one last, long drag of his cigarette and crushed the butt into the center of a delicate porcelain saucer, a deliberate act of desecration. Then, his expression shifted. The raw malice smoothed out into a terrifying, professional calm.
"But let's talk business. You’ve been a good boy, Minister. I watched the news. Your speech was moving. The way you choked up when you pledged your loyalty to Rehman... that was a nice touch. It sold the lie beautifully."
Hamza reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, encrypted drive, sliding it across the table until it tapped against the Minister’s clenched fist.
"You did what I wanted. You broke the deadlock. You gave Rehman the keys to the kingdom. And because I’m a man of my word, it’s time I paid you back."
The Minister looked at the drive as if it were a venomous snake. "What is this?"
"The photos." Hamza said, his voice dropping to a whisper. "The recordings. The 'evidence' of her stay here. It’s all on there. The only copies. Consider it a bonus for your cooperation. As long as you stay on the leash, as long as you keep voting the way you’re told, those images never see the light of day. Your reputation stays intact. Your daughter stays 'safe' with the man she loves."
Hamza stood up then, his massive frame towering over the table, casting a shadow that seemed to swallow the entire room. He adjusted his shirt, his muscular arms rippling beneath the fabric, his presence so authoritative it felt like the walls were closing in on your father.
"Don't look so miserable, Siddiqui.." Hamza mocked, his hand coming down to rest heavily on the Minister’s shoulder, a grip that felt like a brand. "You should be happy. You’re going to be the father of the bride to the most powerful man in the shadows. You’ve secured your legacy. All it cost was a little piece of your soul."
The Minister looked up at him, his face a mask of pure, unadulterated hatred. "You aren't a man. You're a curse."
"I'm the future." Hamza corrected, his eyes flickering toward the kitchen door.
He heard the sound of the latch turning. In a heartbeat, his posture softened. The predatory tension vanished. The hand on the Minister’s shoulder became a friendly, supportive pat. A warm, tender smile spread across his face, hiding the monster behind a mask of perfect, domestic bliss.
"And here she is..!" Hamza said, his voice turning into silk. "Right on time.."
The door opened, and you stepped back into the room, carrying a tray of steaming sweets, your face bright with hope, completely unaware that in the fifteen minutes you were gone, the two men you loved most had just finished signing the warrant for your father's soul.
The air in the room was still thick, but to your eyes, it was merely the lingering haze of Hamza’s cigarette smoke. You stepped fully into the living room, the silver tray in your hands rattling slightly with the vibration of your own excitement. Your gaze darted between the two men—the two pillars of your life—searching for a sign that the bridge had finally been built.
Your father looked as though he had aged a decade in the five minutes you were in the kitchen. He sat slumped, his face a ghostly, waxen pale, his hands still anchored to the table as if he were trying to keep the floor from slipping out from under him. But Hamza... Hamza looked radiant.
The moment he saw you, he stood up. His massive, muscular frame seemed to expand, filling the room with an effortless, dominant grace. He didn't look like a man who had just spent the last minutes mentally flaying a Minister; he looked like a man who had just conquered his greatest challenge for the sake of love.
"What were you two talking about?" you asked, your voice breathless, your heart hammering a frantic, hopeful rhythm against your ribs. "It was so quiet in here. I thought... I was worried you were fighting."
Hamza didn't answer with words at first. He crossed the small distance between you in two long, predatory strides, his heavy boots thudding softly on the rug. He reached out, his large, calloused hands taking the tray from you and setting it down on a nearby sideboard without ever taking his eyes off yours. Then, he wrapped his arm around your waist, hauling you flush against the hard, unyielding heat of his chest.
The contrast was staggering—his sheer bulk, the rough texture of his beard, and the scent of tobacco and spice against your softness. He looked down at you, his eyes shimmering with a feigned, liquid tenderness that made your knees weak.
"Fighting?" Hamza repeated, his voice dropping into that low, intimate baritone that always felt like a caress. He smiled, and for the first time, he let the smile reach his eyes—a masterclass in deception. "No, jaan. We weren't fighting. We were discussing the future."
You looked toward your father, your brow furrowing at his silence. "Baba?"
Hamza’s grip on your waist tightened just a fraction—a silent command to stay focused on him. He nudged your chin up with his thumb, forcing you to meet his gaze.
"I didn't want to wait any longer, hmm?~" Hamza whispered, loud enough for your father to hear every word, every twist of the knife. "I told the Minister that life is too short for shadows and secrets. I told him that I’ve never seen anything as precious as you, and that I have no intention of ever letting you go."
Your breath hitched. "Hamza..."
"I asked for your hand..~" he said, the lie rolling off his tongue with the smooth, polished ease of a prayer. "I told him that I would spend every breath I have making sure you are the happiest woman in this country. I told him I would protect you with my life, and that I wanted his blessing to make you mine... legally, and forever."
The world seemed to stop spinning. The room, the safe house, the political turmoil—it all vanished, leaving only the heat of Hamza’s body and the impossible weight of his words. You felt a tear prick at the corner of your eye, a sob of pure, unadulterated joy catching in your throat.
"And?" you whispered, almost afraid to hear the answer. "What did he say?"
Hamza turned his head slightly, his green eyes locking onto your father’s shattered expression. There was a challenge in that look, a cold, lethal reminder of the encrypted drive sitting on the table and the votes that had already been bought in blood.
"Tell her, Minister." Hamza prompted, his voice silken and dangerous. "Tell her what we decided.."
Your father looked up. His mouth moved, but no sound came out at first. He looked at you—his only child, his "jewel"—and he saw the way you were looking at Hamza. He saw the adoration, the absolute, shimmering trust, and the way you leaned into the monster’s touch as if it were the only thing keeping you upright. He realized, with a soul-crushing finality, that Hamza was right. If he told you the truth now, he wouldn't be saving you; he would be the villain who shattered your heart.
"I..." your father began, his voice a dry, hacking rasp. He cleared his throat, his eyes darting to the floor before forcing them back to yours. "I agreed. Hamza... he made a very compelling case. He’s shown me that he can provide the kind of... security... that I can no longer offer you."
"Baba!" You broke away from Hamza’s hold, throwing yourself at your father. You draped your arms around his neck, burying your face in his shoulder, weeping with relief. "Thank you. Thank you for trusting him. I promise, you won't regret this..! He’s so good to me. You’ll see. We’ll be so happy..!"
Over your head, your father’s eyes met Hamza’s.
Hamza was leaning against the wall now, arms crossed over his massive chest, watching the scene with the detached, satisfied air of a puppeteer watching his lead marionettes embrace. He didn't look guilty. He didn't look ashamed. He looked triumphant. He raised his hand, idly stroking his beard, his lips curling into a tiny, mocking smirk that only your father could see.
"It’s a new era, Minister.." Hamza said, his voice dripping with a cruel, understated irony. "A new family legacy. I think we should celebrate."
You pulled back from your father, wiping your eyes and laughing through your tears. You went back to Hamza, sliding your hand into his massive, scarred palm. You felt like you were floating. The man you loved and the father you adored were finally on the same side. The war was over.
"Tomorrow morning..!" you said, looking at your father. "You’ll come back for breakfast? We can start planning? There’s so much to talk about..!"
Your father stood up, his legs shaking so badly he had to catch the edge of the table. He looked at the drive Hamza had given him—the price of his daughter—and then at you.
"Tomorrow, my dear." he whispered, the word sounding like a death knell. "I’ll... I’ll be here."
"I’ll walk the Minister to his car." Hamza said, his grip on your hand firm and unyielding. "Give us just a moment to say our goodbyes, jaan. Go and pick out that tea you wanted to show him for tomorrow."
You nodded, too happy to question anything. You watched them walk toward the door—the tall, hulking shadow of Hamza and the broken, shuffling frame of your father.
As they stepped onto the porch, out of your earshot, Hamza stopped. He didn't look at the Minister. He looked at the horizon, the sun catching the sharp, beautiful angles of his face.
"Nine o'clock sharp, Siddiqui." Hamza hissed, the tenderness vanishing as if it had never existed. "Bring the signed documents for the second phase of the bill. And bring a smile. If my girl sees one tear on your face, I’ll consider the deal breached. And you know what happens to breaches of contract in my world."
The Minister didn't respond. He couldn't. He simply walked toward his car, a ghost of a man, leaving his heart behind in the hands of a predator.
Hamza watched the car pull away until it was nothing but a speck of dust in the distance. He stayed on the porch for a moment, breathing in the air of a world he now owned. He felt the weight of the lie, the sheer scale of the deception, but as he turned back toward the door, he felt no remorse. He had what he wanted.
He had the power, he had the leverage, and he had you.
He stepped back inside, and the moment the door clicked shut, he heard your voice calling him from the kitchen, bright and full of a future he had stolen for himself.
"Hamza? Which tea should we use? The jasmine or the rose?~"
He walked toward the sound of your voice, his expression softening into that perfect, beautiful mask once more.
"Whatever you want, meri jaan.." he called back, his voice echoing through the silent, gilded cage of the safe house. "Whatever you want is yours."
The sound of your father’s car fading into the distance was the final note in a symphony of deception, leaving a silence in the house that felt heavy, charged, and thick with the scent of spent adrenaline. You didn’t wait for Hamza to come back into the room; you met him at the door, flinging yourself into his arms with a force that would have knocked a lesser man off his feet.
"You did it...!" you sobbed against his chest, your fingers digging into the hard, thick muscle of his shoulders. "Hamza, you actually did it. He’s okay with us..! I can breathe again!"
Hamza’s arms came around you, his large hands splaying across your back, pulling you so tightly against him that your heartbeats felt like a single, frantic rhythm.
He buried his face in the crook of your neck, his beard grazing your skin, and let out a long, shuddering breath. To you, it felt like the relief of a man who had fought for his woman and won. To him, it was the sound of a man drowning in his own success.
"I told you, jaan hmm.." he murmured, his voice a low, vibrating rumble in his chest. "I told you I wouldn't let the world take you from me.."
You pulled back just enough to look at him, your face flushed and your eyes shimmering with a blind, terrifyingly pure devotion. You reached up, cupping his face in your hands, your thumbs tracing the sharp, rugged lines of his cheekbones. You looked at him as if he were a saint, a savior, the only truth in a world of shadows.
"I love you so much." you whispered, the words trembling with the weight of your surrender. "I would go anywhere with you. I would leave everything behind if I had to. As long as I’m with you, I’m home."
Hamza flinched. It was a microscopic movement, a tightening of the muscles around his eyes, but inside, he felt as if he were being carved open. He looked at your lips, at the way you looked at him with such absolute, guileless trust, and he felt a wave of visceral horror at what he was doing.
He was using your heart as a ladder. He was climbing to the top of Rehman’s empire on the broken back of your father’s dignity, and he was using your love as the grease for the gears..
But he couldn't stop. The ambition was a sickness in his marrow, and the need to be more than a ghost in the streets was stronger than his conscience. He needed the Minister’s support to reach the heights he craved, and you were the only key to that kingdom..
“Meri jaan, tum nahi janti tum mere liye kya ho..” he whispered, his voice thick and broken with a genuine, agonizing Need.
He leaned down, pressing his forehead against yours, his eyes closing tight. He felt small in the face of your love, a beggar draped in the robes of a king. He began to kiss your face—your forehead, your eyelids, the tip of your nose—with a frantic, needy desperation. He wasn't the dominant man from minutes ago now; he was a man begging for absolution from a goddess who didn't even know he had sinned..
"Don't ever look at me differently.." he rasped, his hands sliding down to grip your waist, his fingers digging into your hips. "No matter what happens, promise me you’ll stay right here. Promise me you’re mine.."
"I'm yours," you breathed, caught in the intoxicating whirlwind of his intensity. "Always. Hamesha."
The devotion in your voice was his undoing. He felt a sharp, stinging heat behind his eyes.
He loved you—God, he loved you with a ferocity that scared him—but it was a dark, poisonous love that required your total ignorance to survive. He was a man who had stolen a star from the sky and was now terrified of the dawn.
He needed to get away from the living room, away from the table where the ghost of your father still sat. He needed to be somewhere where the world couldn't reach them, where the lie felt like the only truth.
"Come with me.." he whispered.
Without waiting for an answer, he hooked his arms under your knees and back, scooping you up into his massive chest as if you weighed nothing at all. You let out a small, surprised gasp, winding your arms around his thick neck, your face pressed into the warm hollow of his throat. He carried you up the stairs, his boots thudding rhythmically on the wood, his breathing heavy and purposeful.
He didn't stop at the bedroom. He continued up the narrow spiral staircase that led to the flat roof of thehouse—a place you had spent the last few afternoons transforming into a secret garden of comfort.
The roof was bathed in the soft, hazy light of the late morning. You had dragged up dozens of plush pillows, heavy wool blankets, and silk cushions, creating a sprawling, cuddly nest in the center of the terrace, shielded from the wind by the high brick parapets.
Hamza stepped onto the roof and walked toward the center of the blankets. He lowered you down with agonizing slowness, his eyes never leaving yours. He settled you onto the pile of cushions, and then he followed you down, his large frame looming over you, casting a shadow that felt like a sanctuary.
The air up here was fresh, carrying the scent of rain and the distant, muffled hum of the city that was currently bowing to his will. But here, on the roof, there was only the two of you.
“Tum bohat khoobsurat ho..” he murmured, his hand reaching out to stroke your cheek, his thumb grazing your lower lip.
He began to touch you then, his movements slow and reverent, his large, scarred hands moving with a gentleness that seemed impossible for a man of his size. He traced the line of your collarbone, his fingers feather-light against your skin, as if he were afraid you might shatter if he pressed too hard.
He leaned down, his lips meeting yours in a kiss that was deep, slow, and tasted of a desperate, silent apology. He wasn't just kissing you; he was worshiping you. He was trying to pour all the love he felt—and all the guilt he couldn't speak—into the touch of his skin against yours.
His hand slid down, his palm flat against your stomach, feeling the way you arched toward him, the way your body hummed in response to his presence. He moved his hand lower, his touch becoming more possessive, more demanding, even as his eyes remained soft and wet with a strange, haunting devotion.
"You're my peace.." he whispered against your skin, his breath hot and ragged. "Meri Jaan.. Everything I do... it’s for us. Remember that. Sirf hamare liye."
You ran your hands through his long, dark locks, pulling him closer, your heart overflowing with a love so blind it didn't see the wolf in the fold. You were happy. You were safe. You were exactly where he wanted you to be.
And as Hamza began to undress you under the open sky, his hands trembling with a need that was as much about survival as it was about desire, he finally managed to quiet the voice in his head. For now, there was no Minister, no Rehman, and no lies. There was only the heat of the sun, the softness of the blankets, and the girl who loved him enough to let him destroy the world for her..
The heat radiating between you and Hamza was a physical, pulsing thing. He knelt over you, a massive silhouette against the pale blue sky, his shadows stretching long and dark across the nest you had built.
He didn't move quickly. His movements were weighted with a thick, agonizing deliberation, as if he were savoring the final collapse of the walls between you. He reached out, his large hands trembling—a sight that made your heart swell with a dangerous, blind love. This was the man the world feared, the man who had stood like a titan against your father, and yet here, his fingers were shaking because of you.
He reached for the tie of your hair, his fingers nimble despite their size. With a single, sharp tug, he released the weight of your tresses. Your hair spilled across the pale cushions like a dark, silken river, and Hamza let out a low, guttural groan at the sight. He buried his hands into the thick mass of it, tilting your head back, his eyes wandering over your face with a hunger that was almost frightening.
He leaned down, but he didn't kiss you yet. He took the hem of his thumb and pressed it to the corner of your mouth. With a slow, firm stroke, he smeared the crimson lipstick across your cheek, erasing the last vestige of the "Minister’s daughter" who had walked into the room for tea. He rubbed the color away until your lips were bare and bruised-pink, reclaimed by him, stained only by his touch.
"I don't want anything on you that I didn't put there.." he growled, his voice a vibration that you felt in your very marrow.
Then, his hands moved to the collar of your kameez. The delicate silk felt like nothing against his calloused palms. He began to undo the buttons, one by one, his knuckles grazing the sensitive skin of your throat. Each click of a button felt like a heartbeat. When the fabric finally fell open, revealing the curve of your shoulders and the rise of your chest, Hamza stopped. He simply stared, his breathing becoming a ragged, uneven staccato.
He leaned in, he whispered, his voice cracking. “Kitni naram ho tum...”
He lowered his head more, his long, dark locks brushing against your skin as he began his worship. He started at your eyes, pressing the softest, most reverent kisses to your fluttering lids, as if thanking them for seeing him as a hero. He moved to your temples, then down the bridge of your nose, before finally claiming your mouth.
It wasn't a gentle kiss. It was a collision. It tasted of smoke, of desperation, and of a man who was trying to drown his soul in the only pure thing he had left.
He groaned into your mouth, a deep, visceral sound that came from the pit of his stomach, his tongue seeking yours with a needy, frantic hunger. You arched into him, your hands clawing at the thick, corded muscles of his back, surrendering every thought, every loyalty, every shred of your identity to the heat of his touch.
He broke the kiss only to trail his lips down your jawline to the sensitive hollow beneath your ear. He bit softly at the curve of your neck, his beard a delicious, rough friction against your skin.
"Tell me.." he demanded, his voice a jagged rasp against your pulse point. "Tell me you're mine.. Tell me you don't want anyone else."
"Only you.." you gasped, your head tossing back against the pillows, your body a live wire of sensation. "Always you, Hamza. Sirf tum."
He let out a sound that was half-growl, half-sob, and moved lower. He kissed the slope of your chest, his mouth hot and demanding. He seemed obsessed with the contrast of your textures—your silk-soft skin of your tits against his rough, scarred palms; your fragile frame pinned beneath his massive, muscular bulk. He moved to your stomach, his kisses becoming more frantic, his hands sliding beneath you to lift you closer to his mouth, then pulled down your remaining clothes, the pants of your two piece suit as well as your silky, white lace panties.
He worshipped the curve of your waist, his teeth grazing your hip bone, making you cry out into the open sky..
Hamza hovered over you, his massive frame trembling with a restrained, feral energy. His long, dark hair fell around his face in tangled waves, casting flickering shadows over your flushed skin as he looked down at you.
He looked starved. Not for food, or for the power he had spent the morning brokering, but for the very essence of you. His green eyes were dark, dilated until the gold was almost swallowed by the black, reflecting a devotion so intense it bordered on madness.
He moved with an agonizing slowness, his large, scarred hands sliding down from your waist to your thighs. He didn't just touch you; he claimed you, his fingers digging into your soft skin with a possessive strength that made you gasp. He began to part your legs, his movements reverent yet unyielding, creating a space for himself between your thighs.
When he finally lowered himself, settling his heavy weight between your knees, the world outside the parapet walls ceased to exist. There was no city, no Minister, no lies—only the heat of his breath against your inner thigh.
It started as a kiss. A slow, lingering press of his lips against the sensitive skin of your knee, then another an inch higher, and another. He was taking his time, savoring the scent of your skin, his beard a rough, delicious friction that made your breath hitch in your throat. He groaned into your skin, a low, vibrating sound of pure hunger that you felt deep in your bones and your exposed pussy.
"Hamza... please.." you whimpered, your fingers tangling in his thick hair, trying to pull him closer and push him away all at once.
He didn't listen. He was a man possessed. He moved higher, his tongue tracing the delicate blue veins of your inner thigh with a meticulous, agonizing passion. He treated your body like a holy relic he had finally been allowed to touch after a lifetime of exile.
When he finally reached your already wet pussy, the first touch of his tongue was a revelation. It wasn't a tentative stroke; it was a deep, authoritative claim. His tongue rolled over your folds, spreading them in the process.
You let out a strangled cry, your head tossing back against the pillows, your back arching off the blankets as a lightning bolt of pure sensation shattered your composure.
He was thorough. He was relentless. He started to lick up and down your glistening, wet folds with rhythmic intensity that stole the air from your lungs. He used his tongue like a velvet blade, tracing every inch, every sensitive nerve, his breathing becoming a ragged, desperate growl against your clit, He seemed to want to taste every secret you held, to absorb your very soul through the intimacy of the act.
You couldn't breathe. Every time you tried to catch your breath, he would shift his pressure, his teeth grazing your clit just enough to make you sob, his tongue flicking against the sensitive pulsing center of your pussy with a precision that made your toes curl into the plush wool of the blankets. You were drowning in him. Your hands tightened in his hair, your knuckles white, as you pulled him harder against you, needing the friction, needing the heat.
He was a man who had been starved for days, and you were the only feast that mattered. He didn't rush toward the end; he lingered in the journey, his hands sliding up to grip your hips, anchoring you to the pillows as he devoured your every moan and every gasp, he wanted to hear every sound, every broken syllable of his name that escaped your lips.
“Bolo mera naam..” he commanded, his voice a dark, vibrating hum between right against your jumping clit
"Hamza.! Hamzaaa..! Jaan!~" you sobbed, your voice breaking as the pressure built into something unbearable, it consumed you fully, the friction of his beard grazing the sensitive skin around your inner thighs and the violent desperate way he was lapping his tongue from your entrance all the way up to your clit and back left you breathless.
“Roo mere liye... chillao mera naam... mujhe sun-na hai ke tum meri ho! ” he roared, his voice muffled as he buried his face back into you. He groaned, a deep, primal sound of satisfaction, as he felt your body begin to tremble, the first waves of your release beginning to ripple through your muscles.
He didn't let up. He only slurped with more need, sucked with more desperation, tongue-fucked you more hungrily, his mouth wide and demanding, his tongue a constant, swirling force that drove you over the edge of paradise.
You screamed into the open sky, your body shaking with a violence that left you limp and shattered against the cushions as you came, an orgasm so intense your vision went blurry..
He stayed there for a long time, even after the echoes of your cries had faded into the wind. He pressed his face against your soft stomach, his breathing heavy and laboured, his large hands still clutching your hips as if he were afraid you might float away.
He looked up at you then, his face flushed, his lips and beard wet and his eyes shining with a terrifying, beautiful devotion. He looked like a man who had finally found what he was looking for in the wreckage of his own life.
He crawled up your body, his heavy weight a comforting pressure, and tucked his head into the crook of your neck. He was shaking. The man who had broken a Minister was trembling against your skin.
"You're mine.." he whispered, his voice a ghost of a sound. "Don't you ever leave me.."
You wrapped your arms around his massive back, pulling him into you, your heart full of a love so blind and so total that you didn't even care that he was the one who had built the cage you were now so happy to live in.
"Never," you promised. "Never..."
He didn't care about the lies anymore. He didn't care about the Minister or the mission. In this moment, on this roof, he was a man who had found his salvation in the very girl he was supposed to destroy.
He started to steal the sweetest, most agonizingly tender kisses from your lips, a gesture of pure, true, deep love, love that shouldn't be, love that he didn't deserve..
Yet..
He had won. He had the girl, he had the power, and he had the future. But as he sat there, holding the woman who loved him for a lie, a single, hot tear escaped his eye. It tracked a path through the dust and sweat on his cheek before disappearing into his beard.
“Maaf kar dena, jaan-e-man..” he whispered into the silence, so low you couldn't possibly hear it....
NEW FIC TEASER- CONTAINS SPOILERS OF DHURANDHAR THE REVENGE.
"You’re chasing a ghost, Jaan.." he rasped, his knuckles bruised and trembling. "The man you love died in the blood of revenge; there is nothing left here but the wreckage."
You stepped into his space, pressing a hand to his frantic heart. "Then let me love the wreckage.."
Ankaha.
The untold.
Three years of silence. Three years of scrubbing blood from his soul in a nameless town where the wind howls louder than his past.
Jaskirat has buried the man he used to be, trading his blades for the quiet anonymity of a nameless man with no home and no stories to tell.
He made a vow: No more violence. No more names. No more looking back.
...But vows are fragile things when a scream pierces the midnight air.
He saved your life. Now, you might be the only one who can save his soul.
Note: MINORS AND AGELESS BLOGS DO NOT INTERACT. This content is intended for audiences 18+ only.
A/N; IM SO SORRY THIS TOOK SO LONG! I was so focused on other projects that I wrote 3! Different parts of this and liked none until this one finished oh god, I hope yall can forgive me, enjoy!
The shadows in Hamza’s bedroom weren't like the shadows in your father’s house at all- In your world, darkness was cold, a place where secrets were buried and voices were hushed.
But here, trapped beneath the sheer, overwhelming mass of Hamza, the darkness was thick and velvet, pulsing with a heat that felt like a living thing..
Your heart was a frantic, trapped bird against your ribs. You were acutely aware of the contrast between you: trembling skin against his bronzed, scarred knuckles; the way your breath came in shallow, girlish hitches while his was a steady, predatory rumble. You had spent your life being told you were a treasure to be guarded, a porcelain doll to be kept on a high shelf, but as Hamza looked down at you, you didn't feel like a doll. You felt like a woman being awakened for the very first time.
The reality of your inexperience sat in your throat, a lump of nervous honesty. You were head over heels—drowning in him—but the unknown was a vast, terrifying ocean.
You wondered if he could tell. You wondered if a man who moved with such lethal grace, who carried the weight of a weapon like it was part of his own body, would find your fumbling innocence boring..this thought scared you.
Hamza seemed to sense the shift in your energy instantly.
He didn't push. He didn't continue the frantic assault of kisses that had brought you from the desk to the bed. Instead, he shifted his weight, propping himself up on his elbows so he wasn't crushing you, though his chest still brushed yours with every breath.
"You’ve gone quiet on me, jaan," he murmured. His voice had lost that jagged, mission-focused edge. It was softer now, a low, dark honey that made your skin tingle.
You bit your lip, your eyes fluttering shut because looking at him—really looking at him—was too much. "I’m just... I’ve never..." Your voice trailed off, the admission hanging in the air like a fragile thread.
You felt his hand, massive and warm, move from your waist to your face. He didn't grab; he used the pads of his fingers to trace the curve of your cheek, his touch so light it was almost agonizing.
"Look at me," he commanded, but it wasn't the command of a soldier. It was an invitation.
When you opened your eyes, the predator was gone. His gaze was hooded, his dark pupils blown wide, but there was a softness in the set of his jaw that you hadn't seen at the wedding or by the gate.
"I know," he whispered.
The weight of those two words made your eyes sting. He knew. Of course he knew. A man like Hamza saw everything.
"Does it make you want to stop?" you asked, your voice barely audible over the sound of the wind rattling the windowpane.
Hamza let out a slow, ragged exhale, his forehead dropping to rest against yours. "Stop?" He let out a ghost of a laugh, a rough, beautiful sound. "It makes me want to move a thousand times slower. It makes me want to make sure that when you think back on this night—on me—you don't remember fear. You only remember how much I wanted you."
He moved his hand down, his thumb grazing your lower lip, pulling it down just enough to see the tremble there.
"I am not a good man," he confessed, his voice dropping into a register of raw honesty that felt more intimate than any kiss. "My life is full of things that would make you turn away. But right here, in this room? You are the most precious thing I’ve ever held. I’m not going to break you. I’m going to cherish you."
He began to kiss you again, but it was different now. It wasn't the desperate, starving kiss of the hallway. It was slow. It was tasting. He lingered on your lips, then your jaw, then the sensitive pulse point beneath your ear, his breath hot and steady.
"Tell me if I’m too heavy.." he hummed against your skin. "Tell me if you want me to stop. You have all the power here, do you understand? I am at your mercy tonight."
The idea of a man like Hamza Ali Mazari being at your mercy made a fresh wave of heat bloom in your stomach. Your hands, which had been clutching the sheets, moved up to his shoulders, feeling the incredible breadth of them. You realized then that his sweetness was more dangerous than his coldness; it made you want to give him everything.
It made you want to belong to him completely.
He sensed your vulnerability, and for a second, even a man like him, a man with a hidden mission - felt bad for what he's doing to you.
He knew that you were younger, naive, easily distracted, and manipulated by a man with charm and experience like him. It made him want to stop at the spot... But he had come too far.
Loosing you means hard work gone, and allthough playing with your feelings made him feel like an evil ghost haunting you.. he couldn't blow this by pushing you away now...and of course - there was the actual, truthful genuine attraction towards you as well..
So many things flickered through his dark eyes as his thoughts cursed himself, something you didn't even notice for a second, drowning in him completely.
"I don't want you to stop," you whispered, emboldened by the tenderness in his touch. "I just... I want it to be you. I’ve wanted it to be you since the moment I saw you with Rehman."
Hamza pulled back just enough to look into your eyes, a fierce, protective light gleaming in his own.
"It was always going to be me," he promised, his hand sliding down to interlace his fingers with yours, pinning your hand gently against the pillow. "From the second I saw you standing by that balcony, looking like you wanted to disappear, I knew. I wasn't letting anyone else near you."
His words were truthful.
He leaned down, his lips brushing yours in a promise that felt like a vow. "Slowly," he murmured. "We’ll go as slowly as you need. Just keep looking at me. Don't look away."
The air in the room felt as though it had been replaced by a thick, sweet honey, making every breath you took feel heavy and significant.
The trust you felt for him was a sudden, terrifyingly beautiful thing; it was a surrender that didn't feel like losing, but like finally being found.
Hamza seemed to sense this total yielding, and the predator within him went entirely still, replaced by a man who looked at you with patient and understanding eyes.
He began with your hands. It was an act of worship that made your breath hitch.
He took your right hand in both of his—his palms, feeling like heated velvet against your skin—and brought it to his lips. He didn't just kiss your knuckles; he pressed his mouth to each fingertip, his eyes locked onto yours as if he were reading your soul.
He turned your hand over and pressed a lingering, open-mouthed kiss into the center of your palm, his beard grazing your skin just enough to send a jolt of electricity straight to your core.
"So soft," he murmured, his voice a vibration you felt in your own marrow. "You’re perfect."
He moved up to your wrists, kissing the blue veins where your blood was racing, then trailed his lips up the sensitive inner skin of your forearms.
He was so thorough, so agonizingly slow, that by the time he reached your elbows, you were arching your back off the mattress, a soft moan escaping your lips - from just this.
His large hands slid upward, following the path of his mouth, stroking your arms until he reached your shoulders. He sat up slightly, looming over you like a mountain of dark intent, and began to kiss the slope of your shoulders with a reverence that made your eyes sting. He lingered there, his tongue tracing the line of your collarbone, before moving to the hollow of your throat.
"I can feel your heart," he whispered against your skin, his hand splaying across your chest, just above the lace of your nightgown. "It's hammering for me. Tell me it's for me."
"It is," you gasped, your fingers tangling in the long locks of his, pulling him closer. "Always for you."
He moved to your neck, nuzzling the space behind your ear, his breath hot and ragged. He took his time there, alternating between soft, feather-light kisses and the firm, possessive pressure of his lips.
Every time he made a low, satisfied sound in his throat, you felt a fresh wave of heat bloom between your thighs. You were a map, and he was exploring every inch of you as if he intended to own the territory forever.
Finally, he pulled back just an inch, his eyes dark and swimming with a controlled fire. His hands moved to the thin silk straps of your nightgown. He didn't pull them down. He just hooked his thumbs under the fabric, the backs of his hands brushing against your collarbones.
The height difference was so pronounced here; even with him leaning over you, you felt dwarfed by his shadow. He looked down at you, the intensity of his gaze demanding your full attention.
"I want to see you," he rasped, his voice dropping to a register that was almost a plea. "All of you. No silk, no secrets. Just you and me."
He paused, his thumbs twitching against the straps, waiting. He wouldn't move an inch further without your word. The power he gave you in that moment was dizzying.
"May I?" he whispered, his eyes searching yours for any hint of hesitation..you didn't know- but it would be the first and last time he was offering you to flee.
You swallowed hard, your heart leaping into your throat. You reached up, your smaller hands covering his large ones, and gave a slow, deliberate nod.
"Haan," you breathed, the word a total confession. "Please, Hamza."
He didn't rush. He moved with a devastating, almost teasing slowness, sliding the silk down your arms. As the fabric pooled around your waist, the cool air hit your skin for only a second before the heat of his gaze replaced it.
He didn't immediately move to touch you again; he simply looked, his chest heaving as he took in the sight of you.
"God," he hissed, a raw, pained sound of pure want. "You have no idea what you're doing to me. You have absolutely no idea."
A dizzying sense of power surged through you, a heady, intoxicating warmth that rivaled the heat of the room.
You had always been the one to look away, the one to shrink under the weight of a gaze, but seeing Hamza —a man who radiated such lethal, unshakable composure—completely breathless just by the sight of your flashed tits.. it changed something.
You felt a soft flush of pride creep up your neck and settle in your cheeks. You weren't just a girl in his room; you were the only thing in the world that could make a man like him tremble.
You let out a shaky breath, your eyes locking onto his with a newfound boldness. "Is it... do you like what you see?" you whispered, your voice steadier than you expected.
Hamza’s jaw tightened so hard you heard the faint click of his teeth. "Like?" he repeated, the word sounding like a growl. "I feel like a man who’s lived in the dark his whole life and just walked into the sun. I’m blinded by you."
As quick as your confidence came, it left you again, his words leaving you shyly blushing, lowering your gaze.
He leaned down, pressing a single, searing kiss to the center of your chest, right over your thundering heart, before he gently urged you to sit up.
His hands were large and steady as he helped you turn, guiding you until your back was to his chest. The cool air hit your bare skin, but only for a heartbeat before he crowded into your space, his massive frame acting as a wall of heat behind you.
He began his worship anew, starting at the nape of your neck. He brushed your hair to one side, his lips trailing along the delicate curve of your spine. He was agonizingly thorough, his tongue tracing the dip of every inch of your skin. You arched your back, a low, melodic hum escaping you as his hands moved to your sides.
He didn't just touch you; he claimed you. His thumbs traced the line of your ribs, his palms sliding down the silk-smooth skin of your waist.
Because of the height difference, his arms seemed to wrap around you twice over, his fingers meeting at your stomach as he pulled you flush against his bare chest.
The friction of your soft back against the hard, light hair of his torso made your toes curl into the mattress.
"You’re so small," he murmured against your shoulder blade, his voice thick with a dark, honeyed reverence. "I could hold your whole world in my hands."
He didn't stop at your waist. His hands continued their slow, relentless descent, his palms smoothing over the curve of your hips. He leaned you back against him, his lips never leaving your skin as he moved down, down, until he was kissing the small of your back.
You let out a strangled gasp as his hands found your thighs. He squeezed gently, his grip firm and possessive, testing the softness of your skin.
He began to kiss his way down the sides of your legs, his beard a delicious contrast to the sensitive skin there. Every time his breath hit the back of your knees, you felt a jolt of pure lightning shoot through you..
"Hamza," you breathed, your head falling back against his shoulder. You felt untethered, floating in a sea of sensation that he was navigating with precision.
He moved until he was kneeling between your legs, his hands sliding up the inner silk of your thighs. He stopped just by the rim of your underwear, his eyes lifting to yours. He looked like a man possessed, his dark hair disheveled and his skin glowing with a light sheen of sweat.
"I want to know every inch of you," he rasped, his thumbs stroking the delicate skin of your inner thighs. "I want to know exactly how you taste when you're mine. I want to be the first and only man who ever knows the sound you make when you get lost in pleasure, jaan"
He leaned down, his face hovering inches from the junction of your thighs, his breath hot and demanding. "Tell me to keep going," he commanded, his voice a low, vibrating hum. "Tell me you want me to take everything."
Your heart was drumming against your chest- telling ancient stories of surrender, lust, passion, love..
You were still the shy girl who hid behind her father’s shadow, still the one who blushed at a lingering look—but Hamza had turned that shyness into a flame.
As he knelt there between your knees, his dark eyes wide and expectant, you felt a sudden, surge of wanting that overrode every instinct to hide. You wanted him to see you. All of you.
With trembling fingers, you reached beneath the pooled silk of your nightgown. Your movements were slow, hindered by a lingering bashfulness, but you didn't stop. You felt his gaze track the motion of your arms, his breathing hitching as you eased off the silk of the nightgown first, then the small scrap of lace underwear.
When you finally kicked the fabric away, it felt like shedding the last layer of your old life.
You didn't look away. You met his eyes—wide, dark, and utterly mesmerized—as you slowly leaned back on your elbows. The movement was a deliberate surrender. You let your knees fall open, spreading yourself for him in the dim, amber-lit silence of the room.
The reaction from him was instantaneous and violent.
Hamza let out a sound that wasn't human—a low, broken growl of pure, unadulterated shock. His entire body jerked as if he’d been struck by lightning. He stared at you, his jaw dropping open as his eyes swept over your vulnerability, his pupils so blown they nearly swallowed the irises.
"Fuck.." he choked out, the word sounding like a prayer and a curse all at once.
He looked as though he were seeing a miracle. For a man who lived in a world of harsh realities and cold calculations, the sight of your soft, trusting innocence laid bare just for him seemed to break his composure entirely. His hands, which had been so steady all night, were visibly shaking as he reached out to touch the bedsheets beside your thighs.
"You... you have no idea," he rasped, his voice cracking with the weight of his hunger. "You have no idea what you’re doing to me, jaan. To be the one you do this for... to be the only one..."
He leaned forward, his massive frame trembling with the effort of not lunging at you. He looked small in that moment, humbled by your bravery. He reached out, his large thumb grazing the very top of your inner thigh with a reverence that felt like a holy vow.
"I thought I was the one in control tonight," he whispered, his eyes finally lifting to meet yours, shimmering with an intensity that made you feel like you were the only woman in existence. "But looking at you like this? I’m nothing. I’m completely at your mercy."
He dipped his head, his face hovering just inches away, from your Pussy, his hot breath ghosting over your skin. "You are the most beautiful thing I have ever seen," he breathed, the words vibrating against you. "And I am going to spend the rest of this night making sure you know exactly how it feels to be worshipped."
Hamza looked like a man who had been dying of thirst and had finally stumbled upon an oasis. He didn't rush—he couldn't—because the sight of you, so shyly and yet bravely open for him, required a slow, agonizing appreciation.
"Look at you," he rasped, his voice vibrating deep in his chest. "You are so incredibly sexy like this, Jaan.. legs spread open presenting your Pussy to me like a gift i didn't deserve.."
His hand, large and scorching, slid up your inner thigh. He didn't go for your clit yet; he traced the delicate skin of your folds with his thumb, watching the way your hips hitched off the mattress.
"You’re so sensitive, jaan," he murmured, a dark smirk tugging at his lips as he watched your eyes flutter shut. "Open them. I want you to see what I’m doing to you...pretty eyes on me, pyaari."
You forced your eyes open, your breath coming in shallow, broken gasps. Hamza leaned down, his lips brushing your ear. "You're so tight...I’m going to have to be so careful with you," he whispered, his breath hot and damp as his finger teasingly pinched your clit "But you want it, don't you? You want me to take my time."
He let his fingers wander, watching your juices drench his fingers as he did. You let out a high, thin whimper, your fingers digging into the pillows.
"That's it," he encouraged, his voice dropping to a gravelly, commanding velvet. "Let me hear you. I want to know exactly what sounds you make when I touch you here.."
He began to use his thumb in slow, rhythmic circles, massaging your clit while his gaze never left yours.
He was patient, devastatingly so. Every time you tried to arch into him, to find a faster release, he slowed down, drawing out the tension until you were sobbing his name.
"Not yet," he teased, his teeth grazing the shell of your ear. "We’re going to go as slow as possible...its amazing that a bit of teasing already gets you so rilled up.. i want you so worked up that you forget your own name. I want the only thing in your head to be me."
He shifted his focus, his mouth replacing his fingers. The heat of his tongue was a shock, a wet, heavy contrast to the cool air of the room. You cried out, your legs tightening around his shoulders as you tried to ground yourself.
"Take it," he growled against your skin, his voice muffled but firm. "It's all for you. Every bit of it. Be a good girl and just take it for me."
He used his flat tongue to part your folds, licking up and down in agonizing slowly movements that had you cry out before even reaching your clit- its was a shocking pleasure, something you have never experienced before, not even when he made you ride his thigh days prior.
The pleasure was a tidal wave, building and building as he worshipped you with a terrifyingly thorough focus. He knew exactly where to press, exactly when to flick his tongue, his experience showing in the way he manipulated your body into a state of pure, mindless bliss.
He wrapped his lips around your clit, sucking in wave- like motions that made your eyes roll back and your hips shake against him.
"You’re so close, aren't you?" he asked, pulling back just enough to see the flush on your chest and the way your eyes were rolled back. He used his fingers again, moving them against your clit with a sudden, firm rhythm that sent stars across your vision. "Tell me. Tell me you’re mine." He groaned, before he lowered his head again, this time pushing his tongue against your enterance and inside your pussy- thrusting his tongue inside you
"I'm..ahhh fuck!.. I'm yours!" you sobbed, your voice breaking as the first ripples of your peak began to take hold. "Hamza, please!"
He just looked up, kept the pace of his fingers teasing your clit and the rhythm he used to tongue- fuck you steady as he could see you fall apart in his hands..
As your body started shuddering with a violent, beautiful release, an orgasm so intense it almost knocked you out-
Hamza didn't move. He stayed right there, holding you, watching the way the pleasure wrecked you, a look of pure, primal pride written across his face. He stayed in between your legs, his tongue resting inside of you still and his fingers drawing tiny, slow circles over your clit still, to ensure you can enjoy the intensity of your orgasm from start to finish.
The room felt thick, the air saturated with the scent of your release and the heavy, musky aroma of his desire. As the tremors in your thighs began to subside, Hamza didn't pull away. He moved upward, his massive body sliding over yours like a warm silk shadow until his face was inches from yours.
His eyes were dark, almost entirely pupil, shimmering with a terrifyingly beautiful intensity. He reached out, his large thumb wiping a stray tear of pleasure from your cheek with a tenderness that made your chest ache.
"Bohot pyaari ho tum," he whispered, his voice a low, gravelly vibration that seemed to settle in your very bones. "Kitni acchi bachi ho... mere liye itna sab kiya?"
He stroked your hair back, his gaze fixated on your swollen lips. "Mera dil jeet liya tumne, jaan. Itni masoom, itni sachi."
But as he praised you, you could feel the shift in him. The patient, worshipping teacher was being eclipsed by the man who had been holding back his own hunger for far too long. The breadth of his chest was heaving against your breasts, and you could feel the rigid, pulsing heat of his coxk pressing firmly against your thigh.
You had been so levitated by the pleasure you hadn't even noticed him using his other hand to take off his pants once they had become painfully tight..
He shifted his weight, moving his hips until he was settled directly between your open legs. He didn't push his cock inside, instead, he began to grind slowly, rhythmically, against the sensitive folds he had just spent tasting so needily.
The friction was agonizingly perfect. The silkiness of your skin met the hard, unyielding heat of him, and you let out a broken, needy sound, your hands clenching into the muscles of his upper arms as the wet sounds clouded your mind.
"Dekho mujhe," he commanded, his voice dropping into a rough, demanding growl. "Dekho tumne mera kya haal kar diya hai."
He increased the pressure, his hips rolling in a slow, circular motion that made your breath hitch. Every time he slid upward, the friction sent a fresh jolt of lightning through your core. He was preparing you, stretching the moment, making sure your pussy was wet and ready for his Cock.
"Hamza..." you breathed, your head tossing back against the pillow.
"Haan, jaan... pukaro mera naam," he hissed, his teeth grazing your earlobe as his pace quickened. "Abhi toh shuruwat hai. Main tumhein dikhaunga ke tum mere liye bani ho."
The dirty talk, the praise, and the relentless, heavy pressure of his body against yours created a vortex of sensation. You felt small, cherished, and utterly possessed. He was a mountain of a man, and as he continued to grind against you, marking you with his hard cock pressed against you and his scent, you realized that the "shy girl" was gone forever—replaced by someone who belonged entirely to the man whispering promises in the dark.
Your mind was a haze of white noise and fire, every nerve ending screaming for the solid, heavy presence of him to finally fill the void he had created. The shyness hadn't just melted; it had been incinerated by the way he looked at you—like you were the only source of light in his dark, violent world.
You reached down, your small fingers trembling as you gripped his brawny forearms, trying to pull him closer, trying to bridge the final, agonizing inch.
"Hamza, ab aur nahi... please," you whimpered, your voice sounding foreign even to your own ears—thick, dazed, and dripping with a need you could no longer hide. "Mujhe chahiye... aapka sab kuch chahiye. Please, mujh mein aaiye... take me."
The bluntness of your words, spoken in that breathless, desperate voice, made Hamza’s entire frame shudder.
His jaw locked, a vein throbbing in his temple as he looked down at you. For a second, his eyes turned predatory, the raw hunger of a man who had waited far too long.
"Jaan, pagal kar rahi ho tum mujhe," he groaned, his voice a low, dangerous rumble.
But even as his hips twitched with the urge to thrust, he forced himself to stay still. He took a deep, jagged breath, his hands moving to cup your face, his thumbs stroking your cheekbones to ground you.
"Shhh," he whispered, his eyes softening with a protective, almost pained tenderness. "Slowly, jaan..pehli baar hai... main tumhein dard nahi dena chahta."
"I don't care," you sobbed, arching your hips up against his rigid heat. "Dard hone dein... bas aap chahiye."
"No...hm..no.." he rasped, his voice firm despite the sweat bead rolling down his forehead. "Tum bohot nazuk ho. Mere liye tumhein sambhalna sab se zaroori hai.."
He meant what he said, truly.
He shifted, his large hands sliding under your lower back to tilt your pelvis up, aligning you perfectly. He leaned down, his lips ghosting over yours as he positioned his Tip at the very entrance of your Pussy.
You felt the sheer, terrifying size of him, a pressure that felt impossible to accommodate, yet your body was weeping with the desire to try.
"Saans lo," he commanded softly.
Then, with a devastating slowness, he began to push- It wasn't a thrust; it was a slow nudge until he was inside you.
You felt the initial stretch, the sharp, stinging realization of your own innocence being met by his overwhelming experience. Your breath hitched, a small, broken sound escaping your throat.
Immediately, Hamza stopped. He didn't pull back, but he didn't move forward. He stayed right there, his forehead pressed against yours, his muscles corded and shaking with the monumental effort of restraining his own body.
,,Are you okay..?" He gasped, watching you squirm under him adjusting to this new- overwhelming feeling.
You gave him a soft nod. "Haan.." you whispered, calming him enough to relax.
He waited, letting your body adjust to the length and the width of his Cock, his thumb wiping away a tear that had escaped the corner of your eye.
Only when he felt you unclench,when your hips began to tilt instinctively toward him again, did he continue the slow, inch-by-inch progress.
When he was finally, fully rested within you, the fullness was unlike anything you could have imagined. You felt stretched, claimed, and utterly anchored to him.
Hamza let out a long, broken exhale, a sound of pure, tortured relief. He buried his face in the crook of your neck, his voice a raw, emotional rasp.
"You're mine now.." he groaned. ,,All mine.."
For a long minute, Hamza stayed perfectly still, buried deep inside you, letting the reality of the union settle. He looked at you with an expression that was almost pained in its intensity, his large hands framing your face as if you were something that might shatter if he moved too fast.
Then, he began to move.
It was a slow, shallow pull—just enough to make you whimper at the loss of the fullness that only his cock could give you back —before he surged back in, deeper this time.
It was incredibly gentle, a rhythmic, rocking motion of his his hips that felt more like a caress. He was being so careful with you, his eyes locked onto yours, watching every flicker of emotion on your face.
"You’re doing so well, jaan," he whispered, his voice a low, gravelly vibration. "Just like that. Look at me. Stay with me."
His hands slid from your face down to your waist, his fingers digging into your hips to guide your movements.
The pace was agonizingly slow, each thrust a deliberate, sliding sensation that made your head light. You felt every ridge, every pulse of his cock? and the affection in his gaze was so thick it felt like you were drowning in it. He leaned down, peppering your face with soft, reverent kisses—your forehead, your eyelids, the tip of your nose—before catching your lips in a slow, deep kiss that tasted of devotion.
The friction was building a heat that neither of you could contain. You felt your own body beginning to crave more, your hips arching instinctively to meet him, your nails scratching lightly at the corded muscles of his back.
Hamza felt the shift. His breathing became more jagged, his pupils blowing out until his eyes were nothing but black voids of hunger. The "sweetness" began to transform into something much darker, much more primal.
"You like that, don't you?" he rasped, his voice dropping into a filthy, deep tone. "You like feeling how big I am mhm..? You like knowing that I'm stretching you out, marking you from the inside.."
He increased the pace, the gentle rocking turning into firm, driving thrusts that made the headboard thud rhythmically against the wall. The sound was intoxicating—the wet, slapping friction of your bodies meeting and the broken, needy sounds coming from your throat.
"Tell me how I feel," he commanded, his thumb hooking into your mouth, forcing you to taste yourself on his skin. "Tell me how it feels to have a real man finally take what belongs to him. You’ve been waiting for this, haven't you? You’ve been dreaming about me filling you up like this since the moment I touched you."
You couldn't even form words, your mind shattered into a thousand pieces of pure sensation. "It's... it's too much," you gasped, your legs shaking as you wrapped them tighter around his waist, pulling him deeper.
"It’s not enough," he growled, his thrusts becoming more authoritative, more demanding.
He wasn't just holding you now; he was dominating you, his massive frame eclipsing yours entirely. "I want you to feel every fucking inch of me..I want you to feel how hard my cock is for you... Fuck- You’re so tight, so fucking perfect... it’s like you were built specifically for me to take care of.."
He leaned down, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin of your shoulder. "I’m going to spend the rest of the night fucking you, im going to make you scream my name until your throat is sore...You’re not a shy little girl anymore, are you? Not that girl that couldn't look at me at that Wedding..You’re my little slut, aren't you? Hungry for me to claim you.."
The dirty talk was a gasoline pour on the fire. You felt your pussyclenching around him, your clit l, a desperate, aching need beginning to coil in your lower belly. Every time he hit that perfect spot, you saw stars, your voice rising in a high, thin wail of pleasure.
"That's it, scream for me," he hissed, his pace becoming relentless, a heavy, thudding rhythm that shook your very soul. "Show me how much you want it. Show me how much you need me to stay inside you, how much you need me to fuck you. I’m not going anywhere. I’m going to keep you right here, pinned under me"
He was starving for you, his movements becoming more frantic, more hungry, but he still held back that final surge. He wanted to savor this—the way you looked, completely undone and vibrating with need, your body stretched and filled by his.
His hands found the swell of your tits, kneading them in his big, warm hands, the pinching of his fingers against your nipples driving you insane.
The shift in the air was instantaneous; the last vestige of the "gentle teacher" was incinerated by the raw, jagged heat of your demand. You were no longer the shy daughter, you were a woman possessed by a primal, starving need that only he could satiate. Your nails dug into the flexed muscles of his back, drawing thin red lines that made even a man like Hamza growl out.
"Harder!" you screamed, the word tearing from your throat, raw and unpolished. "Hamza, please... don't be careful. I want to feel all of you. Fuck me harder!"
Hamza froze for a split second, his chest heaving against yours, sweat dripping from his chin onto your collarbone.
He pulled back just enough to look at you, his eyes burning with a dark, terrifying electricity. The protective softness was gone, replaced by the lethal intensity of a man who had finally been given permission to unleash the beast he’d been caging.
"Careful what you wish for, jaan," he growled, his voice a low, vibrating warning that made your blood turn to liquid fire. "If I stop being careful you'll have to find excuses why you can't walk straight for the next days to come..are you sure you want that?"
"Yes," you sobbed, arching your hips up to find him again, your body weeping with the need for the impact. "Show me. Give it to me."
A dark, predatory smirk pulled at his lips—the look of a man who had just won a war.
In one fluid, powerful motion, he didn't just move you; he flipped you.
He grabbed your waist with hands that felt like iron shackles, tossing you over onto your hands and knees so quickly the world spun. You felt the cool air hit your back for a fraction of a second before the massive weight of him settled behind you, his chest crushing down against your spine.
He didn't wait. He grabbed your hair, not to hurt, but to tilt your head back, exposing the long line of your throat to the ceiling. Then, he thrusted back into you with a violent, unrestrained force that knocked the breath out of your lungs.
"God!" you gasped, the sound more of a choked sob as the sheer power of the thrust- his cock felt even hotter- bigger- wider in this position.
He was relentless.
Gone was the slow, rhythmic rocking; this was a heavy, deep, intense experience.
The bed groaned under the weight of his movements, the headboard slamming against the wall with every this he sounded inside of your clenching, dredged Pussy, leaving puddles of your juices and his precum on the sheets.
He was taking up every inch of space, stretching you out, filling you so completely that you felt like you were being split open from the inside out...but in a good way.
"You wanted this!" he hissed into your ear, his voice a filthy, ragged rasp. "You wanted to feel how much I’ve been holding back. Now take it. Take every fucking inch of me."
The pleasure was so intense- so much. Fuck.
You reached back blindly, your hand finding the corded muscle of his bicep as he reached around to grip your hip, and you bit down on his arm. You sank your teeth into his skin, desperate for a way to ground yourself, to keep from screaming loud enough to let your father hear across the damn city.
Hamza didn't flinch. If anything, the bite seemed to pleasure him. He let out a low, guttural roar of approval, his pace becoming even more frantic, more animalistic.
"Don't you dare hide those marvelous sounds from me.." he commanded, his hand leaving your hair to slap firmly against the curve of your hip, the sound echoing like a gunshot in the quiet room.
He reached beneath you, his fingers finding your sensitive, jumping clit he’d worshipped earlier, adding a new layer of friction to the heavy, driving rhythm of his hips. The combination was lethal. You were vibrating, your muscles coiling so tight they felt like they would snap. - you couldn't hold back like this- not even if you had bitten him again- there was no way to hide the sounds coming from you now.
,,Yes! Ahhh fuck- nghh- more, please more! Hamza fuck-"
"Tell me," he growled, his breath hot and smelling of dark spice and hunger. "Tell me you love this..tell me you’re never going to let any other man touch you like this."
"I'm yours," you wailed, the bite on his arm turning into a desperate kiss as you finally let the screams out. "Only yours! No man could ever- haaah- fuck- Hamza, fuck... please... don't stop! I'm close!"
"I'm not stopping," he promised, his thrusts becoming so deep and so fast that you were nothing but a collection of nerves and fire. "I’m going to make sure the only thing you ever want is this ...me."
He was starving for you, his body a relentless machine of muscle and heat, driving you higher and higher toward a peak that felt like it would be the end of you both..
He let out a sound that was pure animal, a jagged, guttural roar as he reached his own limit. He didn't pull back. Instead, he gripped your hips with such bruising force that you knew his fingerprints would stay there for a week, and he surged into you one last time, deeper than should have been possible.
The release was violent for the both of you.
It wasn't a spark; it was an explosion.
You felt the scorching, heavy heat of him filling you, a sloppy, messy overflow that made your vision white out. Your needy pussy clamped around him in a desperate, rhythmic pulse that drew a choked, broken sob from his throat.
You collapsed onto the mattress, your face buried in the pillows, your body shaking with such intensity that you felt like your heart might actually stop.. it was so fucking intense.
You were crying—not from pain, but from the sheer, overwhelming weight of the pleasure. It was too much for your body to hold.
Hamza stayed buried inside you for a long, trembling minute, his massive chest heaving against your back, his forehead pressed into the nape of your neck. He was shaking, too—a rare, terrifying sign of how much he had lost control. He had intended to be the master of this encounter, was supposed to keep control and he failed. Because of you.
Slowly, with a tenderness that felt almost out of place after the last thrusts of the act, he withdrew. You let out a soft, whimpering moan at the loss of him.. cum ran down your pussy- dripping into the sheets and down your thighs. A sight to behold.
He didn't say a word. He didn't move to get a towel or light a cigarette. Instead, he reached down and gathered you into his arms, pulling your limp, sweaty body against his chest. His instincts shifting from predator to protector in a heartbeat.
He sat up, leaning against the headboard, and tucked you between his legs, your back against his chest. He pulled the heavy duvet over both of you, cocooning you in his heat.
"Shhh," he whispered, his voice so raw it was barely a breath. He began to kiss the top of your head, his large hands stroking your arms, your stomach, your thighs—soothing the skin he had just been so rough with. "I’ve got you, jaan. I’ve got you."
He used the edge of the sheet to gently wipe the tears and sweat from your face. He looked at you then, and for the first time, there was no mission in his eyes.
There was no shadow of his true intentions- using you to get close to his Target- your Father. He couldn't care less about the old man in this second.
You were supposed to be an alibi- a way to sneak into the Family and destroy him from the inside..but now he could only think about you, in his arms, and how much he felt for you.
"I’ve lived longer than you..a few years.. im not a good man.." he murmured, his thumb tracing your lower lip. "I’ve seen everything. I’ve had everything. But I have never... I have never felt anything like that. You’ve ruined me for anyone else. Do you hear me? You’ve completely ruined me."
He tilted your chin up, forcing you to look at him. His expression was soft, almost vulnerable.
"I shouldn't be in your life Jaan.." he confessed, his voice thick with a romanticism he usually kept buried under armor. "But tonight... you made me feel like a man who actually has a soul worth saving."
He pulled you closer, his chin resting on your head as his heart slowed down to match yours. For a man of violence, his touch was now the gentlest thing you had ever known.
You listened, you felt the honesty in his words, the warmth of his sentences...it soothed you...it made you feel so protected..
He stayed awake, watching over you as your breathing finally evened out into sleep, marking the exact moment he realized that his mission was a thousand times harder now.. but for the first time in his life, he was finally alive for something else than vengeance..
NOTE: MINORS AND AGELESS BLOGS DO NOT INTERACT! This content is intended for audiences 18+ only, since later chapters will involve Smut!
A/N: Just really quick, some of you might wonder why this fic is coming out basically daily, and the others arent updated yet- dw, i will update Aetbaar-e-Zulm next, but since i basically am done with writing this fic already, and im just in the mood, ill drop this here. Enjoy!<3
Warnings; agegap, lots of violence (almost gore) alot of descriptive violent acts, death, injuries. (Heavy trigger warning again)
Part 3 of ?
There was a specific shade of lavender that painted the sky just before the sun breached the horizon of the Aravalli hills.
For a long time, that hour had belonged to Jaskirat alone—a time when the world was too quiet to lie to him, and the coolness of the air reminded him of the mountains he had left behind.
But lately, the dawn had changed its shape. It had taken on the sound of a soft, cotton salwar dragging lightly across stone floors, and the rhythmic, comforting clink of a brass pot being filled at the courtyard tap.
Every morning, without fail, you were there.
He would be sitting on the edge of his cot, already dressed in a simple kurta, his dastar tied with the geometric perfection of a man who treated his identity as a shield. The room would smell faintly of the eucalyptus vapor your mother burned to clear the air, but the moment you crossed the threshold, the room smelled of you—of fresh soap and the sweet, earthy scent of almond oil.
"Sit still Jaskirat.." you would murmur, not waiting for him to object as you set down your tray of clean gauze and antiseptic solution.
He would shift his weight, his broad frame taking up most of the small cot, but he would obey. He had stopped arguing. He had learned that your kind heart was backed by an iron stubbornness that no amount of military discipline could break.
You would sit on the stool beside him, your fingers moving with a practiced, feather-light precision as you peeled back the edges of the linen tape on his ribs. The wound was no longer a weeping, angry crater of purple and red; it had closed into a thick, jagged ridge of silver-pink scar tissue. It looked like a tear in a canvas that had been meticulously stitched back together.
"It’s healing well.." you said softly, your thumb lightly tracing the edge of the healthy skin around the scar. "Papa says by next week, you won't even need the light dressing."
Jaskirat’s breath hitched—a tiny, imperceptible hitch that only someone who spent hours watching him would notice. His muscles corded slightly beneath his skin. It wasn't the pain of the wound; it was the sheer, terrifying proximity of you. You were so close he could see the amber flecks in your eyes, the tiny ink stain on your index finger from your late-night grading, and the absolute, unforced tenderness written across your face.
He was forty-seven years old. His skin was a map of betrayals, torture marks, and the deep, weathered lines of a man who had lived three lifetimes in the dark. You were 19 years younger, your life just beginning, your heart so large and unblemished that it frightened him more than any target he ever had to fight.
"Then you should stop wasting your time with these trays.." he said, his voice carrying that low, gravelly rasp of a man who didn't use his throat enough. He looked away, his gaze fixing on the window. "I can wash myself now."
"I’m not wasting my time." you replied calmly, taping a final, clean square of gauze over the silver ridge. You didn't pull your hand away immediately. You let your fingers linger on his side for just a second, feeling the steady, rhythmic thump of his heart. "And besides, if I don't drag you out of this room, you’ll sit here until noon pretending you don't exist."
You stood up, picking up the dirty linen, and gave him a small, challenging smile. "Breakfast is ready. And Maa is already waiting in the veranda for you to join us for the morning Ardas. Don't make my mother come fetch you."
Jaskirat watched you walk out, his hand instinctively rising to touch the spot on his ribs where your fingers had just been. The skin was cool from the antiseptic, but beneath it, the flesh felt hot. Burned.
He took a deep breath, adjusted the front of his kurta, and followed the routine he had surrendered to.
The dining table was the center of the household, a noisy, chaotic space where tea was poured from a heavy brass kettle and debates about the village council were settled over stuffed paranthas. But since Jaskirat had begun sitting at the end of the bench, the noise had found a rhythm.
He sat quietly, his hands folded in his lap, waiting for everyone to have gathered and started eating befire he touched his food.
He had learned the exact cadence of your family’s faith—a faith that matched the one he had before he had to erase himself.
When your father spoke the words of the Gurbani, Jaskirat’s lips would move in absolute silence, his heart acknowledging a God he thought he would have to keep hidden in his heart forever.
"Eat more, Jaskirat..!" your mother said, sliding a third potato parantha onto his plate with a heavy dollop of white butter. "A man of your size cannot live on air and silence. Look at him, beti, he’s still too thin..!"
You looked up from your own plate, immediately reaching for the honey jar. "He likes it with honey, Maa.. He won't ask for it, but he likes it." You poured a generous golden stream onto the corner of his plate, your face bright with that instinctive, nurturing care that had become your second nature.
Jaskirat stared at the honey. He didn't look at you, but his shoulders dropped a fraction of an inch.
Across the table, your father and Rohan exchanged a long, quiet look. It was a look you didn't see, but one that carried the weight of parental realization. Dr. Rathore adjusted his spectacles, his eyes softening as he watched the way you naturally anticipated the stranger’s needs—the way you kept his water glass filled, the way you subtly shielded him from Rohan’s loud questions, the way your entire posture leaned toward him like a flower seeking the light.
"The school inspection is tomorrow, isn't it?" your father asked, breaking the silence.
"Yes.." you said, your attention temporarily shifting. "The district officer is coming. I’ve been rewriting the lesson plans all night."
"You shouldn't work so late." Jaskirat said suddenly.
The table went still. It was rare for him to volunteer an opinion during family conversations. He kept his eyes on his plate, his fork tearing off a piece of the bread with mechanical precision.
"The light in your room stays on until three in the morning.." he continued, his voice low and steady. "It makes you clumsy during the day..You almost dropped the water pitcher twice this week. A tired mind makes mistakes."
Rohan let out a snort of laughter, shaking his head. "See that? Even the guest thinks you work too hard..!"
You felt a warm flush creep up your neck, but your eyes stayed locked on Jaskirat. He wasn't looking at you, but the fact that he had noticed the light under your door—that he had counted the hours you slept—felt like a secret code whispered only to you.
But for every inch closer you gained, Jaskirat seemed to build a mile of stone.
Later that afternoon, the dry heat of the desert settled over the village like a heavy blanket. The school had closed early for the inspection preparations, and you found him in the courtyard, sitting under the deep shade of the neem tree. He was holding a small piece of sandpaper, slowly smoothing down the rough edges of a wooden shelf Rohan had brought home from the market.
You walked out with two glasses of cold buttermilk, the ice clinking against the glass.
"Here.." you said, sitting on the wooden bench beside him, handing him the drink.
He took it, his rough fingers brushing against yours for a brief second before he pulled back, his hand wrapping around the glass like a vice. He took a long, disciplined drink, then set it down on the dirt floor beside his boots.
"Jaskirat..?" you said quietly, your voice dropping to that soft, intimate register you only used when the two of you were alone. "Why do you do that?"
He didn't look up from the wood. The sandpaper made a rhythmic, grating sound. "Do what?"
"Pull away..." you said, your heart aching with a raw, authentic honesty.
"Every time I get close, every time my family treats you like a son, you look like you’re preparing to jump out of a moving train. You’re safe here. Why do you keep your heart behind a locked door..?"
The sandpaper stopped.
Jaskirat let his hands fall between his knees. He stayed silent for so long you thought he hadn't heard you, or that he was going to stand up and walk back into his room to escape the conversation. The wind rustled through the leaves of the neem tree, dropping a small, white blossom onto the dirt between his boots.
"You have a kind heart." he said, his voice so quiet it was almost lost to the breeze. He finally turned his head to look at you, and the sheer weight of his forty-seven years hit you like a physical blow. His eyes were beautiful, but they were filled with the ancient, unmovable dust of a graveyard.
"It’s not a door, beti." he said, using the respectful, distancing term that felt like a bucket of ice water over your chest. "It’s a wall. And I didn't build it to keep you out. I built it to keep the rot inside from spilling onto others."
"I don't care about the rot..." you said, your voice trembling, your hand reaching out to touch his arm. "I care about the man under it...!"
Before your fingers could make contact with his sleeve, Jaskirat stood up. He didn't do it violently, but the movement was final. He picked up the wooden shelf and the sandpaper, his posture rigid, the crimson dastar he wore making him look like a king who had just passed a sentence of exile on himself.
"You should care about someone who has a future." he said, his voice returning to that cold, dead stone you hated. "I am just a passenger in your father's house. When the tracks clear, the passenger leaves."
He walked away, his long strides taking him back into the shadows of the clinic room before you could gather the words to stop him.
You sat alone on the bench, the cold glass of buttermilk sweating in your hand. The sun was beginning to drop, casting long, lonely shadows across the courtyard. It felt hopeless. Every time you tried to show him that he was allowed to be human, he reminded you that he was a weapon that had been retired from service.
But as you looked down at the dirt where his boots had been, you saw the small, white neem blossom. He hadn't stepped on it. Even in his haste to pull away, he had carefully moved his foot to avoid crushing something beautiful.
You picked up the flower, your fingers closing around its fragile petals.
He’s still in there, your heart whispered, refusing to give up the fight. He’s still here, and I won't let him crawl back into the dark...
Though, his words did somehow hurt you.
Your mind was a chaotic whorl of questions, spinning so fast it made your chest ache.
Why was he like that? What had they done to him?
You had seen the map of his survival written in the silver ridges on his ribs, the dark, jagged bruises on his shoulders, and the deep, haunting ring around his throat that looked like it had been carved by a rope or a wire. He was a man who belonged to the shadows, a man who had been hollowed out until there was nothing left but a name he called a corpse..
For a wild, fleeting second, you considered asking your father...but..
Asking was a weapon. Prying into the locked drawers of his memory would be a violation, an act of disrespect to a man who had surrendered his very name just to find a corner where he could stop bleeding. He didn't want to be dissected. He didn't want to be pitied.
You took a deep, steadying breath, the cool desert air filling your lungs. If he wouldn't give you his past, you would simply have to build him a present so heavy, so solid, and so undeniably warm that he wouldn't be able to lift his feet to leave it. He thought he was a passenger in your father's house. You were going to make him an want to stay.
The next three days became a silent masterclass in gentle, unyielding persistence. You didn't mention the bench under the neem tree. You didn't look hurt by the word beti, that term that he had used to create a chasm between you. You simply readjusted your strategy, shifting from an active force to an atmospheric reality he couldn't evade.
If Jaskirat wanted to be a ghost, you would make sure the house was a place where ghosts were given a seat at the table.
On Saturday morning, the kitchen was alive with the sharp, rich scent of parched flour and ghee. Your mother was preparing Karah Prasad for the weekend, her hands moving with the rhythmic grace of a woman who had spent her life transforming devotion into food.
Jaskirat stood by the doorway, his broad frame casting a shadow across the threshold. He didn't enter—he never entered without an explicit invitation—but his eyes were fixed. The sweet, heavy scent seemed to act like a time machine, pulling his shoulders down from their military stance.
"Don't just stand there like a pillar, Jaskirat..!" your mother scolded gently, not looking up as she stirred the thick, golden paste. "My wrists are old, and this flour needs to be turned constantly before it burns. Come here."
Jaskirat blinked, surprised. He looked toward the courtyard as if searching for an excuse, but you were sitting at the dining table, your schoolbooks spread before you, watching him with a calm, encouraging smile.
He stepped into the kitchen. His large, scarred hand closed around the long wooden handle of the spatula, covering your mother's smaller fingers for a brief second before she stepped back, wiping her hands on her apron.
"From the bottom.." she instructed, her voice softening. "Fold it over. Don't let the heat settle in the center."
You watched him work. It was a beautiful, contradictory sight—the elite operative, the man who had torn through the underworld of Karachi like a scythe, now standing over a domestic stove, his face illuminated by the low, orange flame, carefully folding sweet flour for a family that wasn't his own. He did it with the same absolute, focused discipline he applied to everything. He didn't waste a single movement.
When the prasad was finished, thick and gleaming with ghee, your mother took a small portion on a stainless-steel plate. She didn't offer it to your father first, nor to Rohan. She handed it directly to Jaskirat.
"Taste it.." she said. "Tell me if the sweetness is right."
Jaskirat looked at the plate as if it held a fragile, living thing. He took a small piece with his fingers, blew on it softly to cool it, and placed it in his mouth. For a fraction of a second, his eyes closed. The memory of a kitchen in Pathankot, of a mother who had loved him before the darkness took him, seemed to wash over his face, smoothing out the deep, bitter lines around his eyes.
"It is perfect.." he whispered, his voice thick.
"Good." your mother said, her eyes crinkling with a deep, maternal satisfaction. "Then you will be the one to distribute it after the evening prayers."
By involving him in the sacred rituals of the house, your family was doing what you had hoped for: they were weaving him into the fabric of their lives, one thread at a time, until the pattern was too intricate for him to untangle himself from.
That evening, the routine continued, but the distance between you felt less like a wall and more like a bridge that was currently under construction.
You had stayed up late again, the light from your small desk lamp cutting through the blue darkness of the house. The school inspection had gone well, but the paperwork was endless. Your eyes were burning, your shoulders aching with the tension of the week.
A soft, rhythmic knock rattled the frame of your door. It was so quiet it could have been the wind, but you knew his touch.
"Come in.." you said, straightening your spine.
The door swung open silently. Jaskirat stood there.
"You are still awake.." he said. It wasn't a question; it was an accusation, but the tone was devoid of the cold stone he had used under the neem tree.
"Just a few more pages." you said, offering a tired smile.
He walked into the room, his bare feet making no sound against the floorboards. He set the cup down on the corner of your desk, far away from your inkwell so it wouldn't spill. "The light is a distraction. The whole house is dark except for this corner. Eat this. It has turmeric and almonds. Your mother said your throat sounded dry during dinner."
You reached out, your fingers wrapping around the warm clay of the cup. The heat felt wonderful against your cold palms. "Thank you, Jaskirat."
Instead of turning to leave immediately as he usually did, he stayed. He stood by the edge of your desk, his eyes scanning the neatly stacked textbooks, the small brass inkpot, and the framed drawing of a peacock one of your students had given you.
"You teach them well," he said suddenly, his gaze dropping to the notebook you were grading. "The children in the street... they speak of you with respect. They call you Didi as if you belong to all of them."
"They are good children..!" you said, looking up at him. "They just need someone to stay. Most teachers take the government salary and run back to the cities after six months. They think this place is a dead end."
Jaskirat looked at you, his dark brown eyes catching the yellow glare of the lamp. "And you don't?"
"No.." you said, your voice ringing with an authentic, grounded clarity. You set the cup down and leaned forward, your eyes locking onto his with an intensity that forced him to stay anchored. "I think a place is only dead if the people in it refuse to grow roots. I love this town. I love this house. And I love the people who find shelter behind that blue gate."
The implication was heavy, hanging in the narrow space between you like an unspoken vow.
Jaskirat’s hand, resting on the edge of the wooden table, flexed. He looked at your face—at the absolute sincerity, the lack of guile, the total absence of the suspicion that had defined his entire life. You were offering him a home, not as a reward for his service, not as a safehouse to hide from the Goverment or Omar, but simply because he was Jaskirat. Because you believed he was worthy of a tomorrow.
He swallowed hard, the muscles of his throat cording. For three years, his inner monologue had been a constant repetition of run, hide, forget. But looking at you in the warm glow of the lamp, the script felt old. Outdated.
"You are a dangerous girl." he murmured, his voice dropping to a rough, intimate whisper that sent a shiver straight down your spine.
"Why?" you asked, your breath catching.
"Because.." he said, taking a half-step closer, his large shadow swallowing yours against the wall. "You make a man think he can survive the things he has done. You make a man want to stay in the light."
Before you could reach out, before you could close the tiny, remaining inch between your fingers and his hand, he took a step back into the darkness of the hallway.
"Goodnight." he whispered.
The door closed softly behind him, the latch clicking into place with a sound that felt like a promise. You sat alone in the quiet room, the warm cup of turmeric milk cradled in your hands, a bright, beautiful smile breaking across your face.
He was still resisting, yes. He was still keeping his distance. But the wall was a wall of stone anymore, but of resistance. With every morning prayer, every shared meal, and every look shared in the dawn, you were washing it away. Piece by Piece. He wasn't going to leave. You would make sure of it..
The next morning, at the Gurudwara:
The sacred words of the Ardas echoed softly against the white marble walls of the Gurudwara, the sound carrying a profound, ancient weight that seemed to ground the very air. Inside the hall, the atmosphere was thick with the scent of burning ghee, fresh rosewater, and the sweet, heavy aroma of Karah Prasad.
Sunlight filtered through the ornate arched windows, cutting through the haze of incense in long, golden shafts that illuminated the dust motes dancing in the air.
Jaskirat stood in the second row, his tall, imposing frame squared, his hands folded tightly in front of his chest. The crimson dastar he wore was immaculate, a striking contrast to the simple white kurta your brother had given him. His eyes were closed, his long lashes dark against his cheekbones. For the first time in years, the lines on his forehead were smooth. He wasn't scanning the exits. He wasn't looking for a weapon. He was listening to the Guru’s word, his lips moving in a silent, desperate harmony with the granthi's chant.
You stood beside him, your head covered completely by a soft saffron dupatta. Every few moments, your eyes would drift from the holy book toward him. Watching him pray felt like witnessing a miracle. The man who had stood on a chair in a dark shack, completely swallowed by the desire to end his existence, was now standing in a house of God, his spirit reaching out for a redemption he had long thought impossible.
The trouble began in the courtyard, near the edge of the sarovar where the holy water rippled under a gentle breeze. Your family had stepped ahead to speak with the head granthi, leaving you and Jaskirat to walk slowly behind, carrying the steel plates from the prasad distribution.
An elderly woman, her face a beautiful map of wrinkles and her hair completely silver under her white veil, stopped in front of you. She looked at Jaskirat’s tall, commanding form, then at the protective, gentle way you walked right beside his shoulder. A warm, maternal smile broke across her face.
"Jeeti raho, beta..!" she said, her voice rich with the casual, affectionate blessing of an elder. She looked up at Jaskirat, her eyes twinkling. "Aapki jodi bohot pyaari hai. Waheguru aap dono ko hamesha khush rakhe, bilkul ek doosre ke liye bane ho."
The words hit the air like a sheet of ice.
Jaskirat went entirely rigid. His breath didn't just hitch; it stopped completely. He stared at the elderly woman, his eyes widening with a sudden, suffocating panic that you had never seen in him before—not even when he was facing a loaded gun in the slums.
"Mata-Ji-, aap galat—" you began frantically, your face burning with a sudden, intense heat as you tried to correct her.
But the woman had already patted your cheek with a soft, blessing hand and moved along into the crowd, completely unaware of the bomb she had just detonated in the quiet space between you.
You turned to look at Jaskirat. The change in him was instantaneous, terrifying, and total.
The warmth that had been building in his face over the last two weeks was entirely gone, replaced by a cold, gray mask of absolute horror. He wasn't looking at you; he was looking through you, his mind racing backward at a frantic, desperate speed.
In that single, agonizing second, Jaskirat realized something that chilled him to the bone. The old woman hadn't just made a random guess. She had seen the way he looked at you when you handed him the prasad. She had seen the protective, soft micro-expressions he thought he had buried deep beneath his skin. She had seen affection in his eyes—an affection so visible, so real, that a complete stranger could read it on his face in a house of prayer.
'I got too close.' his inner monologue screamed, the old, feral survival instincts slamming into his consciousness like a tidal wave. 'I let my guard down. I forgot who I am. I forgot what I carry.'
He didn't speak. Not a single word. When you reached out to touch his sleeve, his arm flinched away automatically, pulling back into his chest as if your fingers were made of fire. He turned on his heel and began walking toward the exit, his strides long, mechanical, and fast..
The walk back to the house was a nightmare of absolute silence.
Your father and Rohan tried to make conversation, mentioning the weather and the upcoming harvest, but Jaskirat didn't offer even a nod. He walked three paces ahead of the family, his back straight as an iron rod, his eyes fixed firmly on the dusty road before him. The crimson dastar, which had looked like a crown of dignity in the morning, now looked like a target.
When you reached the blue gate, he didn't wait for anyone. He walked straight through the courtyard, ignoring your mother’s offer of afternoon tea, and entered the clinic room. The heavy wooden door closed behind him with a dull, final thud
You stood in the kitchen, the clay cup of tea shaking in your hand. "He's just tired.." you whispered to your mother, though the lie tasted like ash in your mouth. "The walk was long for his ribs..."
Your mother looked at you, her eyes filled with a deep, sorrowful understanding that she didn't voice. She simply squeezed your shoulder, letting you go as the clock chimed, signaling it was time for you to leave for your afternoon remedial classes at the school.
During the entire three hours of teaching, your mind wasn't on the geography lessons or the grammar rules. It was in that quiet, dark room at the back of your house. You kept replaying the look of sheer panic in his eyes. You realized then that his distance hadn't been a lack of feeling; it had been a desperate attempt to protect you from himself. And now that the line had been crossed—now that the world could see he cared for you—the weapon had panicked.
The sun was setting by the time you pushed open the blue gate again, casting long, bruised shadows of purple and orange across the dirt courtyard. The house was unnaturally quiet. The steady, comforting sound of his sandpaper under the neem tree was missing.
You set your books down on the veranda bench and walked straight toward the clinic room, your heart hammering a frantic, irregular rhythm against your ribs.
"Jaskirat?" you called out softly, knocking on the frame.
There was no answer.
You pushed the door open. The air inside was cold, devoid of the eucalyptus scent and the warmth of his presence. The room had been scrubbed clean—cleaner than it had ever been.
The low wooden cot was stripped bare, the sheets folded into a perfect, military square at the foot of the mattress. The gray shirt Rohan had lent him was washed, pressed, and laid neatly on top of the linen. On the small wooden table beside the bed sat the five-meter length of crimson cotton cloth—the dastar you had given him—folded with absolute, heartbreaking reverence.
He hadn't taken a single thing that belonged to your family. He had left exactly as he had arrived: a man with nothing but the clothes on his back and the scars on his skin.
He was gone.
He had left without a word, without a signature, without a single footprint in the dust to show he had ever been there. He had fled the light the moment he realized it was beginning to warm him.
You walked over to the table, your knees trembling so violently you had to grip the edge of the wood to keep from collapsing. Your fingers brushed over the smooth, crimson cotton of the dastar. It was cold.
A hot, stinging tear spilled over your eyelid, tracking down your cheek and hitting the fabric, creating a single, dark circle on the cloth. The loneliness of the room rushed in to fill the void he had left behind, a suffocating, heavy weight that made it hard to breathe.
"Why?" you whispered into the empty space.
But the ghost had already retreated into the wilderness, choosing the familiar torment of his exile over the terrifying possibility of being loved. He had broken the circle you had built around him, leaving you with nothing but a folded piece of cloth and the echo of a name he had called a corpse..
The screen door creaked open.
A soft, hurried step crossed the threshold. Your mother was beside you in an instant
"He was healing, Maa.." you choked out, your fingers gripping the fabric of her apron. "He was learning to pray again. Why did he have to go back to the dark..?"
Your mother didn't answer. She only held you, tightly, as the room darkened from lavender to blue, the oil lamp on the kitchen counter outside casting a long, lonely finger of light across the floorboards.
By the end of the small Town, where the dirt roads dissolved into the jagged, broken stone of the dry creek bed, Jaskirat walked with his head down against the biting gale.
His left arm was pressed firmly against his side, his thumb hooking into the waistband of his trousers to keep his ribcage from shifting too violently. The walk from the village had been grueling; his body was still weak from the weeks of sepsis, the internal stitches pulling with a sharp, hot reminder that he was still made of breakable flesh.
But his mind was clear. The fog of the last two weeks had been burned away by the cold terror of that moment in the Gurudwara courtyard.
The old woman’s words rang in his ears like a sequence of gunshots. He had let his guard down. He had sat at their table, eaten their bread, and let the gentle, nurturing hands of a woman wash the grime from his knuckles until he forgot what those knuckles had done in the cornees of Karachi. He had looked at her with something resembling hope, and the world had seen it.
If a simple village elder could read the affection on his face, then everyone could. The Goverment could read it. If he stayed behind that blue gate for one more week, the people who hunted him would find the house, and they would tear it apart to get to him. He would not let her become a target. He would not let her kind heart be the reason a bullet entered that peaceful kitchen.
He stepped through the crooked doorway of his old shack. The corrugated tin roof groaned under the weight of the wind, making that rhythmic, metallic clink-clink-clink against the rotting wood.
The room was exactly as he had left it the night he had tried to die. The overturned wooden chair still lay in the corner, its legs pointing toward the ceiling like a dead animal. Jaskirat didn't look at it. He walked straight toward a loose brick in the back wall, his fingers reaching into the dark cavity behind it.
He pulled out his remaining belongings—the tiny things that constituted the sum total of his unregistered existence.
He slipped the items into the pocket of his thin linen coat. He was done. He would walk toward the highway, catch a night bus toward Gujarat, and disappear into the salt flats where nobody would ever ask his name or offer him honey for his bread.
He turned back toward the exit, his hand ready to push past the swaying door.
He didn't even make it to the Road.
The crooked door didn't swing open; it was kicked violently inward, the rusted hinge snapping with a sharp, metallic crack that echoed off the tin roof.
Jaskirat reacted instantly, his tactical instincts slamming through the exhaustion of his body like a jolt of electricity. His knees bent, his center of gravity lowering as his hands rose to form a defensive guard. But before his feet could find their purchase on the packed earth, three figures filled the narrow frame of the doorway, blotting out the pale moonlight.
They weren't drifters. They weren't seasonal laborers from the grain market.
In the center stood the young thug from Tuesday night—the one whose throat Jaskirat had crushed with his elbow in the alley. His neck was wrapped in a thick, dirty gray brace, his breathing a harsh, wheezing rattle that sounded like a broken bellows. His face was twisted into a manic, vindictive sneer, his eyes bloodshot and wide with a chemical, unhinged fury.
But he wasn't alone. Flanking him were two older men—heavy-set, hard-faced men from the local highway gangs, their clothes smelling of cheap country liquor, grease, and old sweat.
More importantly, the man on the right wasn't holding a stick or an iron pipe.
He was holding a heavy, black Soviet-era TT-33 pistol, the metal scratched and dull under the faint light of the stars. The barrel was broad, dark, and perfectly level, pointed directly at the center of Jaskirat’s chest.
"Going somewhere?" the young thug wheezed, his ruined voice cracking as he spat a mouthful of paan juice onto the dirt near Jaskirat's boots. "You thought you could just walk away? You thought you could break my throat and then go play house with the little schoolteacher behind the blue gate?"
Jaskirat stayed perfectly still. He didn't look at the gun; his eyes measured the distance between his boots and the shooter—five feet. Too far. In his current state, with his ribs still bound and his strength half-depleted, he would be dead before his weight shifted to lunge. The architecture of the room was against him. He was trapped in a box of mud and tin.
The man with the pistol took a slow step forward, the iron barrel never wavering. He didn't look like he wanted a conversation; he looked like a mechanic handling a routine piece of maintenance. He flicked his thumb downward, and the sharp, heavy click of the weapon being unsafed cut through the howling of the wind outside.
"Back up." the gunman muttered, his voice a flat, low rumble. "Inside. Move."
Jaskirat looked at the black circle of the muzzle. He felt a sudden, strange coldness settle over his skin—not the frantic panic of a victim, but the grim, mathematical acceptance of a soldier who had finally run out of options. The past had caught him before he could even reach the highway. The shadows hadn't waited for him to leave Rajasthan.
He looked past the three men, out toward the dark, empty horizon where the blue gate lay four miles away. 'She’s safe,' he thought, his heart regularizing into a slow, heavy beat. 'She’s with her mother. She’s crying, but she’s alive. This stays here.'
Slowly, deliberately, Jaskirat lowered his hands. He didn't raise his voice, and he didn't beg. He simply turned his body back toward the dark interior of the shack, his long coat rustling against the rotten wood of the frame as he took his first step backward into the room.
The three shadows followed him in, the door swinging shut behind them, cutting off the last sliver of the moonlight.
The interior of the shack became an oven of compressed violence the moment the door clicked shut. The howling of the desert wind outside was instantly replaced by the wet, erratic breathing of four men trapped in a box of mud and corrugated tin.
Jaskirat did not look at the faces of the men. To a trained asset, a face was an emotional distraction; he looked at the shoulders, the weight distribution of their hips, and the slight, telltale twitch of the gunman’s index finger against the curved trigger of the gun.
The heavy-set man with the pistol took one final step into the room, his boots crunching on the loose gravel. He was confident. He had the iron, he had the numbers, and he was looking at a man who had spent the last two weeks being carried around by a village doctor.
"On your knees." the gunman grunted, his voice flat, his left hand reaching out to grab Jaskirat’s shoulder to force him down.
He never finished the movement.
Jaskirat’s surrender had been a tactical ruse, a way to close the five-foot gap that kept him at the mercy of the bullet. The moment the gunman’s left hand entered his peripheral vision, Jaskirat’s entire posture shifted from a broken, defeated mam into the lethal shadow these past years formed him into.
He didn't scream. He didn't waste oxygen.
Jaskirat exploded upward and inside the gunman’s guard. His left hand shot out like a piston, his thumb and forefinger driving violently into the unprotected hollos of the gunman’s throat— The impact made the heavy-set man’s eyes roll back instantly, his nervous system short-circuiting from the sudden drop in blood pressure.
At the same time, Jaskirat’s right palm slammed upward against the bottom of the gun barrel, redirecting the weapon toward the tin roof just as the gunman’s dying reflex pulled the trigger.
BOOM
The explosion inside the enclosed shack was deafening, a physical shockwave that shattered the remaining glass in the small window frame and filled the air with the sulfurous, blinding sting of cordite. Before the shell casing could even hit the dirt, Jaskirat twisted his wrist, his calloused fingers locking around the gunman’s thumb and snapping it backward until the bone splintered through the skin with a wet, distinct pop
The gun fell from the ruined hand. Jaskirat caught it with his left hand mid-air, but he didn't use it to shoot. A gun was loud; a gun invited the village. Instead, he used the heavy iron butt of the pistol like a hammer, swinging it downward with a short, brutal arc into the temple of the second heavy-set thug who had lunged forward with a thick wooden club.
The metal connected with a horrific, hollow crunch. The second man’s legs turned to water instantly. He collapsed sideways, his face slamming into the overturned wooden chair in the corner, his body twitching in a violent, unconscious seizure as a dark, thick stream of red began to pool under his hair.
Two seconds. Two men down.
But the cost to Jaskirat’s own fractured body was catastrophic. The violent, sudden rotation of his torso had torn the internal sutures across his right ribs completely apart. A white-hot, paralyzing bolt of agony ripped through his side, so intense it turned his vision into a sheet of pure gray. He stumbled backward against the low wooden cot, his breath catching in his throat as a warm, heavy rush of his own blood began to soak through the linen of his shirt, turning the gray fabric instantly black.
"You bastard!"
The young thug with the gray neck brace didn't have the discipline of a soldier, but he had the feral, unhinged adrenaline of a coward who realized he was about to die. He didn't reach for the dropped pistol. He grabbed the heavy, seasoned willow cricket bat he had hidden behind the door and swung it horizontally with the full weight of his manic fury.
Jaskirat tried to raise his left arm to block, but his muscles refused to obey the command, paralyzed by the screaming nerves in his spine.
The flat wood of the bat connected directly with the left side of Jaskirat’s face.
The sound was a sickening, wet thwack The impact shattered Jaskirat’s cheekbone, splitting the skin from his temple to his jawline. The sheer momentum lifted his tall frame off his feet, launching him sideways. He crashed heavily into the rotten wooden pillar of the shack, the structure groaning as his weight broke through the old wood, before he hit the packed earth floor with a heavy, dust-raising thud.
He was on his hands and knees, his head hanging low, a thick torrent of blood pouring from his split nose and jaw, splattering against the dirt like heavy rain. He was drowning in his own fluid. His vision was a chaotic, spinning blur of shadow and orange light.
The young thug stepped over the body of his unconscious partner, his breath coming in ragged, high-pitched wheezes through his ruined trachea. He raised the cricket bat vertically, his face twisted into a demonic, sweating mask of pure hatred.
"Get up!" the thug screamed, his voice cracking into a high, thin screech. "Get up, you giant piece of shit! Look at me! Look at what I'm going to do to you!"
He brought the bat down with a frantic, rhythmic brutality.
Thwack. Thwack. Thwack.
The wood hit Jaskirat’s shoulders, his back, his thighs. Every blow was accompanied by a dull, wet sound as the muscle tissue bruised and tore beneath the linen coat. Jaskirat didn't scream—he had been trained in black sites where screaming only fed the interrogator—but his body convulsed with every impact, his fingers clawing uselessly into the cold dirt of the floor, his nails ripping until they bled.
The thug stopped, gasping for air, his hands shaking so violently he dropped the splintered bat. He reached down and grabbed Jaskirat by the long hair at the back of his head, hauling his face up out of the mud.
Jaskirat’s eyes were completely bloodshot, the left eyelid swollen shut and purpling rapidly He looked entirely broken—a monument of flesh and history finally brought down by the small, petty malice of the street.
"You're done.." the thug hissed, his breath foul against Jaskirat’s ear as he dragged him backward, against the low cot. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a long, rusted folding knife, the blade clicking into place with a sound that felt like a final sentence. "I'm going to carve you open right here. And then I'm going to that blue gate to find that girl."
At the mention of your name, a final, desperate ember tried to ignite in Jaskirat’s chest. He tried to lift his right hand to grasp the thug’s throat, to use the last ounce of his weight to crush the windpipe.
But the body had reached its limit.
The thug saw the movement and simply drove his heavy, steel-toed boot into the center of Jaskirat’s chest, directly over his sternum.
The young thug smiled, a hideous, unhinged expression, and raised the knife above Jaskirat’s throat.
Jaskirat let his head fall back against the wooden frame of the cot. The room was growing dark again, the spinning shadows finally slowing down into a cold, peaceful silence. He couldn't fight anymore.
He closed his one working eye, preparing himself..
The path to the dry creek bed was a blur of dust and fading gray light.
Your parents’ voices still echoed in your ears, frantic and heavy with fear, calling your name across the courtyard as you had bolted past the blue gate. “Don’t go, beta! If he left, he chose to leave! You can't run into the dark!” your father had shouted, his medical mind calculating the sheer danger of the desert at twilight. Your mother had reached for your shawl, her fingers slipping against the wool as you tore yourself away from her embrace.
But your mind had become a single, roaring engine of intent. You didn't care about the rules of the house. You didn't care about the propriety of a schoolteacher running through the village alleys with tears tracking through the dust on her cheeks.
All you knew was that a man who had forgotten how to live had just walked out into the winter gale with nothing but a broken body and a pocket full of ghosts. He was weak. His ribs were unstitched. He was going to die somewhere in the scrub oaks, and you refused to let the earth swallow him without a fight.
Your heart hammered against your ribs, a frantic, desperate rhythm. He wouldn't go to the highway yet. A man like him goes to the ruins to look at his wreckage one last time.. you were sure he went to the shack.
The wind bit through your thin kurta, freezing the sweat on your collarbone, but you didn't slow down...
You didn't see Jaskirat first; you saw the shadows.
You had just reached the perimeter of the abandoned brick-kiln, your breath coming in ragged, painful gasps, when you caught the movement near the crooked wooden door of his shack. You instinctively dropped behind a crumbling stack of rejected bricks, your fingers digging into the rough, sandy clay to steady yourself.
Through the deep twilight, you saw Jaskirat. He was standing on the threshold, his long linen coat billowing slightly in the wind, his tall frame instantly recognizable against the pale sky. But he wasn't alone. Three men had materialized from the darkness of the kiln structures, surrounding him like a pack of lean, hungry wolves.
You saw the flash of silver under the moonlight—the broad, brutal barrel of a heavy pistol leveled directly at his chest. You saw the young thug with the thick gray neck brace, his posture manic and twitching with a toxic, vindictive joy.
Your breath caught in your throat, a cold, paralyzing terror locking your jaw. You wanted to scream, to call out for Rohan, to run back toward the main road to find the village night watchman. But before you could even draw air into your lungs, the man with the gun shoved the iron barrel forward, forcing Jaskirat backward into the pitch-black maw of the shack. The crooked door slammed shut behind them with a dull, final crack that felt like a coffin lid clicking into place.
Then, the world inside the box exploded.
BOOM.
The gunshot was a physical shockwave that tore through the quiet of the creek bed, the sound so violent it made the brick stack beneath your hands vibrate. The single window of the shack shattered, shards of old glass raining down into the dry dirt like silver teeth.
Panic, pure and unadulterated, surged through your veins. They shot him. He’s dead..!
But as you lunged forward from your hiding spot, your boots throwing up silent plumes of dust, you didn't hear a body hit the floor. Instead, through the jagged, open frame of the broken window, you witnessed the horrific, compressed geometry of the combat.
You saw Jaskirat move. Even through the blur of your tears and the smoky, sulfurous haze of the cordite, his movements were terrifyingly fast. You saw his hand flash like lightning, striking the gunman's throat, saw the pistol drop, saw him swing the heavy iron butt of the weapon into the temple of the second attacker with a sickening, hollow sound.
For a single, breathless second, your heart leaped with hope. He’s going to win..!
But then, the illusion fractured.
The violent rotation of his body had undone everything your father had spent two weeks repairing. You saw Jaskirat stumble, his face going deathly white under the moonlight as he clutched his right side, his gray shirt instantly turning black with a sudden, heavy rush of his own blood. He was staggering, his balance gone, his breath coming in a wet, desperate wheeze.
And the young thug was already moving.
You watched in absolute, helpless horror as the cricket bat swung through the air. The flat willow connected with the side of Jaskirat’s face with a loud, wet thwack. The giant was launched sideways, his broad shoulder shattering the central wooden pillar of the shack before he hit the dirt floor like a felled oak.
"No..." you whispered, the word dying in your throat as you reached the exterior wall of the shack, your hands pressing flat against the cold mud brick.
Through the window, the violence became a rhythmic, mindless slaughter. You witnessed the bat coming down, over and over again, hitting his shoulders, his back, his spine. *
Thwack. Thwack. Thwack.
Every impact was a physical blow to your own chest. Jaskirat didn't scream, but his body convulsed, his fingers clawing uselessly into the dirt, his nails ripping until they left dark streaks in the mud. He was losing. The man who had protected you in the alley was being systematically broken into pieces before your eyes.
The thug stopped, gasping for breath, and hauled Jaskirat up by his hair, slamming his broken down body against the cot. Jaskirat’s face was unrecognizable—split open, blood bubbling from his mouth, his left eye swollen shut and purpling under the moonlight. He looked entirely emptied of the will to fight. He had given up. He was letting the dark take him.
Then, the thug pulled the knife.
The long, rusted folding blade clicked into place, catching the silver light of the moon. With a hideous, breathless laugh, the thug drove his boot into Jaskirat's chest and lowered the point of the iron directly toward the soft, exposed skin of his throat.
The metal pressed down. A single, thin line of bright crimson instantly broke through his dark beard, tracking down his neck like a red thread.
In that microsecond, the schoolteacher, the gentle girl who mended books and filled cups with honey, died.
A blinding, monochromatic, furious red flooded your vision, swallowing the fear, swallowing the logic, swallowing every lesson your father had ever taught you about peace. The sight of his blood—the blood he had tried to keep away from your house—ignited a primal, chemical fire in your soul. Your heart didn't beat; it roared. You weren't going to let them take him. You weren't going to watch him die in the dirt.
Your eyes dropped to the ground beside your boots, searching the debris of the old kiln for a weapon, a stone, anything.
There, half-buried in the sandy dirt near the foundation, lay a heavy, discarded piece of structural timber—a thick, weathered block of sal wood left behind by the roofers. It was split at the end, heavy enough to break a man’s shoulder, but that wasn't what caught your eye.
Embedded deep into the grain of the wood, rusted but unbroken, was a massive, four-inch iron spike—a thick, square-headed structural needle used to bind the old beams together. The jagged, pointed tip of the iron protruded fully two inches from the side of the wood, glinting like an executioner’s tooth in the pale light.
Your breath came in a sharp, feral snort. Your hands, usually so careful with ink and paper, dropped down. Your fingers closed around the rough, splintered grain of the timber, your grip tightening until the wood bit into your skin.
You lifted it. The weight was massive, straining the muscles of your forearms, but the adrenaline made you feel like you were made of stone. You stood tall in the shadows of the broken window, your eyes fixed on the back of the thug’s neck, your teeth bared in a silent, murderous snarl as you prepared to bring the fire into his dark.
Through the swelling, dark purple slit of his right eyelid, Jaskirat watched the final sequence of his life assemble itself.
The heavy, black pistol layed on the dirt floor three feet away, its metal barrel reflecting the pale, dusty moonlight. Near it, the second heavy-set thug—the one who had taken the iron butt of the gun to his temple—was beginning to stir. The man was groaning, a low, guttural animal sound, his large hands clawing weakly at the earth as he pushed himself up onto his knees.
Two of them.. Jaskirat’s tactical mind calculated, the thought slow, heavy, and distant, like an anchor dragging through deep mud. I missed the mark. The strike wasn't deep enough.
The young thug with the gray neck brace was hovering directly over him, his face twisted into a manic, sweating mask of absolute triumph. The rusted tip of the folding knife was pressing harder into the soft flesh of Jaskirat's throat. He could feel the thin, hot trickle of his own blood tracking down into his collar, warm and wet against his cold skin. He didn't blink. He didn't pull away from the blade. His body was a ruined temple; the internal sutures across his right ribs had liquefied into a hot, pooling agony that made it impossible to gather the oxygen required to strike.
He was waiting for the final thrust. He was preparing his spirit to leave the flesh behind, hoping against hope that his death here would satisfy the blood-debt, that these wolves would take their prize and leave the village without ever looking toward the blue gate.
Then, the window frame behind the thug didn't just rattle—it disintegrated.
There was no warning cry. There was only a sudden, catastrophic explosion of movement as a shadow burst through the ruined doorway, carrying a heavy, splintered block of sal wood like a weapon of divine vengeance.
Before the thug could even turn his head, the timber connected with the side of his skull.
The impact was horrific—a dull, splintering * crack that sounded like a melon being dropped from a roof. The sheer momentum of the strike tore the thug completely off Jaskirat's chest, launching his body sideways. He crashed heavily into the dirt floor, the folding knife flying from his grip and clattering against the rusted iron stand of the cot.
Jaskirat’s working eye widened in absolute, paralyzed disbelief.
It was you.
Your dupatta had fallen to your shoulders, your dark hair whipped into a wild, tangled mane by the desert gale. Your face was unrecognizable, distorted into an expression of pure rage. Tears were streaming through the thick layer of dust on your cheeks, leaving dark, muddy tracks, but there was no weakness in your stance. Your chest was heaving with short, feral snorts of air.
You didn't wait for the thug to stand. Before he could even lift his hands to wipe the blood from his shattered ear, you lunged forward, bringing the heavy block of wood down with the full, desperate weight of your body.
The four-inch iron spike embedded in the grain did its monstrous work.
Thwack.
The square-headed iron needle tore through the skin of the thug's cheek, biting deep into the jawbone with a sickening, wet crunch
"Leave him alone!" you screamed—a raw, jagged shriek that ripped from your throat, sounding less like a human voice and more like a wounded animal protecting its young. "Leave him! Leave him!"
The violence inside you had become an absolute, blinding red flood. As you raised the timber again, your mind didn't see the small shack; it flashed violently back to that night. You remembered the heavy iron pipe swinging toward your ribs, the terrifying, predatory grip of their fingers on your clothes, the suffocating panic of realizing no one was coming to save you. You remembered the sheer, disgusting audacity of these men—the monsters who had tried to tear your life apart, and who were now here, in the dirt, trying to extinguish the only light that had stood between you and the grave.
The anger was older than the night. It was the collective, ancient fury of every gentle thing that had ever been backed into a corner by a beast.
You brought the wood down again. And again. And again.
Crunch. Splash. Thwack.
With every blow, your screams grew wilder, a mix of frantic, childlike terror and protective fury. The iron spike tore through flesh, cartilage, and bone. The thug’s face ceased to look human within seconds, transforming into a horrific, dark crimson crater under the pale moonlight. Thick, dark blood splattered upward, catching you across the throat, painting your pale kurta in a frantic, irregular pattern of red rain. He tried to put his hands up, his fingers twitching in a useless, defensive reflex, but the heavy timber snapped his wrists like dry twigs.
"Don't touch him!" you sobbed, your voice breaking into a ragged, bloody whisper as you swung the wood one final time, driving the iron spike deep into the center of his forehead until the metal lodged firmly in the skull. "Don't you dare touch him!"
The thug’s body gave one final, violent convulsion, his remaining eye rolling back into his head before his limbs went entirely limp against the packed earth. He was dead. The silence that followed was deafening, filled only by the rapid, whistling rattle of your own lungs and the steady, heavy drip-drip-drip of red from the splintered wood onto the dirt.
The heavy piece of timber slipped from your fingers, hitting the floor with a dull, hollow thud. Your hands remained suspended in the air, your palms bright red, sliced open by the rough grain of the wood, your fingers hooked into claws as the adrenaline began to drain from your system, leaving behind a cold, paralyzing clarity.
You looked at the corpse. You looked at the blood on your sleeves.
A violent, involuntary heave shook your stomach, but you didn't let the horror take you. The madness didn't dissolve into panic; it redirected itself toward the only thing that mattered.
You dropped to your knees in the dirt, completely ignoring the red pooling around your feet, and rushed to Jaskirat’s side.
"Jaskirat.." you sobbed, your bandaged hands hovering over his chest, terrified to touch him, terrified that the slightest pressure would break what was left of his life. Your face was inches from his, your hot tears falling like rain onto his torn cheek, washing away the dark crust of blood beneath his eye. "Jaskirat, please... look at me. Are you okay? Please tell me you’re okay."
The giant lay against the cot, his breathing a shallow, wet whistle, but as your fingers finally settled gently against the uninjured side of his jaw, his eye opened. He didn't look at the dead man. He didn't look at the blood on your clothes. He looked only at you—at the girl who had entered the mouth of hell just to pull him back from the edge.
Jaskirat lay against the splintered frame of the low cot, his breath coming in shallow, wet whistles that tasted of copper and cold desert dust. Through the narrow, blood-rimmed slit of his right eye, your face was the only thing that held any focus. You were kneeling in the dirt beside him, your hands shaking so violently that the blood on your palms was splattering against his torn kurta like heavy rain. Your tears were hot, tracking clear lines through the mask of soot and grit on his skin, and your voice was a broken, frantic looping of his name.
He wanted to tell you to run. He wanted to raise his heavy, calloused hand to push you back toward the doorway, back to the safety of the blue gate and the ordinary world where girls did not have to smell the iron reek of a fresh kill.
But the air in his lungs was too heavy, and the silver ridge of his ribs felt as though it had been replaced by a red-hot iron bar.
Then, the floorboards behind you groaned.
A shadow shifted in the corner of the shack. The second heavy-set thug—the one who had taken the blunt force of the pistol to his temple—had fully regained consciousness. He was on his feet, his massive, square frame swaying unsteadily as his eyes adjusted to the pale moonlight cutting through the broken window.
The man looked down at the dirt. He looked at the horrific, unrecognizable mass of red and splintered wood that used to be his partner.
For one long, agonizing second, the remaining thug was completely frozen by the sheer, unadulterated shock of what you had done. He stared at the discarded piece of timber, at the iron spike still dripping with his friend's life, and then his gaze snapped to you—a twenty-three-year-old girl in a torn white kurta, weeping over a broken soldier.
The shock didn't make him run. It turned into a manic, desperate panic.
"You bitch!" the man roared, his voice a deafening, echoing screech inside the tin walls. He didn't look for his club; he simply launched his entire heavy-set bulk forward, his hands hooking into thick, claw-like shapes as he charged blindly across the five feet of mud separating him from your back.
He was fast, driven by the frantic survival instinct of a cornered animal. But to a man like Jaskirat, a running man was just a target with predictable geometry.
The soldier didn't need oxygen to wake up. The moment the thug’s roar hit the air, Jaskirat’s nervous system overrode the paralyzing agony in his body. The gray fog in his vision vanished, replaced by the cold, crystalline math of an active engagement.
Before you could even turn your head to see the threat behind you, Jaskirat’s left arm shot out.
His hand, broad and scarred as iron, closed around the fabric of your clothes. With one sudden, fluid, and violent jerk, he hauled your entire weight toward him. He didn't push you away; he pulled you in, tucking your head firmly beneath his chin, dragging your body flat against his broad chest. His right arm came over your shoulders like a heavy shield, locking you into the crook of his collarbone, burying your face in the clean, familiar scent of his cotton shirt so you wouldn't have to see the next second of the night.
At the exact same time, his bare right foot slid through the dust, his toes hooking into the trigger guard of the black pistol that lay discarded on the earth.
With a practiced, instantaneous flick of his ankle, he kicked the weapon upward into the air. His right hand released your shoulder for a fraction of a second, catching the checkered grip of the pistol mid-flight with the absolute, unthinking muscle memory of a man who had held a thousand guns in the dark.
The thug was already upon you, his heavy boots throwing up clods of dirt, his face twisted into a sweating, furious snarl just two feet from the edge of the cot.
Jaskirat didn't flinch. He didn't shift his weight, and he didn't adjust his stance to protect his broken ribs. He lay flat against the wooden frame, his left arm holding you so tightly against his heart that you could feel the violent, rhythmic thumping of his pulse against your cheek.
He brought the heavy iron barrel of the pistol up in a single, vertical line.
There was no hesitation. No warning. No human emotion in his working eye. He looked at the running man the way a carpenter looks at a nail.
BOOM.
The explosion inside the enclosed room was a physical hammer blow, a flash of orange fire that illuminated the cracked mud walls for a microsecond. The bullet left the muzzle at twelve hundred feet per second, traveling the short, ridiculous distance between them with absolute, unerring accuracy.
It entered the center of the charging thug's right eye socket.
The impact was instantaneous and final.
The momentum of his charge carried his dead weight forward for one more half-step, his boots dragging through the dirt, before his knees buckled inward. He crashed heavily to the floor, his face slamming into the earth just inches from the edge of the mattress, his body sliding into a still, heavy lump of denim and leather.
The pistol remained leveled at the space where the man's head had been, a thin, lazy wisp of blue cordite smoke curling from the hot muzzle.
Jaskirat’s hand didn't shake. His breathing didn't quicken. He held the weapon steady for exactly three seconds, his ears tuning past the ringing of the gunshot to listen to the perimeter outside.
Slowly, deliberately, Jaskirat lowered the hammer of the gun. He didn't drop the weapon; he let his arm fall limp against his thigh, his fingers remaining loosely wrapped around the iron grip, ready for a ghost that wouldn't come.
Down in the dark of his chest, you were still shaking, your fingers gripping the fabric of his kurta so tightly your knuckles were white. You had heard the explosion, had felt the sudden, massive jolt of his muscles as he fired, but you hadn't seen the blood. You had only felt the unyielding, solid weight of his body protecting yours from the storm.
"It’s over.." Jaskirat murmured into your hair. His voice was incredibly soft, a low, gravelly hum that vibrated directly against your collarbone. The cold stone of the soldier was gone, replaced by that deep, grounded warmth you had spent weeks looking for in the dawn. "He’s down. Don't look behind you."
He tightened his left arm around your waist, pulling you slightly higher until your head rested against his shoulder. His chin brushed the top of your hair, his breath coming in slow, disciplined exhalations that were trying to teach your own frantic lungs how to slow down.
The silence inside the shack was absolute now, broken only by the steady, dark pooling of fluid on the dirt floor and the sound of your own quiet, trembling breaths against his skin. You were safe. The wolves had been broken against the threshold, and the man who had tried to run into the desert was still sitting right there, his heart beating steady and loud beneath your hand, refusing to let the dark take either of you.
The smell of burnt gunpowder and wet earth faded into the background, leaving only the fierce, thumping reality of his heart beneath your cheek.
You didn't look at the floor. You didn't look at the shadows. With a ragged, trembling gasp that tore from the very bottom of your lungs, you leaned into him, sinking into the broad, broken expanse of his chest as if trying to disappear entirely into his skin. Your hands, still caked with dirt and the slick, drying heat of the timber, clawed into the fabric of his kurta.
It was an intimacy born of the wreckage, a silent collapse of the twenty years that separated your lives. Every boundary he had meticulously built—every cold word, every protective wall, every beti he had used to push you away—was completely washed away by the tide of your tears.
You were hyper-ventilating, your shoulders heaving in small, violent hitches, your forehead pressed against the hollow of his collarbone as you let the horror of what you had done finally break through your chest.
Jaskirat didn't pull away. He didn't warn you about his shattered ribs or the sharp, agonizing pull of his unstitched flesh.
Slowly, his right hand relinquished its grip on the heavy black pistol, letting the iron weapon drop silently into the dirt. He raised his large, scarred hands—the hands that had survived the dark world of Karachi—and cradled your face. His palms were rough against your skin, but his touch was incredibly gentle, his thumbs wiping away the muddy tracks of tears and dust on your cheeks with a reverent, trembling delicacy.
He leaned down, his forehead resting against yours for a long, breathless second. Then, deliberately, he pressed his split, bleeding lips against the center of your brow.
The kiss was long, heavy, and solemn—a silent, sacred seal placed upon your skin in the dark of a ruined shack. It wasn't just comfort; it was a surrender.
In that quiet, breathing space, the world shifted on its axis. The girl who entered the creek bed with a kind, nurturing heart was gone, replaced by a woman who had looked into the abyss and realized exactly what she was capable of to keep this man breathing. You had spilled blood for him. You had torn a life away to keep his from being extinguished. And as you held his face in the moonlight, a cold, unshakeable clarity settled into your bones:
I will protect his tomorrow. I will build a wall around him that no country, no police officer, and no ghost can ever breach.
And Jaskirat knew it.
He looked down into your amber eyes, his own dark gaze filled with a profound, terrifying devotion. For three years, his entire existence had been a calculation of flight—a constant, rhythmic chanting of run, hide, forget. But as he looked at the crimson stains on your kurta, the ancient script of the spy was erased forever. He could never leave you now. To leave you would be to leave his own soul behind in the dirt. He was no longer a passenger in your father's house; he was your anchor, bound to the soil of this village by a covenant written in red.
He didn't speak. There were no vows to exchange, no explanations that could match the absolute certainty of the silence.
Slowly, groaning with a deep, guttural pain that he forced back down his throat, Jaskirat pushed himself up from the low cot. He stood tall, his broad shoulders squared against the howling wind, though his frame trembled with the sheer, catastrophic exhaustion of his injuries. He looked down at you, his right hand extending into the space between you, his fingers open.
You reached out, your wrapped, bleeding palm sliding perfectly into his. His fingers closed around yours, a tight, unyielding grip of solid iron and warm flesh.
Together, you stepped through the ruined doorway, leaving the dead to the dark.
The long walk back to the village was an excruciating, beautiful test of endurance. Jaskirat limped heavily, his right leg dragging through the sand, his body leaning dangerously sideways as the internal sutures pulled at his chest. But he wasn't walking alone. Your arm was wrapped tightly around his waist, your shoulder wedged firmly beneath his armpit, your smaller frame bearing the immense, crushing weight of his stance. You became his spine, your feet digging into the loose gravel, steadying his stride every time his knees threatened to buckle under the pain.
As the pale very specific, lavender light of the pre-dawn began to bleed through the blue of the horizon, the village appeared before you like a sanctuary. The dry creek bed gave way to the packed dirt of the alleys, and there, at the end of the lane, stood the blue gate of your father's house.
The gate was unlatched, swinging slightly in the morning draft, a single oil lamp still burning on the veranda to guide you home. Hand in hand, bound by a secret the world would never understand, you walked toward the light, ready to finally begin the slow, quiet work of healing him—inside, and out..
