Saathiya (8) (18+)

 

Adil’s POV

“Be alert,” I said silently into the earpiece, my gaze sweeping over the crowd gathered for the Eid celebration. Smiles, laughter, embroidered clothes—too many people, too many blind spots.

“Copy,” came the low murmurs in my ear. Men trained by me, loyal to me, reporting directly to me. That alone gave me some reassurance—but never enough.

I took a slow sip of whiskey, the burn sliding down my throat, useless against the boredom of this forced celebration. Parties like these were never celebrations. They were battlegrounds dressed in silk and gold.

This was Rafiq’s world. A world where being a Don and the richest man in the country demanded constant vigilance. Wealth brought envy. Power invited rebellion. And fear—fear was the only language everyone here truly understood.

Trained snipers were positioned at different locations, hidden among shadows and rooftops. Security was airtight, yet my senses refused to rest.

The gathering was hosted by the Ali Zaveri family. Rafiq’s presence here was mandatory. Businessmen, politicians, and underworld figures all needed to see him—alive, powerful, untouchable.

By the look on his face, he appeared stoic, unreadable. But I knew him too well. He wanted nothing to do with this charade. This party was nothing more than a show of unity, a glittering lie meant to remind everyone who ruled. 

My thoughts drifted, as they often did, to the new mission brewing beneath the surface. Intelligence had confirmed that Qadir, one of the underworld’s more ambitious snakes, was gathering men—forming a union to challenge Rafiq.

Rebellion against a Don was inevitable. But open war would attract the attention of powerful enzymes who preferred balance over bloodshed. That’s why we chose precision.

Assassination.

Qadir was careful. His location changed every few days. He knew we were coming for him. The hunt was slow, dangerous, unfinished.

The plan was still unfolding. Too many loose ends. Too many moving parts.

And yet—my attention kept slipping.

To her.

Anisa.

My Anisa.

My gulabo

In a room filled with muted pastel hues and restrained elegance, she was impossible to miss. Bright colors clung to her like sunlight, her laughter ringing freely as if danger didn’t exist. Her nonstop chatter, her animated expressions—she didn’t belong to this world of guns and blood.

And yet, she was mine.

I stayed close, ever vigilant, following her like a shadow. Protecting her without her ever realizing she needed protection. My snipers were stationed discreetly across the haveli, eyes trained, fingers ready, awaiting my single word.

Nearby, Zaid nursed his drink, irritation etched deep into his features. Recent politics had hardened him, made his temper short and sharp. He’d been on edge all week—and alcohol was the only thing dulling the noise in his head.

The music played. Laughter echoed. Glasses clinked.

On the surface, everything was running smoothly.

But I knew better

Sabria was trying—harder than before. Every move, every carefully planted word was a tactic meant to make me bow to her will. She wanted submission.

I had even discovered her newest move.

She was searching for my mother.

She thought if she could reach her, persuade her, bend her—then I would follow. That I would kneel.

How wrong she was.

Sabria would never reach her. My mother was protected, hidden in some unknown corner of the world by Rafiq’s men. A place even ghosts couldn’t trace. I had made sure of it.

I trusted Rafiq and Zaid with my life. More than that—I trusted them with my mother’s. They would never do anything that could cause harm to either of us. That trust was unbreakable, forged in blood and loyalty.

Across the hall, Anisa was keeping Dalia company. I stayed close, my presence subtle but deliberate, ready to intervene if even a shadow moved wrong.

Eyes lingered on Anisa.

She was vibrant—alive in a room full of dull elegance. Her laughter, her colors, her restless energy made people look twice. And they did.

But no one dared to look at Dalia for more than a second.

Good.

They knew better. Everyone knew Rafiq would pop their eyes out without a second thought.

Watching them, something dark and possessive stirred inside me.

I promised myself then—I would claim Anisa just like Rafiq had claimed Dalia.

The thought settled deep in my chest, heavy and certain.

My focus snapped when I noticed a shift. Dalia and Anisa were talking now, their heads close together. There was distress—subtle, but unmistakable. Anisa’s brows pulled together, her smile gone.

I was about to move toward them, to ask what was wrong—

When a boy approached.

He spoke to Dalia, too comfortably for my liking. She smiled politely, unaware of the storm brewing beside her. The boy reached for her hand, lifting it as if to kiss it.

Everything happened too fast.

Anisa’s expression hardened. Anger flashed across her face—sharp, protective, raw. Without a word, she turned and walked away from Dalia, straight toward Rafiq.

I cursed under my breath.

I started to move toward them, torn between duty and instinct—but Anisa came first. Always her.

I followed closely behind her.

A woman stood near Rafiq, talking animatedly, her hand lingering far longer than it should have on his arm.

Then—

“Mere bhaijaan ko chhod do!”

(Leave my brother alone!)

Anisa’s voice rang out, fierce and unapologetic. Her small frame stepped forward as she grabbed the woman’s hand and yanked it away from Rafiq.

That fire in her?

It was exactly why the world didn’t deserve her.

“Anisa?” Rafiq frowned as she latched onto his arm, dragging him a step away from the woman.

“Rafiq bhaijaan! Aap kya kar rahe the uss aurat ke saath? Dalia naraaz ho gayi hai. Dekhiye udhar!” (What were you doing with that woman?) (Dalia got upset) (Look over there!)

She pointed across the hall, eyes blazing with concern and accusation.

I followed her gaze—and then I understood.

Dalia stood rigid, her face calm but her eyes burning. Jealousy. That woman’s hand on Rafiq’s arm had crossed an invisible line.

His fist clenched slowly, veins rising like warning signs. Then his eyes landed on the boy—the same fool who had dared to touch Dalia.

Too close. 

Instinct took over.

I moved Anisa back immediately, placing myself between her and Rafiq. Protective. Automatic. She looked up at me, surprised but trusting.

“Rafiq bhaijaan mujhe hurt nahi karenge,” (Rafiq brother won’t hurt me) she said softly, as if calming a child.

“Janta hoon, baby,” (I know, baby) I replied.

I did know.

But instinct didn’t listen to logic.

I was still drowning in her eyes when the sound hit us—

A shout.

Then the sickening thud of fist colliding with flesh.

Rafiq was on the boy.

“Never.”

Punch.

“Ever.”

Punch.

“Touch.”

Crack.

“Her.”

Another crack.

“She.”

Bone splintering.

“Is.”

A scream.

“Mine.”

Each word was punctuated with brutal precision, his rage controlled yet merciless. Fingers bent the wrong way. Knuckles shattered. The boy’s cries echoed through the hall like a warning to every man present.

Anisa gasped at the sound of bones breaking. Her body shook as she turned and stumbled straight into my arms. I wrapped her tightly against my chest, shielding her from the violence.

“Udhar mat dekho,” (Don’t look there) I murmured.

She buried her face into me instantly, her breath uneven, fingers clutching my jacket.

“Rokey unhe,” (Stop him) she whispered, voice trembling.

I shook my head slowly. He would not calm for us. He would be calm only by the only woman just made her jealous without even trying.

Dalia.

She was frozen for a few seconds—shock locking her in place. Then she moved. She rushed forward and grabbed Rafiq’s arm.

That single touch ended it.

I watched it happen—the shift was terrifyingly beautiful. His rage dissolved in seconds, replaced by raw love, then dark possession. His breathing slowed. His fists unclenched.

He turned to her without a word.

Pulled her close.

Then dragged her away from the party, straight toward their room, the doors closing behind them like a final warning.

I knew exactly what would happen behind those closed doors.

And as Anisa clung to me, still trembling, one thought burned in my mind—

One day, she would look at me the same way Dalia looked at Rafiq.

And when that day came…

The world would learn what mine truly meant.

Anisa’s breathing came in shallow, uneven bursts. She shook her head slowly, eyes still wide from what she had just witnessed. I reached out and gently ran my fingers through her hair, trying to soothe the tremor I could feel beneath her scalp.

“Gulabo,” I called softly.

She lifted her gaze to mine, those dark eyes still carrying the shadow of distress.

“Thik ho?” (Are you okay?) I asked, voice low.

She managed a small, fragile smile and nodded. I knew how deeply she hated seeing violence of her own brothers, and especially on a night that was supposed to be filled with celebration and peace.

For several long minutes the air between everyone felt thick and uncomfortable. Then Rafiq’s father cleared his throat, raised his voice with practiced authority, and insisted the night must go on. Slowly, reluctantly, the gathering picked itself up again.

A qawwali group began to perform in the far corner of the courtyard. The harmonium wheezed to life, tabla beats rolled out like gentle waves, and a few older relatives settled to listen, letting the music stitch the torn evening back together.

I stood a little apart, eyes flicking between the small security feed on my iPad and the scattered groups of guests. A new window blinked open—another camera angle. I studied it carefully, jaw tight.

Soft footsteps approached from behind.

I didn’t turn right away.

“Ammi rishtey dhund rahi hai,” (Mom is looking for matches) Anisa said, her voice deliberately light but edged with mischief. She took a slow sip of cold drink, the ice clinking against the glass, then shot me a sharp, teasing look that said she knew exactly how much I hated these conversations.

I exhaled through my nose, a tired half-laugh. The situation finally felt under control—at least for now. I powered off the iPad, and turned to face her fully.

“Tumhe koi pasand aaya?” (Did you like anyone?) I asked, mostly to keep the game going.

“Jee,” she answered quietly.

She set the glass down on the low stone ledge beside us. Then she stepped closer—close enough that I could smell the faint citrus of her drink and the warmer undertone of her skin. One slender finger rose and traced the faded scar that ran along my left cheekbone, the touch so light it almost tickled.

I glanced around quickly. The nearest guests were several metres away, lost in the qawwali, backs turned. No eyes on us.

I caught her wrist gently, pulled her the last inch forward, and kissed her—deep, slow, unhurried. Her lips parted immediately and I tasted the sharp, sweet trace of vodka on her tongue. My heart gave a hard, possessive thud.

I drew back just enough to speak against her mouth.

“Kon sa nasha kiya hai?” (What intoxicant did you take?)

Her cheeks were already flushed—partly from the drink, mostly from the kiss. Her eyes glittered, dark and daring.

“Koi bhi nasha tumhare pyar se zyada nahi chadta,” (No intoxication rises higher than your love) she whispered, voice husky.

Before I could answer she surged up on her toes, fingers curling into my collar, and dragged me back into the kiss—deeper this time, hungrier, like she wanted to drown in it and take me with her.

The qawwali swelled behind us, voices rising in devotion, but right then the only devotion that mattered was the frantic, secret one burning between our mouths.

Anisa’s fingers twisted into my hair, tugging just hard enough to send a sharp spark down my spine. Her other hand slid deliberately down the front of my shirt, over my chest, past my belt, until her palm cupped the thick, straining length of me through the tailored fabric of my pants.

I groaned low into her mouth—the sound swallowed by the heat of her kiss—as she gave a slow, firm squeeze. My hips jerked forward on instinct, chasing the pressure.

“Abhi kaam hai, baby,” (Work right now, baby) I managed, voice rough and strained. I knew exactly what she wanted. The way her body pressed against mine, restless and demanding, told me she needed me inside her—now. But the security feeds were still live in my head, the courtyard full of people, and I couldn’t just disappear.

She pulled back enough to pout, full lower lip glistening. Then she leaned in again, teeth grazing my earlobe before she nibbled it sharply.

“Woh sab baad mein karein,” (All that can wait) she whispered, breath hot against my skin, voice dripping with sulky seduction.

“Gulaboo…” I tried again, half warning, half plea.

She stopped, lifted her chin, and fixed me with a stare that could cut glass—dark eyes narrowed, daring me to finish the sentence.

“Thik hai,” she said, voice suddenly cold and clipped. “Aap kam kar lein… main Ammi ke saath jaake rishta hi pakka karke aati hoon.” (Fine. You do your work… I’ll go with Ammi and get a match fixed right now.)

The words landed like a possesive thunder. Images of other men—strangers with polite smiles and marriage proposals—flashed through my mind. My jaw clenched so hard I tasted metal.

I groaned, the sound raw and frustrated.

She spun on her heel and started walking away, hips swaying with deliberate provocation, knowing exactly what she was doing to me.

I caught her wrist in one swift motion, yanked her back, and before she could protest I hoisted her up and threw her over my left shoulder like she weighed nothing. The iPad stayed gripped tight in my right hand. 

She let out a surprised yelp that dissolved into bright, wicked laughter.

“Bahut ziddi hai aap, Anisa baby,” (You’re so stubborn, Anisa baby) I cooed, voice mocking and low as I strode toward the nearest safe room—her bedroom. 

She giggled harder, the sound vibrating against my back, and then her hand came down in a playful smack across my ass—sharp enough to sting, bold enough to make my cock twitch harder.

I kicked the door shut behind us with my heel. 

I tossed the iPad onto the low wooden table by the bed with a dull clack, screen still flickering faintly with the courtyard feeds. In the same motion I threw her down onto the mattress. She landed with a soft bounce, breasts jiggling under the thin fabric of her suit, hair fanning out like dark silk across the pillows.

She didn’t stay still for long.  

On all fours she crawled toward me, slow and predatory, knees sinking into the soft bedding. Her fingers went straight for the buttons of my coat, then my shirt, peeling both open with impatient tugs until cool air hit my chest.

“Mujhe jo chahiye hota hai…” (Whatever I want…)

She leaned in, lips brushing mine as she finished the line in that low, dangerous purr.

“…woh main Khuda se bhi chheen leti hoon.” (…I snatch it even from God.)

Then she kissed me—deep, filthy, claiming. Tongue sliding against mine like she was trying to devour every protest I might still have left. I groaned into her mouth, hands already working the zipper at the back of her kameez.. She shrugged it off her shoulders while shimmying out of the salwar herself, kicking it away until she was bare except for black lace panties that barely qualified as clothing.

I grabbed her hips, spun her around so her front hit the mattress with a muffled thump. She arched instantly, ass lifting high, presenting herself like an offering.

“Mujhse kya chahiye tumhe, baby?” (What do you want from me, baby?) I rasped, voice gravel-rough, already palming the generous curve of her backside.

She shook that big, perfect ass deliberately—slow rolls of her hips that made my cock throb painfully against my zipper.

I groaned, low and guttural. My hand came down hard—once, twice—sharp slaps that left blooming pink handprints on her skin. She moaned into the pillow, pushing back for more.

I yanked her panties down in one rough pull, not bothering to take them all the way off; they tangled around her thighs as I freed myself, shoving my pants and briefs just low enough. My cock sprang out, thick and leaking, aching from how long she’d been teasing me.

“Meri pussy mein aapka lund, Adil… please…” (Your cock in my pussy, Adil… please…)  

The way she said it—voice wrecked, pleading, dripping with need—almost broke me right there. Her hips rolled again, slick folds glistening in the dim light, begging without words.

I lined up, gripped her hips hard enough to bruise, and thrust in—deep, brutal, all the way to the hilt in one unforgiving stroke.

She cried out, half sob, half ecstasy, fingers clawing at the sheets.  

I didn’t give her time to adjust.  

I fucked her like she’d been begging me to—hard, relentless, the wet slap of skin on skin drowning out the distant qawwali still drifting through the walls.

Every thrust punched a whimper from her throat.  

Every pull-back made her chase me, ass pushing back greedily.

“Adil—fuck—zor se…” (Adil—fuck—harder…)

I leaned over her, chest to her back, one hand sliding up to wrap around her throat—not tight, just possessive. The other found her clit, rubbing fast circles that made her entire body seize.

“Meri baby ko main kaise manjoori na doon,” (How could I ever deny my baby?) I growled low, voice thick with lust. 

She moaned, long and broken, thighs trembling as rammed back in—deep, ruthless, stretching her tight heat around every thick inch.

“Bhenchod… ahhh,” I groaned through clenched teeth, the curse tearing out of me as her walls fluttered and gripped like a vice.

“Ohh yesss…” she whimpered, pushing back to meet me, voice wrecked and needy.

We were both high—on each other, on the adrenaline of almost getting caught, on the vodka still buzzing in our veins. I fucked her hard from the very first thrust, no buildup, no mercy. The bed creaked under us, protesting every brutal snap of my hips against her ass.

“Meri baby ki chut… ahhhh… itni geeli kyun hai?” (My baby’s pussy… ahhh… why is it so fucking wet?) I rasped, fingers digging into the soft flesh of her hips hard enough to leave marks.

“Aapke lund ke liye, Adil,” (For your cock, Adil) she gasped, voice trembling with pleasure as she arched her back deeper, offering more of herself.

“Sab bahar… ahhhh… tumhe dhund rahe honge,” (Everyone outside… ahhh… they must be looking for you) I panted, bringing my palm down hard on her ass—once, twice—watching the flesh ripple and bloom red under my hand.

“Ummm… lekin hum yahan hain,” (Ummm… but we’re right here) she moaned, shameless, grinding back onto me like she wanted to take me even deeper.

“Haan… yahan mujhse apni chut mein lund le rahi ho tum, baby… ahhhh,” (Yes… right here you’re taking my cock in your pussy, baby… ahhhh) I snarled, feeling her clench hard around me at the words—hot, wet, greedy.

I spanked her again—sharper this time—then eased back just enough to watch myself slide in and out of her, glistening, stretching her wide.

“Andar lo pura lund mera,” (Take my whole cock inside) I cooed, voice dark and mocking-sweet. “Hilao apni moti moti gaand, baby.” (move your big ass baby) 

She obeyed instantly—beautifully. 

Her hips rolled, ass bouncing as she fucked herself back onto me, thick cheeks jiggling with every deliberate movement. The sight of it—her full, round ass working my cock, the way her back dipped in that perfect arch—sent a fresh surge of heat through me.

“Ahhh… majaa aa raha hai,” (Ahhh… it feels so good) she moaned, voice thick and dreamy, head dropping forward as she lost herself in the rhythm.

“Ahhhh yess baby… itni achhe se chud rahi ho tum mujhse… ahhh,” (Ahhhh yes baby… you’re getting fucked so perfectly by me… ahhh) I groaned, feeling the slick drag of her walls, the way she fluttered every time I bottomed out.

Her pace started to falter—thighs trembling, rhythm breaking as the pleasure overwhelmed her control.

I didn’t let her slow down.  

I took over completely—gripping her hips in both hands and fucking her hard, fast, relentless. The wet slap of our bodies filled the room, louder than her broken moans. Her thighs shook violently under my palms, muscles quivering as she fought to hold herself up.

“Ahhhh… ahhh… Adil… me… raaa… ahhhh… aa rah… a h… ai…” (Ahhhh… ahhh… Adil… I’m… cumm… ahhhh… coming…)  

She gasped the words in fragments, body seizing as she clenched down hard around my cock—creaming me in hot, pulsing waves. 

I fucked her through it—didn’t stop, didn’t slow.

When she collapsed flat on her stomach, chest heaving, limbs loose and spent. Sweat glistened along the curve of her spine.

I wasn’t done.  

I flipped her over gently but firmly—onto her back. Her legs fell open automatically, thighs slick and trembling. I settled between them, hooking one knee over my elbow to spread her wider, and slid back inside in one long, slow thrust.

She whimpered at the new angle—deeper, fuller—eyes fluttering half-closed as I started moving again.

“Ahhh babyyy… kiska lund logi iss chut mein, haan… ummmm?” (Ahhh babyyy… whose cock are you going to take in this pussy, hmm… ummmm?) I rasped, voice dark and possessive. My free hand came down in a sharp slap across one full breast—watching it jiggle, the skin blooming pink—then the other.

“Tumhara… sirf tumhara,” (Yours… only yours) she panted, breathless, voice cracking on the words as her hands clutched at my shoulders.

I leaned down, claiming her mouth in a messy, hungry kiss—tongues tangling, swallowing her moans.

“Sirf… aur sirf mera,” (Only… and only mine) I growled against her lips, thrusting deeper, grinding slow and hard at the end of each stroke so she felt every thick inch stretching her.

Her nails dug into my back. Her legs wrapped around my waist, heels digging into my ass to pull me closer, deeper.  

We were both close now—breath ragged, bodies slick with sweat, the coil in my gut tightening unbearably.

I fucked her with purpose—long, punishing strokes that hit that spot inside her every time, making her cry out into my mouth.  

“Ahhhh… ahhh… Adil… dheere karo… ahhhh,” (Ahhhh… ahhh… Adil… slower… ahhhh) she begged, voice cracking, fingers clawing at my shoulders as her body trembled on the brink.

“Nooo baby… bas hone wala hai… ahhh,” (Nooo baby… it’s about to happen… ahhh) I groaned, hips snapping faster, chasing that final peak. I couldn’t stop—not when she felt this perfect wrapped around me, not when every clench of her pussy pulled me deeper.

“Mere andar… ahhhhh,” (Inside me… ahhhhh) she moaned, legs locking tighter around my waist, heels digging into my ass like she never wanted me to pull out.

“Tumhari chut mein hi karunga baby… ahhh… pura cummm… ahhhh,” (I’ll do it right in your pussy, baby… ahhh… all of it… ahhhh) I rasped, voice breaking as the pressure snapped.

With one last, grinding thrust I buried myself as deep as I could go and came—hot, thick pulses flooding her, marking every inch inside. The release hit me like a wave, hips jerking uncontrollably as I filled her completely.

“Ahhhh—” Her mouth fell open in a silent scream, eyes rolling back as her own orgasm crashed over her. Her walls spasmed hard around my cock, milking me dry, drawing out every last drop while she shook beneath me—thighs quivering, toes curling, a fresh rush of wetness coating us both.

I stayed buried inside her for long seconds, feeling the aftershocks ripple through her body, my own chest heaving against hers. Slowly, reluctantly, I pulled out. A thick, creamy glob of my cum followed—sliding out of her swollen, glistening pussy and dripping onto the sheets. The sight of it—her marked, claimed, leaking me—sent a dark, possessive satisfaction curling through my veins.

She was mine.  

Completely.  

Irrevocably.

We collapsed together, limbs tangled, breaths slowing in the quiet aftermath. I pulled her close, wrapping my arms around her sweat-damp body, her head tucked under my chin. Her heartbeat thundered against my chest, gradually easing into a soft, steady rhythm.

I held her like that until her breathing deepened, turned slow and even—until sleep finally took her. Only then did I ease out from under her carefully. I cleaned her gently with a soft cloth from the bedside drawer—wiping away the evidence of us with tender strokes, making sure she stayed comfortable. I pulled the light sheet over her, tucking it around her shoulders, brushing a stray lock of hair from her face.

She looked peaceful in sleep—soft, unguarded, the fire that always burned in her eyes now banked into quiet warmth.

I slipped out of the room, closing the door softly behind me.

The party outside had wound down. Laughter and music had faded to murmurs; guests were leaving in small groups. I checked the security feeds one last time—cameras clear, perimeter secure, everything wrapped up as it should be. Only when I was satisfied did I head back.

She was still asleep when I returned, curled on her side, breathing slow and deep. Moonlight slipped through the curtains, painting silver across her cheek.

I stripped down quietly and slid into bed beside her. She stirred just enough to nestle closer—instinctively seeking my warmth—her head finding its place on my chest, one arm draping across my waist.

I wrapped both arms around her, pulling her flush against me. The world outside—the violence earlier, the endless vigilance, the pretense—fell away. In this small, stolen pocket of time, there was only her steady heartbeat against mine, the faint scent of her skin, the peace that came only when she was safe in my arms.

I pressed a soft kiss to the top of her head.

I closed my eyes and let myself enjoy it—every second of quiet, every breath we shared—knowing how rare and fragile this kind of peace could be.

For now, though…  

For now, she was mine, and the night was ours.

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