Saathiya (7) (18+)

 

Adil's POV

One year later...

"Taiyari kar lo, Adil Shehzaade... yeh mission tumhara hai."  

(Prepare yourself, Adil Prince... this mission is yours.)

Zaid's hand landed heavily on my shoulder, a firm pat that carried the weight of brotherhood. I stared down at the scattered documents on the heavy oak table—maps marked in red ink, lists of names crossed out or circled, photographs of faces I’d rather forget. My fingers tightened around the edge of one file until the paper crinkled.

I let out a slow, weary sigh, the sound barely audible over the low hum of the basement's air conditioning. My mind was still tangled in the horror from a few days ago—the screams that had echoed through the haveli corridors, the metallic scent of blood that lingered like a curse. I nodded absently, thoughts drifting despite myself.

"Eid celebration?" I asked, glancing up at Zaid. He was hunched over a separate stack of cream-colored invitation cards, his pen hovering uncertainly.

He shook his head, a sharp, tense motion. The simple question seemed to coil tighter around his nerves.

Rafiq's presence in the haveli had turned every person into a potential threat. The Don had drawn enemies like flies to spilled honey—old rivals, new opportunists, revenge that grew louder with each passing month. Inviting the right people, and only the right people, was no longer a courtesy. It was survival.

I felt the familiar knot of tension twist in my gut. This Eid wasn’t about joy or family gatherings for us. I was buried neck-deep in security arrangements—extra snipers on the rooftops, encrypted comms, background checks that went back three generations, hidden panic rooms reinforced with steel. Every detail had to be flawless. One mistake, and everything we’d built could crumble.

Everything had changed in this past year. One full year since Anisa had stormed into my life like a wildfire and saved me from that suffocating, unwanted marriage arranged by powers far beyond my control. My girl—my fierce, brilliant, reckless Anisa—had done the impossible. She’d challenged Sabria outright, not with weapons or threats, but with quiet, unyielding words. Sabria’s pride was sky-high; she’d never lower herself to beg me, and I would die before I ever begged her.

That single act had bought us freedom. One precious year of breathing room, of stolen nights and promises, of mornings where I woke up to her head on my chest and sunlight filtering through the curtains like a blessing.

I thanked God every single day for her. For her boldness that could cut through steel, for the way her eyes flashed when she was angry or teasing, for how she owned every inch of me—body, soul, and the battered heart I’d thought was beyond repair. She didn’t just hold my heart; she ruled it, fiercely and completely.

Zaid’s phone buzzed sharply on the table. He snatched it up, his voice dropping to that clipped, professional tone reserved for political calls. I tuned out the words—something about alliances, donations, veiled threats disguised as favors. We were deep in the basement of the Ali Zaveri family haveli, surrounded by concrete walls that swallowed sound.

The Ali Zaveri household had been shaken to its core recently. The truth about Dalia’s life had finally spilled out like poison—sweet, innocent Dalia, the calm girl who always smiled too softly, had been enduring years of silent abuse at the hands of her stepmother. Bruises hidden under long sleeves. 

My chest tightened with genuine pity every time I thought of her. But Rafiq… Rafiq had felt something far darker.

I still remembered the scene that had left even the hardest men speechless. Rafiq, the Don who spoke in measured tones and never raised his voice, had become a storm of rage. The grand staircase had run red with that woman’s blood. He’d chopped off her arm with a single, deliberate swing—clean, precise, merciless. The air had reeked of copper and fear. Everyone had frozen, hearts hammering, as the woman’s screams died into wet gurgles.

It hadn’t shaken me. Not really. Zaid neither. We’d seen this side of Rafiq before—the quiet monster that lived beneath his calm exterior. He was a man of few words, always in control, ice in his veins. But when it came to Dalia… something snapped inside him.

For her, he would burn the world to ash and smile while doing it. He’d tear apart anyone who dared hurt her, carve out their hearts if it meant she could sleep peacefully. That kind of devotion was terrifying. And beautiful, in its own twisted way.

I rubbed a hand over my face, pushing back the memories. Anisa’s face flashed in my mind—her mischievous smile, the way she’d tilt her head and say, “Tum meri ho, Adil. Hamesha.” (You are mine, Adil. Always.)

I clung to that thought like a lifeline. Amid the blood, the missions, the endless shadows of our world, she was my light. My reason.

My secret with Anisa isn’t secret at all—not to Rafiq. He caught us once, months ago. Her laughter had slipped out too loud, my hand tangled in her hair, pulling her closer. He’d stepped out from the darkness. No words. Just those eyes—cold steel wrapped in warning. One look, and I knew: he saw everything, judged everything, and chose silence. For now.

The rest of the family knows too, in that quiet, knowing way families do. But marriage? That door stays firmly shut. Anisa isn’t ready—and honestly, neither am I willing to force her. She wants to live first. Breathe. Finish her degree, wear whatever outrageous outfit catches her eye without anyone’s permission. And I… I just want her to have all of it. I’ll wait. I’ll support her through every exam, every heartbreak, every wild dream. She’s worth centuries of patience.

A low growl pulled me from my thoughts.

Kebab and Aladdin—my so-called dogs—were circling the basement like sentinels on high alert. They treated me like I’d personally offended their entire bloodline. Loyal only to her. Traitors in fur. 

I chuckled despite myself and tossed them a couple of bite-sized pieces of meats from the plate on the side table. They snapped them out of the air with military precision, then immediately resumed glaring at me, tails stiff, ears pinned back.

“Chalo, bhaunkte raho,” I muttered under my breath. “Jab woh aayegi, tum dono ban jaoge innocent farishte.” (Keep barking. When she comes, both of you will turn into innocent angels.)

Right on cue, the heavy basement door creaked open.

Bright yellow and orange exploded into the dim room like sunrise breaking through storm clouds.

My heart slammed against my ribs the way it always did when she appeared without warning. Anisa stood framed in the doorway, dupatta draped carelessly over one shoulder, the suit hang losing on her. Gold jhumkas caught the light and danced. Kohl-lined eyes.

She planted both hands on her hips. Classic Anisa stance—half queen, half storm about to break.

Zaid ended his call mid-sentence, phone dropping to his side.

“Jinn ki tarah makeup karke kyun ghoom rahi ho?” he teased, smirking. (Why are you roaming around looking like a ghost with all that makeup?)

Anisa shot him a glare so fierce I almost felt sorry for him. Almost.

Kebab and Aladdin abandoned their half-eaten meat in an instant. Tails whipping like helicopter blades, they bolted to her, whining happily, pressing wet noses against her legs. She dropped to one knee without hesitation, burying her fingers in their fur, kissing the tops of their heads like they were royalty.

“Bhool gaye aap!” she snapped at Zaid, cheeks puffing out in dramatic way. (You forgot!)

“Bataogi bhi kya bhoola hoon main?” Zaid laughed, reaching out to ruffle her carefully styled hair. (Will you even tell me what I forgot?)

“Baalon ko na chhuo meri!” She swatted his hand away, smoothing her hair back into place with an offended huff. (Don’t touch my hair!)

“College friend ke bhai ki mehndi hai. Wahan jaana hai. Inform kiya tha aapko,” she said, crossing her arms and inflating her cheeks again until she looked like an angry balloon. (It’s the mehndi of my college friend’s brother. I have to go there. I already informed you.)

Zaid raised both hands in mock surrender, still grinning.

I stayed rooted where I was, documents forgotten, breath caught somewhere between my lungs and my throat.

She hadn’t looked at me once.

Not a glance. Not even the tiniest flicker of those dark eyes in my direction.

Yeah, right. She was angry at me because last evening I’d kept her pinned beneath me for late hours with my cock wrapped. Her salon appointment? Canceled. Forgotten in the haze of tangled sheets.

She’d grumbled about it this morning, voice still husky from sleep and sex, complaining that her hair was turning dry and frizzy again. “Look at this mess, Adil,” she’d said, tugging at a strand in front of the mirror while I watched from the bed, lazy and utterly mesmerized. “You ruined my schedule.”

I’d only grinned, pulling her back down onto the mattress. “You look beautiful,” I’d murmured against her neck, meaning every word. Frizz, silk, chaos—none of it mattered. She was Anisa. My Anisa. Every version of her stole my breath.

She must have asked Dalia into emergency hair duty. Those two had grown closer these past days—Dalia’s quiet gentleness balancing Anisa’s wildfire energy.

Zaid hummed low in his throat, studying his sister with that guilty big-brother expression that said he’d definitely forgotten.

“Main nahi jaa sakta tumhe leke wahan,” he said finally, voice heavy with thought. (I can’t take you there.)

Anisa’s face fell like someone had snuffed out her spark. The pout deepened, eyes glistening just enough to make my chest ache.

“Rafiq bhaijaan gusse mein hai inn dinon,” Zaid continued, rubbing the back of his neck. (Rafiq bhaijaan is angry these days.) His gaze drifted somewhere far off. 

“Unhe control karne ke liye haveli mein rehna hoga mujhe. Aur kuch rally ka paperwork bhi karna hai.” (To keep him in check, I have to stay in the haveli. And there’s some rally paperwork I need to finish too.)

He pressed his palm against his neatly trimmed beard, exhaling through his nose. 

“Dalia hai unke saath room mein,” Anisa said quietly, almost to herself. (Dalia is with him in the room.) Then her eyes lifted—finally—and locked onto mine.

For one heartbeat, the basement air thickened. My pulse kicked hard.

“Zaid,” I said, voice steady even though my blood was roaring. “Main chala jaata hoon.” (I’ll go.)

I snatched my car keys from the table.

Zaid gave a single, trusting nod—simple, unquestioning. Rafiq and Zaid trusted me with their lives. With their family. With everything.

Only if Zaid knew I was fucking his little sister behind his back every chance we got. God save me when he finds out.

Anisa spun on her heel and marched out, cheeks still puffed like an offended child, dupatta fluttering behind her.

I crouched down and gave Kebab and Aladdin each a firm pat on the head. They tolerated it—barely—then trotted back in basement chamber. 

Anisa was already storming ahead through the corridor, her heavy skirt swishing with every furious step, forcing her to move slower than she wanted. 

I caught up easily, matching her stride without breaking a sweat.

In the garage, I pressed the fob; the Mercedes purred awake, headlights slicing through the dimness. I opened the passenger door for her first.

She huffed but slid into the seat, gathering the long, flowing skirt. I knelt briefly, helping tuck the excess fabric away from the door so it wouldn’t catch. 

Closing the door, I rounded to the driver’s side, slid in, and started the engine. The low rumble vibrated through the leather seats. I already knew the address. Perks of spending every night wrapped around her body, listening to her sleepy mumbles about tomorrow’s plans while my fingers traced lazy circles on her bare back. She never had to tell me twice.

We pulled out onto the road, city lights streaking past in golden blurs.

“Salaam, Anisa baby,” I cooed, reaching for her hand where it rested stiffly in her lap.

She swatted it away without looking at me.

“Mujhe na karein aap salaam,” she snapped, voice tight with leftover anger. (Don’t you salaam me.)

I bit the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing. Her angry face was unfairly adorable—cheeks flushed, lips pursed, brows drawn together like she was plotting my demise. I tried again, slower this time.

“Sorry, baby. Aage se kabhi aisa nahi hoga.” (Sorry, baby. It won’t happen again from now on.)

I caught her hand before she could pull away, fingers threading through hers, holding firm. She resisted for half a second—stubborn as ever—then let me lift her knuckles to my lips. I pressed a soft kiss there, lingering just long enough to feel her pulse jump.

“ Aisa hi bolte ho tum,” she complained, voice smaller now. “Par har martaba yahi hota hai.” (You always say that. But every single time, it’s the same.)

She shifted closer anyway, leaning over the center console until her head found my chest. Her dupatta slipped a little, brushing my arm. I felt her body relax against mine, the fight draining out of her like air from a balloon.

Melting.

I wrapped one arm around her shoulders, keeping the other steady on the wheel.

“Tumse poora din door rehta hoon,” I murmured into her hair. “Ab raat mein control nahi hota, baby.” (I stay away from you the whole day. At night, I can’t control myself, baby.)

She hummed—a soft, forgiving sound that vibrated against my ribs.

“Ayenda evening ka appointment book nahi karungi,” she muttered. (Next time, I won’t book an evening appointment.)

I chuckled low, pressed a kiss to the top of her head, breathing her in.

“Bahut khoobsurat lag rahi ho, baby,” I said quietly. (You look so beautiful, baby.)

She smiled against my shirt—I felt the curve of it. 

“Dalia ne ready kiya mujhe,” she said thoughtfully. “Woh Rafiq bhaijaan ke saath khush dikhti thi.” (Dalia got me ready. She looked happy with Rafiq bhaijaan.)

A pause. Her fingers toyed with the edge of my kurta.

“Tumhe kya lagta hai… Rafiq bhaijaan ne sahi qadam uthaya?” she asked, voice softer now, almost hesitant. (What do you think… did Rafiq bhaijaan take the right action?)

“Haan,” I answered without hesitation. (Yes.)

She nodded against me, a tiny smile returning.

But I knew her better than that. Beneath the boldness she wore, the violence had left its mark. She’d seen the staircase running red. Heard the screams cut short. Watched Rafiq turn into something terrifying. 

I knew that fear intimately.

I still remembered the day she’d come face-to-face with Sabria. 

That fear still lived in me.. The day Anisa met Sabria face-to-face. I’d watched it happen from across the room—Sabria’s venom dripping. Anisa’s fire had dimmed for just a second. Her shoulders dropped. Her eyes—those fierce, fearless eyes—went glassy with hurt. When she turned to me afterward, the slap came fast and stinging across my cheek. Not out of hate. Out of fear. Out of the sudden, brutal realization that our world might tear her away from me.

I hadn’t reacted. Hadn’t even raised a hand to touch the burning skin. I’d just stood there, numb, because the real pain wasn’t the slap. It was the terror clawing up my throat: that this was it. That I was about to lose the only person I’d loved this completely since my mother.

But somehow, she saved us. Unknown to her, maybe even unknown to herself. She didn’t walk away. 

Later, I told my mother about her. Ammi listened quietly and she was happy. 

I dreamed of it constantly now—a quiet life somewhere safe. My mother laughing with Anisa. Anisa and me tangled together every night, no more hiding. And children—ours—running through the house with her wild energy and my stubbornness.

With how often we fuck each other—raw, desperate, every damn night—Anisa had not gotten pregnant even once. She started the pills quietly after we first time became intimate. 

This year she turned twenty-one. Her college degree was completed. 

We pulled up to the venue, the car’s engine cutting off into the sudden swell of celebration noise. Dholki beats thumped. Laughter spilled out from the open gates. Strings of fairy lights crisscrossed overhead. Women in bright lehengas twirled in loose circles, mehndi-darkened hands raised high. Men clapped along to the rhythm. 

Anisa stepped out first, smoothing her skirt. I followed without hesitation. No way in hell was I leaving her side tonight—not with the crowd, not with the eyes that might linger too long.

I caught her hand as we walked through the gate, fingers brushing hers in that careful, public way we’d perfected. No one would notice. No one would dare question.

Inside, the air smelled of henna, jasmine. Someone called her name from across the courtyard—her college friend, waving excitedly, fresh mehndi still glistening on her palms.

She spotted her friends the moment we stepped fully.

Anisa glanced back at me as they swarmed her, arms linking through hers, already tugging her away. Her eyes met mine—quick, questioning. 

I nodded once. Go. Have fun. I’m right here.

She gave me a small smile. 

I found a quiet corner near the edge of the courtyard, away from the main dance floor but close enough to keep her in sight. A server passed with a tray of chilled drinks; I took one—something amber and strong, ice clinking softly—and settled onto a cushioned bench half-hidden by hanging marigold garlands. The first sip burned pleasantly down my throat, loosening the tension. 

From here, I could watch her without hovering. Without drawing eyes.

She danced first. Her laughter rang out clear and bright every time one of her friends spun her too fast. Then came the mehndi station: she sat cross-legged on a low stool while the artist worked across her palms and the backs of her hands. She kept glancing up, biting her lip in concentration, then breaking into giggles. 

She ate too—small bites of chaat, a piece of gulab jamun that left a tiny smear of syrup on her lower lip. 

Hours slipped by in the haze of music and lights. I nursed my drink slowly, content just to watch her live in the moment.

Then the four of them—her inseparable squad—turned as one, giggling conspiratorially, and made their way straight toward me. Anisa was in the middle, cheeks flushed from dancing, eyes sparkling with mischief.

“Adil jee, aap bhi mehndi lagwayein!” one of them—Rida, I think—called out, voice loud enough to turn a few heads. (Adil jee, you should get mehndi too!)

Anisa burst out laughing. The others joined in, nudging her forward.

“Haan haan, Anisa ke liye lagwayein…” another chimed in. “Dekhiye, Anisa ne bhi lagwayi hai aapke liye!” (Yes yes, get it done for Anisa… Look, Anisa got it done for you!)

They thrust her hands toward me—palms up, the fresh henna still glistening dark reddish-brown under the lights. The design was beautiful: delicate small hidden heart tucked into the center of one palm. My heart gave a stupid, hard thud when I saw it.

I raised an eyebrow, letting my gaze slide to Anisa. “Anisa jee ki manjuri hai?” I asked, voice low and teasing. (Do I have Anisa jee’s permission?)

The girls erupted—hoots, whistles, dramatic gasps. Anisa’s face flushed deeper, the blush climbing from her neck to her cheeks. 

The girls didn’t wait for her answer. “Chalein chalein, mehndi lagwayein!” (Come on, come on, let’s get the mehndi done!)

They herded us both toward the mehndi artist like we were prized catches. Two low stools appeared side by side. Anisa sat first, still laughing under her breath, hands carefully resting on her knees so the drying henna wouldn’t smudge. I settled beside her, close enough that our knees brushed.

The artist—a middle-aged woman with quick, sure hands—glanced between us with a knowing smile. “Kya design chahiye, beta?” she asked me. (What design do you want, son?)

I leaned closer to Anisa, voice dropping so only she could hear. “Jo bhi isne banwaya, wahi bana do. Thoda sa match karna chahiye.” (Whatever she got, make the same. It should match a little.)

Anisa’s eyes widened, then softened. 

The artist started on my left hand first—simple lines at first, then building into something that echoed the patterns on Anisa’s palms. Not identical, but close enough. 

Around us, her friends kept up a stream of teasing commentary, phones out, snapping pictures they’d probably use to blackmail us later. The dholki thumped on in the background, the night alive with celebration.

Anisa was blushing the entire time the artist worked on my palms—her gaze darting between my hands and my face, then quickly away whenever our eyes met. 

“Apna naam dhund lena isme, Anisa,” one of her friends teased, leaning in with a wicked grin. (Find your name in this, Anisa.)

“Han puri raat nah nikal jaaye bas. Bahut acche se chhupaya hai,” another added, eyes sparkling with mischief. (The whole night might pass and you still won’t find it. It’s hidden really well.)

“Arey toh puri raat inke saath hi honge na, Adil jee toh,” Rida chimed in, voice loud and shameless. (Then you’ll just spend the whole night with him, right, Adil jee?)

Anisa turned scarlet—deep, burning red that climbed from her neck to the tips of her ears. The girls erupted in delighted chaos: “Haww!” “Badtameez!” “Sharam nahi aati kya!” They clapped and hooted, feeding off each other’s energy like it was fuel.

Anisa recovered first. She straightened her spine, fixed them with a mock-glare that didn’t quite hide her embarrassment, and waved her still-drying hands dramatically.

“Jaao ab tum sab yahan se. Dulhe se dance karwao,” she ordered, voice firm but laced with laughter. (Go now, all of you. Make the groom dance.)

They protested for half a second—more for show—then let her herd them away toward the dance floor, where the groom was already being pulled into an enthusiastic dance. 

Finally, it was just us.

I stayed seated on the low stool, palms carefully upturned so the mehndi wouldn’t smudge, watching her settle beside me again. 

“Dhoondna hai aaj raat apna naam aapko, Anisa baby,” I murmured, leaning close enough that my breath brushed her ear. (You have to find your name in this tonight, Anisa baby.)

She swatted my bicep—light, playful, but hard enough to make her point. “Chup karo,” she hissed, but the word came out breathless, and her cheeks stayed flushed. (Shut up.)

I chuckled low, the sound rumbling in my chest, and slipped my arm around her shoulders in a careful side hug—mindful of the drying henna, but needing the contact anyway. She leaned into me almost immediately, her head resting lightly against my shoulder, the jasmine scent of her hair filling my lungs.

We sat like that for a long minute, watching the celebration swirl around us. The dholki beats pulsed through the courtyard, bodies moving in joyful chaos, lights twinkling overhead like captured stars. Her hand rested close to mine on the bench. 

Then a voice drifted over from behind us—older, female, carrying that particular tone of gossip.

“Yeh ladki toh Zaveri khaandaan ki hai na?” (This girl is from the Zaveri family, right?)

I turned my head just enough to catch the speaker: an aunty in a heavy silk saree, standing a few feet away with two other women, their heads bent together. She was looking straight at Anisa, who was still focused on the dance floor ahead, oblivious, smiling softly at the way her friends were dragging the groom into ridiculous steps.

The aunty’s companion nodded, lips pursed. “Haan, Anisa. Bahut bold hai yeh ladki. Sunne mein aaya hai…” (Yes, Anisa. This girl is very bold. I’ve heard…)

The rest trailed off into murmurs too low to catch, but I didn’t need to hear more. I knew exactly what kind of stories 

My arm tightened around Anisa’s shoulders, instinctive, protective.

She felt the shift in me. Her head tilted slightly toward mine. “Kya hua?” she whispered, still watching the dancers but voice soft with concern. (What happened?)

I shook my head once, brushing my lips against her temple in the barest kiss—hidden in the motion, quick enough to look innocent to anyone watching.

"Haan dekho toh kaise Na-mahram ki baahon mein Hai" (Yes, look at how she's in the arms of a non-mahram), one woman hissed to another, her voice hushed yet piercing, cutting through the thumping bass. My senses were razor-sharp that night, heightened by the protective instinct that surged whenever Anisa was near. I could feel their judgmental eyes on us, but I ignored them, refusing to let their narrow-minded gossip taint the moment. Instead, I focused on Anisa's radiant happiness.

As the evening wore on, Anisa stood up, smoothing her elegant dress with a tired smile. "I'm heading to the washroom," she murmured, and we agreed it was time to leave. I had work piling up, and the exhaustion was etching lines on her beautiful face. The washroom was just a short walk away. But she didn't in few minutes so Worry gnawed at me, I went to check on her.

What I saw hit me like a punch to the chest—jealousy, hot and unbidden, flooding my veins. There she was, laughing with some guy, his hand clasping hers. 

"My mother actually tried to contact your family for rishta with you. But your family has high security so it was not possible," he chuckled, his voice light but laced with a hint of longing. I froze in the shadows, eavesdropping despite myself, my heart pounding with a mix of rage and possessiveness.

"Tum bas school mein mere crush the Rehan... ab nahi ho" (You were just my crush in school, Rehan... not anymore), she replied laughingly, her tone playful yet dismissive. The words should have soothed me, but they only fueled the fire—knowing he'd once held a place in her thoughts, even if it was fleeting.

Just as I was about to call her name, a sharp voice rang out, slicing through the air. "Rehan...?"

"Mama... dekhe toh Anisa bhi aayi hai yahan" (Mama... look, Anisa is here too), he said excitedly, turning to the same aunty who'd been spewing criticism earlier. Her face twisted into a scowl as she approached, her eyes narrowing like daggers.

The aunty gave Anisa a withering look, then turned her gaze on me as I stepped forward. "Anisa," I said firmly, my hand gently but possessively gripping her shoulder. The guy—Rehan—reluctantly released her hand, and a surge of satisfaction mixed with my simmering anger.

"Humein chalna hoga" (We have to go), I added, my voice low and edged with restraint, desperate to avoid escalating the drama. But the aunty couldn't resist opening her mouth, her words dripping with disdain.

"Ess behaya ladki se rishta nahi hoga tumhara Rehan" (There will be no marriage alliance with this shameless girl, Rehan), she spat angrily, and I watched Anisa's bright smile falter, crumbling into a mask of hurt that twisted my insides.

"Mama... kya bol rahi hai aap?" (Mama... what are you saying?), Rehan protested, stepping in to stop her, his face flushing with embarrassment.

"Dekha nahi tumne... kaise puri party mein iss ladke se chipk rahi thi" (Didn't you see... how she was clinging to this boy the whole party), she accused, glaring at me as if I were the root of all evil.

"Mama bas karein... sorry Anisa. She doesn't mean it," Rehan said awkwardly, trying to diffuse the tension.

"Mama... woh sirf family member hai unke" (Mama... he's just a family member of hers), Rehan added, and that was the breaking point. The casual dismissal ignited a fury in me—I wanted to choke the words right out of him.

"I'm not actually," I interjected coldly, my eyes locking onto Rehan's. He stared back, astonishment widening his features, while Anisa whipped her head toward me, her expression a mix of shock and plea.

"What... sorry?" he stammered, utterly bewildered.

"Adil, stop," Anisa murmured under her breath, her hand held my arm.

"Anisa ke sath rishta karne ka khwab bhi mat dekhna" (Don't even dream of a marriage alliance with Anisa), I growled, my fists clenching at my sides to keep from swinging. The jealousy roared like a beast inside me, visions of his hand on hers replaying in my mind.

"Mere bete toh esse kaise bol sakte ho tum" (How dare you speak like that to my son), the aunty yelled, her voice rising to a shrill pitch. Anisa's fingers tightened on my arm, pulling me back from the edge.

"Abhi sirf bol raha hu... agli baar Anisa ke paas dekha toh kabar mein milega yeh" (Right now, I'm just saying it... if I see him near Anisa next time, he'll end up in a grave), I threatened, my anger boiling over, raw and unfiltered. The aunty gasped dramatically, clutching her chest as she began creating a scene, wailing about how we were threatening her and her precious son. The partygoers turned, murmurs rippling through the crowd, but I didn't care.

Anisa pleaded with her eyes, whispering, "Please, let's go." I didn't want to ruin the night further—or let my mood spiral into something darker—so I took her hand firmly in mine and led her out to the car. The cool night air did little to temper the heat in my blood as I started the engine, the drive home tense and silent at first.

"Kya zarurat thi usse baat karne ki" (What was the need to talk to him?), I finally snapped, my grip tight on the steering wheel, jealousy still churning like acid in my stomach.

"Friend tha sirf" (He was just a friend), she replied softly, holding her head as if warding off a headache, her voice laced with exhaustion.

"Rishta karna chahta tha woh tumse" (He wanted a marriage alliance with you), I shot back, the memory of his hand on hers flashing vividly, making my jaw clench.

"Chua usne tumhe... apni chahat ka izhar kar raha tha woh Anisa" (He touched you... he was expressing his desire for you, Anisa), I added, my tone rough with possessiveness.

"Lekin woh meri chahat nahi hai" (But he's not my desire), she huffed, crossing her arms.

"School days mein toh tha" (He was in school days), I countered, glancing at her sidelong, unable to let it go.

"Baatein sun rahe the tum meri" (You were listening to my conversations), she complained, her eyes narrowing in accusation.

"Farak nahi padta" (It doesn't matter), I said dismissively as I turned onto the familiar road leading to the haveli, the grand estate looming .

"Mujhe farak padta hai. Bataye mujhe kyu sun rahe the meri baatein" (It matters to me. Tell me why you were listening to my conversations), she demanded, her voice rising with frustration. As we pulled up, she flung open the door, but before she could storm out, I reached over and gently but firmly pulled her back from the passenger seat, my touch lingering with unspoken intensity.

"Apne kamare mein jaao... thodi der mein bataunga" (Go to your room... I'll tell you in a little while), I murmured, anger swirling with a dark lust that made my pulse race. The need to claim her, to mark her as mine after seeing her with him, awakened something fierce within me.

She searched my eyes, her breath catching at the raw emotion she saw there, and nodded without a word. Then, in a swift, tender moment, she leaned in and kissed my cheek quickly, her lips soft and warm. She slipped away into the haveli, leaving me to simmer.

I forced myself to focus, joining Zaid and Rafiq to wrap up pending work—discussing strategies and plans in the dimly lit study, the weight of the day pressing on us all. We retired for the night soon after, but I lingered, telling them I'd stay in the guest room as I often did. Secretly, though, my path led elsewhere.

I slipped into Anisa's room, the door left ajar for me like an invitation. What greeted me stole my breath and ignited every forbidden desire. The lights were dimmed to a sultry glow, casting golden hues over her form. She sat on the edge of the bed, clad only in a thin panty that hugged her curves, her full, bare breasts on display— inviting, her nipples hardening under my gaze. 

"Meri baby chudne ke liye ready hai" (My baby is ready to be fucked), I chuckled lowly, lust swirling through me like a wildfire, my voice thick with hunger as I approached.

"Tumhari baby hamesha ready hoti hai" (Your baby is always ready), she whispered seductively, rising to meet me. Our lips crashed together in a tangle of passion, tongues dancing in a heated rhythm that spoke of pent-up frustration and need.

I cupped her heavy breasts, massaging them firmly, thumbs teasing her sensitive peaks until she moaned into my mouth. My hands roamed lower, ripping her panty off in one swift motion, the fabric tearing with a satisfying rip. She gasped, her body arching into mine.

She gasped sharply as my palm connected with her slick, swollen pussy—a quick, stinging slap that made her hips jerk upward off the mattress. Before she could catch her breath, I scooped her up by the waist and threw her onto the bed, the soft sheets billowing around her like surrender.

I peeled off my kurta in one impatient motion, letting it fall to the floor, followed by the rest—, trousers, everything discarded in a careless heap until I stood naked before her, cock already hard and throbbing, veins pulsing with the jealousy and need that still burned in my blood.

"Bohot shauk hai tumhe paraye aadmi se baat karne ka, Anisa baby," (You have quite the fondness for talking to strange men, Anisa baby) I growled low, voice rough with possession. I forced her thighs apart with firm hands, spreading her wide and exposed beneath me. Her breathing hitched, chest rising and falling rapidly.

She shook her head quickly, eyes pleading yet playful. "Thodi si baat kari thi bas," (I only talked to him a little) she whispered, voice trembling on the edge of apology and tease.

"Ab se woh bhi nahi, samjhi?" (From now on, not even that—understood?) I said, and brought my hand down again—this time a sharp slap directly to her clit. The wet sound echoed in the quiet room. She moaned loudly, back arching off the bed, thighs quivering around my grip.

"Nahi samjhi… samjhao na," (I didn’t understand… explain it to me then) she teased breathlessly, eyes sparkling with challenge, daring me to lose control.

That was all it took.

I crashed my mouth against hers in a brutal kiss—teeth clashing, tongue claiming every inch like I was trying to erase any memory of another man’s voice in her ears. She whimpered into my mouth, fingers digging into my shoulders as I positioned myself between her legs. With one hard thrust, I buried my cock deep inside her slick, dripping cunt.

We both groaned at the same time—her tight walls fluttering around me, squeezing like she was made for this, for me. 

I started moving in deep, deliberate strokes—missionary. Her heavy breasts bounced with each thrust, nipples dark and tight, begging for attention. She mewed softly beneath me, little helpless sounds that drove me wild.

"Ahhhh baby… itna chudne ke baad bhi tumhari chut itni tight kaise hai…" (Ahhhh baby… even after being fucked so much, how is your pussy still this tight…) I groaned, hips snapping harder, the wet slap of skin on skin filling the room.

She nodded frantically, eyes glassy with pleasure. "Tumhara woh bada hai ahhhh… isliye…" (It’s because yours is so big ahhhh…) she managed between moans, nails raking down my back, urging me deeper.

"Tumhari chut chhoti hai baby… ahhh ahhh…" (Your pussy is so small baby… ahhh ahhh…) I rasped, picking up speed, fucking her faster, harder, chasing that perfect friction that made stars burst behind my eyes.

"Mera pura lund daba rahi ho… ummmm…" (You’re taking my whole cock… ummmm…) I moaned, voice breaking as I felt her clench even tighter around me.

"Apne ahhhh hone wale shauhar ka hi toh dabaungi ahhhh…" (I’ll only ever take my future husband’s like this ahhhh…) she gasped out, her words slicing straight through my chest.

My heart stuttered—joy, fierce and overwhelming, crashed over me like a wave. She saw me as hers. Her husband. Not some fleeting school crush, not anyone else. Me.

I slowed for a heartbeat, just enough to lean down and capture her lips again—this time softer, deeper, pouring every unspoken promise into the kiss. She understood instantly; her arms wrapped around my neck, kissing me back with the same tender hunger, bodies still locked together, moving in perfect rhythm.

I picked up the pace again, but now it felt different—less punishment, more worship. Each thrust was a vow.

We were both close, teetering on the edge, sweat-slick and trembling, lost in the heat and the truth we’d finally let spill between us.n

"Cum karo meri lund par ahhhh… pura lund daba rahi ho ahhhh bhenchod ahh," (Cum on my cock ahhhh… you're taking my whole cock ahhhh you sister-fucker ahh) I growled through gritted teeth, voice raw and breaking as I felt her core clench violently around me—her inner walls fluttering, squeezing me like a vice. 

"Ummm ahhhh yesssss ahhh ohhh ahhh dheere meraaa ahhh aaaa gayaaa," (Ummm ahhhh yesssss ahhh ohhh ahhh slowly… I’m cumming ahhh ahhh) she cried out, her voice fracturing into desperate, trembling whimpers.  

I kept fucking her through it, slow and punishing now, kissing her open mouth, swallowing every broken moan as she shuddered beneath me, body arching like she was trying to fuse herself to me forever.

"My beautiful baby ahhhh… itne ache se geela karti ho mera lund," (My beautiful baby ahhhh… you make my cock so beautifully wet) I rasped against her neck, licking the salt from her skin, pride and possession swelling in my chest.

Then—footsteps.

Soft, deliberate, echoing faintly down the marble corridor outside her room.

My ears perked, every muscle tensing in an instant. The haze of lust sharpened into something sharper, more dangerous. 

Without breaking our connection, I slid my hands under her hips, gripped her belly firmly, and flipped her over in one smooth motion until she was on all fours, ass arched high, face turned toward me over her shoulder. 

I aligned myself again and pushed back inside her in a single, deep thrust—burying every inch. 

"Corridor mein koi hai," (Someone’s in the corridor) I whispered hotly against her ear, my voice barely audible, lips brushing the sensitive shell as I stayed buried 

She mewed softly, a helpless little sound that vibrated through both of us.

"Dhee…re ahhh," (Slo…wly ahhh) she moaned in the barest whisper, voice shaking as I began to move again—slow, deliberate rolls of my hips, grinding deep instead of pounding. But even restrained, the wet sounds of our bodies meeting were obscene in the quiet room—my balls slapping gently against her soaked folds with each thrust.

Her hands fisted the sheets, knuckles white, trying desperately to stay silent while her body betrayed her—hips pushing back instinctively, chasing more even as she begged for restraint.

"Socho koi tumhe esse chudte hue dekh le baby," (Imagine if someone saw you getting fucked like this, baby) I groaned low and rough, my voice cracking as her walls clenched impossibly tighter around me. 

"Koi Anisa, the bad girl ki chut mein ahhhh mera lund jaate-dekhe toh," (If someone saw Anisa, the bad girl, taking my cock deep in her pussy ahhhh) she moaned back, voice husky and shameless, hips pushing back to meet me greedily. She was reveling in it, the danger, the taboo—her body betraying just how much the risk turned her on.

"Kya sochenge log baby… ki Anisa apne bhai ke dost se apni chut mein lund dalwati hai ahhhh," (What will people think, baby… that Anisa lets her brother’s friend shove his cock in her pussy ahhhh) I rasped against her ear, words dripping with dark amusement and raw need. She clenched even harder at that—her inner muscles fluttering wildly, squeezing me like she wanted to pull me deeper. 

Footsteps echoed again outside the corridor—closer this time, deliberate—and the sound only made us both burn hotter.

"A…dil… ahhhh koi aaa jayega shhh," (A…dil… ahhhh someone’s going to come shhh) she whispered frantically, voice trembling, eyes wide with a intoxicating mix of fear and excitement.

"Tum toh yahi chahti ho baby," (That’s exactly what you want, baby) I cooed softly, brushing my lips across her flushed cheek in a tender contrast to the way I was still buried deep inside her. Tears of overwhelming pleasure slipped from the corners of her eyes, glistening on her lashes as another wave built inside her.

"Chalne do sabko pata ahhhh kaise unki Anisa mera lund leti hai apni tight chut mein ummm," (Let them all know ahhhh how their precious Anisa takes my cock in her tight little pussy ummm) I growled, voice thick with possession. I brought my hand down hard on her ass—sharp, stinging slap that echoed softly in the room. Her body jerked, a choked whimper escaping her lips.

"Jhado mere lund pe randi ki tarah baby," (Cum on my cock like a whore, baby.) The command was barely out of my mouth before she shattered—her orgasm ripping through her like lightning. Her legs shook violently, thighs quivering around me as she came hard, walls spasming painfully tight. I clamped my hand over her mouth just in time, muffling the raw, broken cry that tried to tear free. The footsteps outside paused again… then slowly faded down the hall.

"Bhenchod," (oh fucker) I groaned through clenched teeth as her ruthless clenching bordered on pain, dragging me right to the edge with her.

I couldn’t hold back anymore. I started fucking her fast—hard, relentless thrusts that slapped wetly against her ass, the bed creaking under us. My balls tightened, heat coiling low and fierce in my gut.

"Ahhh… ahhh Adi…l," she moaned brokenly, voice cracking as I pounded into her without mercy.

"Meri pyari randi baby ahhhhh… chut bharne wala hu main tumhari ahhhhh ahhh," (My sweet little whore baby ahhhhh… I’m going to fill your pussy ahhhhh ahhh) I moaned, legs shaking, every muscle strung tight as release barreled toward me.

"Ummm ahhhh meri pussy ohhh shit," she gasped, collapsing forward onto the mattress. She grabbed a fistful of the bedsheet and stuffed it into her mouth to stifle her cries, body trembling uncontrollably.

"Bas… baby ahhhh aaa raha hai mera… ahhhh tumhari chut bhar dega tumhara hone wala shauhar ahhhhhh," (Just… baby ahhhh it’s coming… ahhhh your future husband is going to fill your pussy ahhhhhh) I groaned, voice fracturing. She rocked her hips back weakly, giving me that final perfect angle—and I lost it.

I came with a guttural moan, hips slamming forward one last time as I emptied deep inside her.  

My cock slipped free with a wet sound, and thick ropes of cum immediately began to drip from her swollen, reddened pussy. 

I collapsed beside her on the bed, both of us breathless, sweat-slick, hearts hammering. She turned her face toward me, eyes soft and glassy, a smile curving her lips. We chuckled quietly—breathless—then leaned in for slow, lazy kisses, tasting each other.

We curled together under the sheet, limbs tangled, her head tucked under my chin. Sleep came fast, heavy and sweet.

I would slip out before morning—before the house stirred, before anyone could suspect. Always the same routine.

This one year had been pure bliss—stolen nights, the intoxicating thrill of almost getting caught. But God knows what the future held for us.

For now, though, she was mine—warm and soft and safe in my arms—and that was enough.

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