Saathiya (2) (18+)

 Anisa's pov 

“Bas thoda weight loss kar le Anisa to bhot pyari lagegi…” (Just lose a little weight, Anisa, and she’ll look so pretty…)

The aunty’s voice grated like cheap jewellery clinking too loudly. Her lips were painted a violent shade of maroon. I stretched my lips into yet another tight-lipped smile, the same one I’d been wearing for the past half hour like a badly fitted mask.

I sat straight on the cushioned chair of this overpriced restaurant. I felt like a trophy someone had carelessly placed on display—shiny, expensive, and completely lifeless. 

My gaze drifted—reluctantly—to the boy across the table. I didn’t even remember his name. Rohan? Rishi? It didn’t matter. His eyes weren’t on my face. They were fixed, shamelessly, on the deep neckline of my yellow suit, tracing the curve of my breasts like he’d already paid for the view. Heat crawled up my neck, not from flattery but from disgust. I shifted the small bouquet of white flowers my mother had thrust into my hands earlier. The sweet, heavy fragrance filled my nose, almost nauseating now.

My mother’s voice cut through the air, syrupy and practiced.

“Woh toh Anisa kar legi. Aap pareshan na ho Mrs. Ghosh.” (She’ll do it, don’t worry Mrs. Ghosh.)

She smiled at the woman like they were already best friends, already planning the nikaah (wedding) venue and the caterer. I felt the sigh rise in my chest but swallowed it down. Another rishta (match).

I hated this. Hated the way the AC was too cold on my bare arms, hated the way my stomach was clawing itself from hunger because my mother told me not to eat anything. 

But today… today the hatred felt distant, muffled.

Because last night was still burning under my skin.

The memory hit me sudden—his lips on mine, rough and desperate and impossibly soft at the same time. My brother’s best friend. The one person I was never, ever supposed to want.

He was so tall I had to tilt my head back to meet his eyes—dark, endless, furious when he’d seen the way those men were cornering me. His knuckles were split open, blood smearing across his fingers as he shoved one of them back. And still, when he pulled me into the shadow and kissed me like the world was ending… those same bloody hands had cradled my face so gently I almost cried.

I could still feel the taste of him—salt and whiskey and something darker, something that made my thighs clench. My panties had been soaked by the time he finally pulled away, breathing hard, eyes wild with guilt and hunger. I hadn’t slept. I couldn’t. Every time I closed my eyes I felt his mouth again, felt the way his body had pressed me against the brick wall, solid and trembling with restraint.

I wanted to text him. I wanted to steal his number from my brother’s phone while he was in the shower.

But before I could even form a plan, my mother had marched into my room at eight this morning, yellow suit already laid out on the bed like battle armour.

“Ready ho jao, rishta hai.” (Get ready, there’s a match.)

And now here I was—starving, humiliated, and still throbbing from a kiss I wasn’t allowed to keep.

My stomach let out a loud, traitorous growl.

I cleared my throat, forced another polite smile. “Excuse me… washroom jati hoon.” (I’m going to the washroom.)

No one really noticed. They were too busy discussing dowry expectations disguised as “modern family values.”

I slipped away, heels clicking faster than necessary across the marble floor.

At the far end of the restaurant, near the dessert counter, I stopped. Far enough that my mother’s sharp eyes couldn’t reach me.

“Hey!” I leaned over the counter, voice low and urgent. “Please give me 2 chocolate donuts and 1 croissant. Jaldi.” (Quickly.)

The boy behind the counter blinked, then grinned. 

I paid in cash, crumpled notes I’d hidden in my clutch for emergencies exactly like this.

I shoved the last piece of donut into my mouth in huge, greedy bites, chocolate smearing my lips. Someone probably thought I was some starving street girl finally getting food after days—I didn’t care. 

I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand and hurried back toward the table.

As I approached, I noticed them—two men in dark jackets, moving slowly between tables like they were looking for someone. They weren’t eating. They weren’t talking to anyone. Their eyes kept flicking toward our table.

My skin prickled. In our family, you learn early: when your family business enemies carry grudges longer than lifetimes, you stay alert. Always. Today we had only one guard with us—the bare minimum—and he was outside with the car. No backup.

The aunty finally stood up, adjusting her saree with a satisfied smile.

“Humein aapko rishte ka faisla call par bata denge,” (We’ll let you know our decision about the match over the phone) she said, voice dripping with fake warmth. We exchanged stiff hugs, air-kisses that smelled of too much perfume, and then they were gone.

The moment the door closed behind them, I turned to Ammi.

“Ammi, we should call Zaid bhai,” I said quickly, voice low.

Her eyes narrowed instantly. “Nahi. Tum chahti ho usse pata chale ki hum yahan aaye hain?” (No. You want him to find out we came here?) She hissed the words, anger flashing across her face like a warning.

“Ammi! I don’t feel right. Aisa lag raha hai koi peechha kar raha hai.” (It feels like someone is following us.)

She laughed once—short, cruel. “Itni sundar nahi ho tum jo koi tumhara peechha kare. Kambakht ladki.” (You’re not so beautiful that someone would follow you. Stupid girl.)

The words sliced deep, sharp as glass. I pressed my lips together, swallowed the sting, and followed her toward the exit. 

Outside, the late afternoon sun was blinding. Our lone guard was already waiting, engine running. I reached for the back door handle—

Crack. Crack. Crack.

Gun shots shattered the air.

“Ammi!!”

“Anisa!?”

We screamed at the same time. One bullet punched through the car window in a spray of glass. The ordinary car—no bulletproof glass, no reinforced doors.

I didn’t think. I grabbed Ammi’s wrist and yanked her back toward the restaurant doors. We ran, heels slipping on the polished floor. Behind us, two more shots cracked—our guard cried out and dropped, blood blooming dark across his white shirt.

We burst inside. Chaos erupted: people screaming, tables overturning, waiters ducking. I dragged Ammi down behind the nearest heavy table, both of us crouching low, hearts hammering so loud I could barely hear the gunfire outside.

“Ca…ll Zaid!” Ammi gasped, voice shaking. Her manicured nails dug into my arm. We peered through the glass wall outside. 

Our car looked like a sieve—holes everywhere, tires flat, smoke rising from the hood. Four men in black mask now surrounded it, guns raised, scanning for us. They weren’t random. 

I fumbled for my phone—then froze.

“Ammi… my purse… bahir.” (Outside.)

It lay on the ground near the shattered car door, glittering uselessly in the sunlight. Phone inside. Zaid’s number inside. 

Ammi’s face went pale. Outside, one of the men kicked the guard’s body aside like trash.

“You two need to leave, ma’am! Aapki wajah se hotel par firing ho rahi hai!” (Because of you two, there’s firing in the hotel!)

The hotel staff member’s voice cracked with panic as he waved us toward the side exit, eyes wide and terrified. No one was coming to help. Guests were scrambling under tables, phones shaking in their hands, but no one dared step closer. We were being pushed away like a problem they wanted gone.

Tears streamed down my face now, hot and unstoppable. Ammi was crying too—quiet, broken sobs that made her whole body tremble. I didn’t want to die like this.

Ammi stood frozen, staring through the shattered glass at the guard’s unmoving body sprawled on the asphalt, blood pooling dark under him. I followed her gaze. The four masked men outside were moving with purpose now—hand signals, quick nods. One of them broke off from the group and strode toward the main entrance, gun raised.

“Call the police! He’s entering!” a staff member shouted from somewhere behind the reception desk.

The gunman’s gloved hand reached for the door handle.

Then—crack.

A single, clean shot.

A perfect red hole appeared between his eyes. His body jerked once, then crumpled, collapsing right at the threshold. The door didn’t even swing open.

Three more shots rang out in rapid succession—precise, almost musical. 

Crack. Crack. Crack.

Three more bodies dropped, guns clattering uselessly beside them. One twitched once and went still.

“Ya Khuda…” (Oh God…) Ammi breathed, hand flying to her mouth. Her eyes were huge, disbelieving. It had happened so fast. Too fast. Too clean.

I stared, heart slamming against my ribs.

A figure stepped out from behind a parked SUV, moving with the lazy confidence of someone who owned the chaos around him.

Black shirt, sleeves rolled to the elbows. Sunglasses perched low on his nose even in the fading daylight. A cigarette dangled from the corner of his mouth, smoke curling lazily upward as he exhaled. In his right hand, a matte-black rifle still smoking at the muzzle.

He walked toward the entrance like it was a Sunday stroll in Garden. No hurry. No fear. Just that slow, predatory stride that made every muscle in my body remember last night—his hands on me, his mouth claiming mine, the same lethal calm now turned outward.

Adil.

My Adil.

He stepped over the first dead body without breaking stride, kicking the gun aside like it was trash. His lips moved as he looked down at the corpse.

“Bastards,” I read on his mouth.

He flicked the cigarette to the ground, crushed it under his boot, and pushed the shattered glass door open with his hand

His eyes—those dark, endless eyes.

The gunfire outside was done. The screams had quieted to whimpers. Ammi’s hand gripped my arm so tight it hurt, but I couldn’t look away from him.

He was here.

He had come.

Glass crunched under his boots.

His eyes didn’t dart around searching. He already knew exactly where we were.

He turned right without hesitation, gaze locking on the overturned table we were crouched behind.

“You shouldn’t have come alone,” he said, voice low and steady.

“Oh Adil, chanda!” (my moon!) Ammi gasped. She scrambled up from the floor, saree tangled, tears streaming, and ran straight to him.

I rose slowly, legs shaky, heart hammering.

“Salam, Ammi.” He gave her greetings. Ammi reached up, trembling fingers brushing his cheek in dua (blessing).

“Shukriya mera chanda. Zaroor Zaid ne kaha hoga tumhe humare liye.” (Thank you, my moon. Zaid must have told you about us.) She wiped her tears with the edge of her pallu, voice cracking.

“Ab aap safe hain. Ghar chalte hain,” (Now you’re safe. Let’s go home) he said gently, placing a reassuring hand on her shoulder.

Ammi nodded, still sniffling. Adil tilted his head once—barely a movement—and a guard materialized from the shadows near the side entrance. Black tactical vest, earpiece, no questions asked. He offered Ammi his arm like a gentleman and guided her toward the back exit, murmuring something about the car waiting.

Then it was just us.

He walked toward me. Slow.

“You look beautiful, Gulabo,” he murmured, voice rough velvet, low enough that only I could hear.

That one word—Gulabo (my rose)—undid me.

I didn’t think. I just moved.

My arms wrapped around his neck, fingers sinking into his hair. My glossy lips crashed against his smooth ones in a kiss that felt like drowning and breathing at the same time.

“Oh damn!!”

“What is this!? A movie!?”

Murmurs rippled through the stunned crowd—waiters peeking from behind counters—but I didn’t care.

We kissed like we were starving.

Like the world had ended ten minutes ago and this was the only thing left that mattered.

His hands found my waist, pulling me flush against him. One palm slid up my back, possessive, steadying me when my knees threatened to give out. His mouth tasted like smoke and danger and everything I’d been craving since last night. 

“You should be punished,” he chuckled, the sound low and rough against my lips as he broke the kiss.

My breath hitched. Lust and leftover anxiety coiled tight in my chest, making my voice come out husky and daring. “Then punish me.”

His dark eyes searched mine for a long second—reading every frantic beat of my heart, every tremor I couldn’t hide. Then, instead of claiming my mouth again, he leaned in and pressed the softest kiss to my forehead. His arms wrapped around me, strong and steady, pulling me into his chest until I could feel his heartbeat slowing mine.

“Calm your heart, Gulabo. You are safe,” he murmured into my hair.

He always knew. That’s what made him different—dangerous, yes, but also the only person who could see through my reckless actions straight to the fear underneath.

His phone buzzed sharply in his pocket. He pulled it out—Zaid flashing on the screen.

“Chalna hoga. He’s waiting for us at home,” Adil said, voice calm again, all business.

I nodded.

We walked out together, his hand firm around mine. I didn’t want to see their faces. Didn’t want to remember how easily lives ended today.

Ammi was already in the back seat of the waiting SUV, phone pressed to her ear, voice trembling as she spoke to Abbu. In her fear she’d completely forgotten I existed for a moment—the sting of that hurt more than I wanted to admit. I swallowed it down.

Adil opened the door for me. I slid in beside Ammi. He took the front passenger seat. The guard started the engine without a word.

Through the rearview mirror, I caught Adil’s eyes on me. A faint sheen of my gloss still shimmered on his lower lip. Heat rushed to my cheeks. He noticed—his mouth curved into that slow, knowing smirk that always made my stomach flip.

I looked away quickly, biting my lip to hide my own smile.

The drive to the haveli felt endless and too short at once. Ammi’s voice rose and fell on the phone—Abbu’s deep, soothing tones coming through the speaker, calming her the way only he could.

We pulled through the massive iron gates of the haveli. The courtyard was already lit up, cars parked haphazardly. 

The moment we stepped inside haveli, chaos swallowed us.

“Anisa! Meri bachi!” Badi Ammi rushed forward, enveloping me in her soft, perfumed embrace. Her arms shook as she held me tight, muttering prayers under her breath.

I hugged her back, letting her familiar scent—attar of roses and home—ground me.

Then Abbu’s voice cut through, sharp with barely-leashed anger.

“Shifa… Iss tarah ghar se bin bataye jaane ki kya zarurat thi?” (Shifa… what was the need to leave the house without informing anyone like this?)

He stood arms crossed, eyes blazing. Zaid was beside him—jaw clenched, fists tight at his sides, looking ready to break something. Bade Abbu (Rafiq’s father) stood calm while Badi Ammi clung to me like she’d never let go.

Adil stepped against pillar beside my brother, smoothly. 

“Toh kya karti!?” Ammi burst out, voice cracking with fury. “Aapko Anisa ki koi fikar hi nahi. Koii rishta nahi karwaya apne!” (So what was I supposed to do!? You don’t care about Anisa at all. Now no one will even consider a match for her!)

Zaid’s head snapped up. “Sirf 19 ki hai wo, Ammi! Chhoti hai abhi! Kuch toh soche!” (She’s only 19, Ammi! She’s still so young! Think about something!)

His voice was low, controlled, but the anger underneath vibrated through the air. I slipped out of Badi Ammi’s arms and walked straight to Abbu. He opened his arms without a word. I pressed my face into his chest, inhaling the familiar scent. His hand came down on my head—gentle pats that said more than words ever could. I felt some of the tension leak out of him.

“Agar aaj Adil wahan na hota, kya hota janti bhi hai aap, Ammi?” Zaid continued, voice rising now. (If Adil hadn’t been there today, do you even know what would have happened, Ammi?)

He took a step forward, pointing vaguely toward the gate. “Kisi ko nahi pata tha ki aap bahar hain baghair guards ke. Sabko laga Anisa college mein hai aur aap kitty party mein!” (No one knew you were out without guards. Everyone thought Anisa was at college and you were at your kitty party!)

He exhaled sharply. “Woh toh shukar hai Adil ne aapko sahi waqt par dekh liya aur bacha liya.” (Thank God Adil spotted you at the right time and saved you.)

The words landed like stones in still water. My pulse stuttered.

He wasn’t sent by Zaid.

Adil hadn’t been told. He hadn’t been asked.

He had just… been there.

Stalking me.

The realization hit hard and sweet at the same time. That’s how he knew exactly where I was. That’s how he appeared like a shadow made flesh, gun in hand, cigarette in mouth, saving us before anyone else even realized we were gone.

I lifted my head from Abbu’s chest and found Adil.

He stood a little apart from the family circle—arms crossed loosely, posture relaxed, but his eyes were fixed on me. Calm. Unreadable. 

Abbu’s hand smoothed over my hair again, grounding me.

“Shifa…” Badi Ammi spoke softly, breaking the heavy silence. Her voice was gentle, almost pleading. “Zaid ka kehna sahi hai. Abhi waqt hai nikaah ke liye.” (Zaid is right. Now is the time for her nikah.)

“Aap toh rehne dein Amal! Kisi ko meri beti ki parwah nahi.” (You just leave it, Amal! No one cares about my daughter.)

Ammi’s voice cracked as she turned away, tears streaming freely now. She gathered the folds of her saree and climbed the wide marble stairs to her room. 

I hated this—all of it. The shouting, the blame, the way fear turned everyone into strangers for a few minutes. 

“Abbu… Ammi se baat kijiye,” I said softly, looking up at him. Only he could calm her when she spiraled like this.

He exhaled slowly, the anger draining from his face, leaving only exhaustion and love. He reached out, brushed a stray tear from my cheek with his thumb.

“Tum theek ho?” he asked, voice gentle, the way it always was when it was just us. (Are you okay?) 

I managed a small smile and nodded. “Haan, Abbu.” (yes, father) 

He pressed a kiss to my forehead, then turned and followed Ammi upstairs.

I shifted my gaze to Zaid bhai. He was still standing there, arms crossed, jaw tight, looking like he wanted to argue.

“Room mein jaao. Rest karo,” he said sharply. “Aur bahar nahi jaungi Ammi ke saath tum.” (Go to your room. Rest. And you’re not going out with Ammi anymore.)

His tone was pure big-brother command—angry, protective.

“Zaid,” Bade Abbu warned quietly, a single word carrying enough weight to make Zaid’s mouth snap shut.

I knew why he was like this. He’d almost lost us today. But still—I stepped closer and punched his bicep lightly, just hard enough to make him grunt.

“Over-dramatic mat bano, bhai,” I muttered under my breath.

He looked down at me, but the corner of his mouth twitched—like he couldn’t stay mad. I gave him a quick side-hug, then slipped away before he could lecture me again. I knew he cared. That was the only reason he ever got this angry.

Changing into Comfy shorts and an oversized t-shirt. Bare feet on the cool floor. I crawled onto the bed.

Exhaustion hit like a wave.

My eyes drifted shut almost immediately.

And then the dreams came—soft, hazy, warm.

“Naughty little thing you are…” a deep, velvet voice murmured right against my ear.

I moaned into the pillow, hips shifting restlessly. 

“Bhot geeli ho tum, Anisa,” he growled, voice dripping with dark satisfaction. (You’re so wet, Anisa.)

I buried my face deeper, muffling another helpless moan as slick warmth spread between my thighs. My body was betraying me—aching, dripping, desperate—even in sleep.

“You should be punished,” Adil’s voice continued, low and teasing, “but looks like you’re enjoying your punishment already.”

God, he sounded sinful in my dreams—rough, possessive, every word stroking me like a physical touch.

“Oh my Gulabo… tumhari chut itni tight hai,” he rasped. (Your pussy is so fucking tight.)

I gasped sharply as something thick and hot pressed against my entrance—then slowly, deliberately pushed inside (his fingers). The stretch was exquisite, burning in the best way. My walls fluttered around the intrusion, greedy, pulling him deeper.

Two dark eyes suddenly collided with mine.

Daylight poured through the curtains.

I was wide awake.

And I was naked.

Adil's face was between my spread thighs, forearms braced on either side of my hips. His dark hair was messy, lips wet from like my pussy was and eyes with raw hunger as he looked up my body. 

“Good evening, Gulabo,” he smirked, slow and filthy, voice wrecked from desire.

“Yeh sapna nahi tha,” I gasped, voice trembling. (This isn’t a dream.)

“Mujhe sapno mein bhi yaad karti ho, Gulabo?” he murmured, voice like smoke and sin. (You think of me even in your dreams, Gulabo?)

Before I could answer, he surged up and claimed my mouth in a bruising, starving kiss. His tongue plunged inside, tasting me like he’d been dying for it. I moaned into him—“Oh Adil…”—fingers tangling in his hair, pulling him closer.

He settled between my legs, big hands gripping my thighs, spreading me wide.

“Mmmmm… itni pyari chut hai tumhari, baby,” he groaned and moved his fingers against my soaked folds. (Such a pretty little pussy, baby.)

His tongue flicked out—slow, deliberate—lapping a long stripe from my entrance to my clit.

“Ahhhh—Adil!”

He growled in approval. Then he devoured me.

Tongue plunging inside, curling, thrusting like he was fucking me with his mouth. Lips sealing around my clit. 

I was shaking—moaning brokenly, hips grinding shamelessly against his face. My hands fisted the sheets, then his hair, holding him there as pleasure coiled tighter and tighter.

“Look at you,” he rasped between licks, voice muffled against my dripping core. “Soaking my tongue, clenching around my fingers like you never want me to stop.”

I couldn’t speak—only whimper, thighs trembling around his head.

“Come for me, Gulabo,” he commanded, curling his fingers against that spot inside me while his tongue lashed my clit without mercy. “Come all over my face like the bad

girl you pretend to be.”

He finally lifted his head, lips glistening, eyes black with lust.

“Not done with you yet, baby,” he whispered, voice dark promise. “You wanted punishment?”

“Mmmmm pair kholo apne. Dekhne do mujhe tumhari choti si chut… jo sirf main maar sakta hoon,” Adil growled low against my ear, voice thick with possession. (Spread your legs for me. Let me see that tiny little pussy… the one only I get to ruin.)

My thighs trembled as I obeyed, parting them wider, knees falling open on the rumpled sheets. Cool air kissed my soaked folds and I whimpered at the exposure—completely bare, completely his.

“Mmmm aahhh Adil… ahhh…” Words dissolved into broken moans. Pleasure coiled so tight in my core I could barely breathe.

“Don’t cum yet!!” he ordered suddenly, fingers freezing inside me just as my walls started fluttering wildly around them.

I cried out in frustration, hips jerking uselessly, tears pricking the corners of my eyes. So close—so fucking close—and he’d stopped.

He chuckled, low and evil, the sound vibrating straight to my clit. “Itna desperate ho gayi meri Gulabo?”

Then his fist wrapped in my hair—firm, not painful, just enough to yank my head back so I had to look up into those burning eyes.

“Aaj ke baad kisi aur se nikaah karne ka socha bhi toh har raat bistar par hi padi rahogi yuhi,... chudi hui,” he rasped, lips brushing mine as he spoke. (After today, if you even think of marrying someone else, every night you’ll be lying in bed just like this—fucked out, dripping, ruined.)

I gasped, the crude promise sending a fresh gush of wetness between my legs.

“I’m possessive,” he continued, voice dropping darker, “aur jo mera hai woh sirf mera hai.” (And what’s mine stays mine.)

He crashed his mouth to mine—hard, claiming, tongue plunging deep like he wanted to devour my soul. I drowned in it, clinging to his shoulders, nails digging into his back as he kissed me senseless.

When he pulled away, we were both panting.

He shifted behind me in one fluid motion, sitting up against the headboard and dragging me between his powerful thighs. My back pressed to his chest, his heat seeping into me. Strong hands gripped under my knees and spread me wide—obscenely open, thighs hooked over his, my dripping pussy on full display.

“Sirf meri Anisa,” he whispered against my neck, sliding one thick finger deep inside me in one smooth glide. (Only my Anisa.)

I moaned, head falling back on his shoulder.

“Sirf meri chut.” A second finger joined the first, stretching me deliciously. (Only my pussy.)

My hips bucked, chasing the fullness.

“Sirf mera ishq.” And then he started—fast, ruthless, curling those long fingers against that perfect spot inside me over and over. (Only my love.)

The wet sounds of my arousal filled the room, obscene and intoxicating. His free hand roamed—pinching my nipples, sliding up to collar my throat lightly, owning every gasp.

I shattered in seconds.

“Ohhhh gooooodddd—”

“Yesss yesss come on… squirt more baby!!!” he encouraged, voice rough with pride as my body obeyed him completely.

“Aur paani nikalo babyy!!!! Pura bistar geela kar do apni chut se!!!!” (Squirt more, baby!!! Soak the whole bed with that pretty pussy!!!!)

His filthy words tipped me over again—harder. I came with a broken cry, pussy clenching violently around his fingers, clear fluid gushing out in hot pulses, drenching his hand, my thighs, the sheets beneath us.

I collapsed back into his arms, chest heaving, limbs heavy.

He chuckled softly—dark, satisfied—and pressed tender kisses into my damp hair.

“Take rest. Aaj ki punishment end karte hain,” he murmured, voice gentle now. (Let’s end today’s punishment here.)

He leaned down, captured one swollen nipple between his lips, sucking softly once, twice, before laying me down on the ruined bed like I was something precious.

I barely registered the sheets sticking to my skin, the faint ache between my legs, the way his scent clung to me everywhere.

My eyes fluttered shut.

Sleep pulled me under fast. 

And even as darkness claimed me, one truth burned bright behind my closed lids:

Adil.

My Adil.

The only man in my heart.

The only one in my dreams.

And after today… maybe the only one I’d 

ever let inside me at all.

___________________________________