That Multi Tasking Girl

The Lucknow High Court was a careful blend of order mingling with soul-draining chaos, a harmony of overlapping conversations and the loud announcements of clerks cutting through the corridors—sending the small gatherings into motion as men and women alike nearly tackle each other to the floor while trying to step inside the courtroom first, as if the seat closer to the front would bring them more insight than the ones sitting in the back.

And among them was the already frustrated prosecutor, elbows out and profanities on the lips as she pushed her way into the room, huffing in annoyance while her fingers brushed the dark coat on her shoulders straight.

“Hadd hai yaar!” (This is too much, bro!) She hissed, glancing to her side to see her junior—a young man with thick glasses on his nose and a book tucked underneath his arm at all times—fixing his suddenly ruffled hair with an anxious eye towards the bench where the judge would take his seat.

“Prosecutor ko hi andar nahi aane denge? Khud ladne ka mood hai kya inka?” (Won’t let the prosecutor step in? Are they in mood to fight the case themselves?) She continued, heels clicking against the floor as she approached the table, depositing the sole file she was holding on to before she slumped down in the wooden chair, groaning as the muscles of her thighs protest against movement—last night taking a toll, especially when she had received no true respite.

The gala had been boring as always, an annual lawyers meet, where snakes dressed up to their best and smiled behind champagne flutes, exchanging compliments and greeting kisses when all they wished for was eliminating competition from the saturated profession.

But she had found a man—half-drunk on the whiskey they had served already. And the rest? Well, the man—whosoever he had been—was rather the silver tongue, stringing together words of praises that intoxicated her to the point of desperation until she had nearly pounced on his offer to move the conversation somewhere private.

Her laboured breath had fogged the mirrors, head tipping back against the window while the deep voice had whispered filth into her neck, pressing open-mouth kisses on the bare skin while two of his fingers pressed against the entrance of her weeping core, slipping in without much resistance and pounding into her.

“Such a perfect girl, aren’t you? So docile—nothing like that venomous viper in the courtroom.”

The words still brought a flush to her cheeks while the memory had her shifting in the chair, eyes closed as her fingers thrummed against the top of the table in a familiar rhythm—a song that had been playing in the background while she had been speaking with the stranger at the bar.

Who even was the man?

Surely she wasn’t drunk enough to not remember the face or the name—if he had given her one—of the stranger that had dragged her to orgasm and then dropped her at her place in his much expensive car. A Mercedes, she could recall slightly, with leather seats that had creaked when he had shifted just enough to drop his perfectly-ironed pants.

Her memory had never failed her like this, but then again, she had never truly indulged in something so thrillingly sinful.

Her entire life had revolved around books—a nerd in high school, a serious relationship during law school that went nowhere, a summer fling too late that wasn’t as fun as the movies had displayed it. Hence, her love life, to conclude in short, was as boring as a bare act discussing about a centuries-old law that was no longer applicable, but still important for Bar examination.

But last night?

“Where did the venom go, hm? Leaking from your tight cunt, is it? Who would have thought Ms. Prim and Proper was simply a whore begging to be fucked right? You could have just asked me, sweet little viper—why fuck up my—”

“Oh my god!”

She jumped, nearly falling off her chair as she was brought out of the rapidly moving train of her thoughts by the quiet exclamation of her junior—who was busy staring at the defence’s table.

“Kya hai?” (What is it?) She gritted through her teeth.

“Siddharth Jaisingh.”

A scoff escaped her lips, eyes narrowing in a glare as she glanced at the defence lawyer—the tall man unaware, or simply ignoring, her as he unbuttoned his court and sat down in the chair with the arrogance of a spoiled brat with a silver spoon of privilege in his mouth.

She had fought her first case as a prosecutor against him, and many more—emerging victorious in most of them simply because she relished the sight of his glare and pursued lips. And the ones she couldn’t win? She made sure that he didn’t either, the verdict remaining neutral with no one side losing and the other wining.

“Of course, yeh panauti hi milna tha aaj,” (of course, I had to meet this misfortune today) she mumbled to herself, still not relenting from the glare.

But then, something caught her eye.

The watch around his wrist nearly shone under the sunlight filtering in through the windows of the room—silver chain gleaming while the black dial nearly disappeared under the sleeve of his court until he stretched his arm a little over the table while reaching for a file. An expensive watch—something like Rolex—that seemed far more familiar than she would like it to be.

The memory, a particular one, came crashing down on her like a thunder.

“You look so pretty with my hand wrapped around you, princess,” he had whispered while his fingers had pressed insistently against her racing pulse, teeth nibbling at her earlobe as he had seethed his length into her. Not even for a second had he spared her the chance to adjust to him, instantly beginning to thrust up into her welcoming heat while his free hand moved—tracing her side before his fingers laced into her ruined hair, tugging at them hard enough for pain to shudder through her body.

“So very different than the courtroom version of yourself. So very likeable and pretty—the perfect wife. Letting me use you without any protests, being so welcoming for me.”

A car’s headlight had reflected in the mirrors, the watch around his wrist—the one around her slender neck—catching the light and brightening up before the hand moved, snaking around her back and pulling her flush against him to pound faster into her until her eyes had disappeared behind her lashes.

Of course, it had to be him.

Her face whipped away from him, body shifting until she was nearly facing away from him and towards the judge. A muscle feathered in a jaw from tension while another ached somewhere in her head—perhaps, a side effect of the alcohol she had consumed a night before, or of the man sitting only a few steps away from her.

The session run long—not really, but for the prosecutor who tried her best not to squirm in her chair under the weight of the past night’s unholy memories.

“—no more questions, your honour,” she ended with a slight bow, approaching her chair while gesturing with a hand to the defence to take the floor. But she had forgotten just how much Siddharth Jaisingh liked his petty intimidation tricks.

And true to his narcissistic self, he stood up right when she was about to pass his table to settle into hers, towering tall over her small figure in his tailored suit, dark eyes watching—no, studying her as if she was the very verdict of the case, or perhaps, undressing her in his mind—while his fingers slowly closed the singular button on his coat.

The low cadence of his deep voice, the arrogance rippling from it—everything catapulted her to the gala, or rather, the aftermath of it.

His large hand had covered the small of her back easily, free hand holding her heels while she breezed through the corridor of the five-star hotel that had hosted the gala, swaying in his hands as the elevator had dinged closed and his lips had began closing in on her exposed skin—nipping and kissing and whispering while his beard scratched the delicate spot behind her ear.

“Didn’t think you would be so willing, Ms. Prim and Proper. Is this truly what it takes—a few drinks and whispered filth—to get the chance to fuck that tight cunt? It must be, no? Tight and warm and welcoming, the perfect gift for a man like me.”

A tsk had followed, a dark chuckle too, one that had a shiver running down her spine while her fingers had curled into his for support, nails tapping against the glass of his wrist by mistake as gasps and wanton moans escaped the curve of her parted lips.

It was only the call of her name that had pulled her away from the trance of the memory, an embarrassed flush on her cheeks as she mumbled an apology to the furious judge and threw a glare over her shoulder at the sound of the smug chuckle from the attorney sitting relaxed in the chair.

The grin on his face made her blood boil, the man acting as if he knew exactly what had kept her mind preoccupied—which, he actually did. Because, honest to god, the same memories plagued his mind too, the only difference being that his years of practice had trained him well-enough to hide his thoughts. All while she was still learning, a ripe fruit that he had bitten into last night—evidence of which was hidden underneath the collar of her shirt.

A fruit far more juicier than the forbidden apple—and the one made solely to take his cock perfectly.

The sight of her lips moving—stating facts and serving it to the judge with emotional words about justice for the wronged that the second-generation lawyer barely cared for—catapulted him right to the night before, his body reclining in the back seat of his car while legs parted just enough to cage her kneeling figure.

She had been rather wonderful, despite being much of a novice—kissing and licking his tip and swallowing much of his length while her hands stimulated the remaining, hollowing her cheeks and sucking him off after the initial gagging that had him chuckling and petting her hair.

“Who else have you sucked, baby? How many else have you opened your mouth for?”

His fingers twitched against his thigh, remembering the feel of her luscious locks in around his skin—the same one that were twisted into a tight knot that looked far too stiff to be comfortable, baring a sliver of the nape of her neck before the dark collar hid away her skin. The memory of the small whine muffled by his cock in her mouth still vibrated through his body, the blood rushing south in a moment when it should be racing towards his brain.

Damn, Ms. Prim and Proper, he thought to himself as he stood up, fingers pressed to the wooden table as he objected to her interrogation of the witness—not because she was misleading or anything. But because he wanted those eyes on him, just like they had been the night before—doe eyes peering up at him through the shelter of her lashes while he fed her more and more of his length.

“Objection overruled,” the judge grumbled, unbeknownst of the palpable tension between the two lawyers, or simply, he had no interest in anything other than the lunch break that was close enough for the man in his fifties to taste the Aloo Paratha on the tip of his tongue.

The nod that the prosecutor gave was nearly dazed, eyes still firm upon Siddharth—who, with a feline grace, settled back into the chair with a smirk—before she peeled her gaze away, trying to focus on the witness sitting in the stand. But her mind? Still attached to the image of his long fingers splayed on the table, veins bulging under tanned skin while the dark inked tattoo peeked from underneath his sleeve.

The same fingers that had been inside her, thrusting into her tight core, tips brushing against that one spot she had believed to be nonexistent while his thumb had rubbed her small bundle of nerves. His pace had driven her to the verge of madness, crazed tears rolling down her cheeks while her fingers had curled into the collar of his shirt—incoherent pleads escaping her lips: “please…ah—p-p-please, I want to…”

“Please what?” The devil had crooned with an evil smile.

“I-I-I want to co—”

“No more questions, your honour,” she whispered, stiff limbs dragging over to her chair, sitting down with her eyes trained upon her own interlaced fingers.

She had more questions—they both knew that. But neither had the energy to go through what they had prepared for beforehand, mind drifting away from the session in hand to the memories neither of them should be paying attention to, especially now when a matter of justice and innocent lives dangle in their hands.

“Cross examination?”

The judge turned his critical eye towards Siddharth, who let out a controlled breath and stood up, fingers interlaced together in front of him. Dark gaze mapped the witness sitting in the stand to the stiff woman that had occupied his every single waking thought since the second she walked into the gala wearing that silk dress that seemed like champagne sparkling under the dim lights of the banquet hall.

“Your honour, mujhe thode time ki zarurat hai—to go through everything that was said today,” (your honour, I would require some time—to go through everything that was said today) he announced, shocking almost everyone in attendance—because Siddharth Jaisingh never delayed his cases like this.

The next minutes were a blur—the judge announcing a date before adjourning the session, everyone rising as the judge retreated to his chamber, the crowd slowly filling out of the courtroom to get on with their respective businesses.

All while the prosecutor worked mechanically.

“Tu chal files leke, I will join you in a moment,” (you go with the files, I will join you in a moment) she whispered to her junior, patting encouragingly on his shoulder before she all but jogged to the washroom in the opposite wing of the court—an isolated location given most people crowded the cafeteria for a quick lunch. Just perfect for her to gather bits and pieces of her composure and get through the day.

The water that touched her face wasn’t cold, something she would have appreciated at the moment, but the lukewarm water was only a reminder of how little she actually expected anything good in her life—for the particular day, at the very least.

Knuckles turned white as the grip on the edge of the sink tightened, eyes forced close—but even that offers her no respite from the plaguing thoughts, or rather, the intrusive images and the ghost of whispers that had her insides twist.

His fingers had pressed against her lower belly, his length splitting her open while she convulsed on top of him, head rolling back until the back grazed the leather covers of the passenger seat, nails digging into his shoulder to anchor herself to the reality. All while he had increased his pace, thrusting deeper into her while his free hand had moved north to play with her pebbled nipples through the confines of her dress.

“You want to be filled up, don’t you? My good little slut, wanting me to fill you up to the brim until you leak of me—even in the courtroom tomorrow, huh? My dirty whore.”

“Y-yes,” she had hiccuped through tears, completely unaware of everything but the intoxicating pleasure rushing through her body.

“You are so good to me, baby, so fucking nice that I might just keep yo—”

“Thinking about me, baby girl?”

Large hands snaked around her waist, turning her around until the curve of her ass was pressed against the counter behind, lips pulled in a cruel smirk brushing hers even before she could distinguish between memory and reality, teeth nipping at her lower lip teasingly while the familiar scent of his spiced aftershave dazed her senses—pulling her back into that dark space of complete submission.

“Bold of you to assume I think of you,” she hissed back, her hands pressed against his chest to push him back—but her strength waned in front of him, broad shoulders clouding the world and caging her right there, surrounded by him and him alone. The tremble in her words had been little, barely noticeable, but both of them were lawyers—good ones at that—and far too observant for their own good.

One of his hand shifted, slipping underneath the safe cover of her black coat to trace her side, lingering fingertips sending a shudder down her spine and pulling a gasp free—one of the many sounds he had enjoyed tugging from her parted lips until she had sang freely for him.

His lips hovered close to hers, darkened eyes glinting with a cruel glint while raw desire danced in the depths like a hungry predator latching on to a prey, one of his favourite one.

“And yet, you kept staring at me like you still felt me between those delicious thighs of yours,” he hummed with a grin—one that spoke volumes about his intentions—before he moved her again, not giving her a chance to sass him back. Her back was turned to him quickly, pushing her over until she was bent over the counter with the curve of her ass budging against his tightening trousers, a hand slipping into her hair to loosen the bun, tugging her back until her eyes were focused on the reflection of them in the mirror.

His chest pressed against her back, other hand gripping her waist while his hips buck against her—grinding his straining length against her ass while growling low into her ears.

“I bet you are wet for me right now,” he began, teeth grazing the sensitive skin of her ear before he nipped at her earlobe, tongue flicking over the small earring—silver wire forming a little butterfly—teasingly. “Should I check, little one? Shove my hands down your little panties and see whether your cunt weeps for me or not?” He continued, letting go of her ear to press an open-mouth kiss on the bared skin of the nape of her neck.

Her eyes fluttered close, resistance leaving as her body became putty in his hands—ready to do whatever he wanted her to do. Her hips dug into the edge of the counter, eliciting a little whine while her mind registered his heavy cock brushing against her ass—separated by the maddening restraints of their clothes. Without a spare thought, her heel-clad legs parted a little, as if begging for something—and he knew exactly what.

“You want to be fucked here? In the women’s washroom of a high court? Where anyone can catch us?” He voiced, a depreciating chuckle punctuating his questions while his nose rubbed against the skin behind her ear, fingers playing with the hem of her coat as if contemplating the risk of actually doing it.

He tsked—just like he had a night before.

“You are a dirty, dirty slut—but you know that already.”

His fingers wrapped around her arms, straightening her over and turning her around again until her dazed eyes meet his lustful ones, one hand shifting to cup her jaw, thumb grazing the curve of her lower lip before he leaned down to press a brushing kiss—a brand that burned into her skin.

“Aaj raat, mere ghar. Saree pehn kar aana,” (tonight, my house. Come wearing a saree) he whispered, thumb stilling against her skin as he leaned down to press another feather-light kiss on the skin behind her ear—whispering his final words before departing the washroom like he had never stood there.

April 2020

Lucerne, Switzerland

The world had come to a standstill, all because someone in China thought it amusing to have wild bat for food on a random Tuesday—at least, as par the official reports. Nature had began healing, cities clean with air safer than ever to breathe and animals re-emerging and rejoicing as the forest cover slowly recovering.

All while human population tried to cope—loved ones ill and some dying, students and workers struggling to adjust to the online mode, many loosing their livelihood while a rare few earned theirs in a hard way.

But not all was bad, at least for the family nestled in the outskirts of the most populous city of Central Switzerland. Part of a small community of South-East Asians, their lives had settled in a chaotic harmony of conference calls and zoom classes.

“—I will go through the details and revert back to you by the evening, if that is alright?” She quirked, slender fingers fiddling with a pen underneath the camera’s range, foot anxious on the wooden floorboard as her gaze flicked to check the time on her phone. The meeting had ran longer than expected, and she could already hear the havoc the boys would start once the meeting end.

“Perfectly fine, Mrs. Shah. Take your time,” the client smiled, a middle-aged man wearing a suit with a tie that made her wonder if he was wearing shorts underneath just like herself.

“Have a great day, Mr. Hansen.”

The meeting ended in exactly two seconds after that—a minute over the schedule and she heard the telltale sound of light footsteps running down the corridor, approaching her with chiding words as she had expected.

“Mama!”

“We are late—”

“Miss Schmidt will roast us—”

“Like chickens!”

“And give us extra homework—”

“Give me a second, I am logging into your class,” Drisana interrupted through their adorable panic, standing up from the chair just Rudra could hop into it while Ehaan dragged another chair to sit beside his brother, all while they ate their mother’s ears off.

“She will eat us up like a zombie!” Ehaan gasped, glaring at the scene as the waiting room appeared, a pout forming on his lips as his eyes flicked to the notebook his twin brother had deposited on the table.

“Like that movie—”

“Boys,” came the rumbling voice that had the nine-year olds straightening, because while they were dotted upon and allowed to do most of the things, one of the restricted activity was to rush their mother right after her meetings, especially the early morning ones that ran late. And doing the forbidden things attracted a quiet reprimand that neither of them liked, a cold shoulder that made them squirm until the man hadn’t cracked a smile.

Before anyone could say anything else, the meeting began and Drisana rounded the dining table to reach the figure leaning on the doorway with his arms crossed. Her head leaning forward to rest against his broad shoulder, a sigh muffled in the linen of his tee while his fingers pressed against the nape of her neck, drawing soothing circles to release some of the tension gathered there.

His other hand gently took hers, lacing fingers and pressing a kiss on the back of her palm before he slowly coursed her to their bedroom—a space temporarily only theirs until the twins were done with their digital school for the day.

“Laiba?” She voiced quietly, settling on the edge of the bed, dark eyes watching him silently as he closed the door behind him.

Iqbal turned, approaching her and settling in front of her with a soft tug of his lips, his now-trimmed beard his wife’s newest obsession after she had offered to help him with his luscious locks and thick facial hair after all the lockdown began, which obviously ended in a tragedy when Ehaan had startled a concentrating Drisana while she was trimming his beard.

But in all honesty? The short beard suited him far better than the long one, making him look far younger than his age.

Her fingers rise, cupping his jaw with a softness reserved only for the walls of the small heaven they had made on earth—one that encompassed three beautiful, chaotic children and the quiet life they had build away from the chaos of their original lives.

“Cinderella padh rahi hai apne dosto ke saath,” he replied, leaning into her touch before he shifted, arms wrapping around her waist and pulling her until she sat in between his legs with her back against his chest and he sat with his back leaning against the wooden headboard.

The woman clad in a formal shirt above white shorts with small hearts printed on it chuckled, corner of her eyes crinkling with a soft smile as she snuggled deep into his arms, cheek resting against his chest—listening to the rhythmic thumb of heart—as she imagined the sight of their only daughter reading the fairytale that had been her own favourite when she was young while sitting in front of the laptop, giggling with the friends she met at the school for specially-abled.

A safe space, at last—away from the ghosts of memories of a cruel grandfather and a place that undermined her worth.

“Aaj subah kis se baat kar rahe the aap?” She quipped after a long moment, looking over her shoulder to meet his eyes, hands resting on her abdomen as she shifted just enough to lean on his thigh a little—completely wrapped in her husband in the brief moment of pure bliss and solace.

His fingers carded through her hair, loosening the bun until her long hair fell over her back in loose waves—left untouched since the beginning of the year, taken care of by his careful fingers which rubbed hair oil on her scalp every other day of a week. Just the way she did for their children and Iqbal.

“Mir.”

The answer came simply—not a surprise given how the man remained in touch with his boss and friend, even though neither of them would ever say it out loud.

Drisana raised an eyebrow, fingers playing with the hem of her work shirt before she unbuttoned the top few buttons, breathing out an exaggerated exhale as the collar loosened and the pale tank top underneath peaked out of the front—not seductive like newlyweds, but a casualness that seeps into lifestyle after years of relying on each other.

“Kya bol raha tha?” She questioned, not truly hostile towards the man, but the patriot in her still despised the right-hand man just as she taunted Iqbal during rare fits of rage—away from the earshots of their children and the world, obviously.

The man huffed a laughter, light and hearty, as he stood up from the bed, stretching his aging muscles a little as he answered: “bolne hi kaha diya uske bete ne. Pure time toh wohi baat kar raha tha—‘uncle, apko pata hai? Abbu ko tree draw karna nahi aata’.” A chuckle punctuating the words, the mere vision the words created seeming absurd when spoken for the man who flinched in front of nothing—being criticised by his own son for having no drawing skills.

The scandalised expression on the woman’s face was enough to amuse the already grinning man before she shook her head, clearly still unable to digest the thought of Mir being a father—a good one at that—to anything, much less a human child.

“I still can’t believe Iqra married him,” she whispered, glancing up at her husband who simply shrugged his shoulders, as if the thought of his once-upon-a-time right-hand man being married to an absolute firecracker of a woman was not at all bothering to him.

All while his wife was losing her mind, even six years after the wedding.

“Why? Dono ek dusre ko jaise dekhte the—it was rather obvious, jaan,” he replied matter-of-factly, walking over to the vanity to brush his hair back from his face with the help of his fingers. His gaze admired the appearance of the trimmed beard—a look he used to keep when he was a young man and not the fearsome major of ISI or the family man that was born after that day in Muridke—but only discreetly, for he could not bear the sight of his wife’s knowing smirk without groaning.

The hum that he received made him instantly straighten, because the tone belonged to a pouting woman who needed something from him.

He turned around, and as expected, Drisana sat on the edge of the bed with her legs crossed underneath her and an adorable pout on her face, arms outstretched dramatically as she looked up at him with doe eyes.

“Pick me up?”

Iqbal blinked, almost as if he was asked a question he had never heard before. Like the question in an exam that came from outside the prescribed syllabus.

“Kya?”

“Uthao mujhe,” she whined, not the no-nonsense consultant any longer but a wife trying to make her husband give in to her whims.

“Main ladkiya nahi uthata. Mera kidnapping ka kaam thodi hai,” he countered with a seriousness that had Drisana stopping for a moment, blinking in confusion while her mind tried to process exactly what he had declared before a loud snort escaped, followed by a full laughter that had the man grinning ear-to-ear.

With a proud tilt of his chin and an evil grin, he half-jumped on her, fingers trailing her sides, tickling until she was a laughing mess with tears in her eyes. But he stopped when she mumbled between the giggles, breathless as he laid down beside her, hand resting atop hers on her stomach.

“Do you think about Aarisha and Hamza sometimes?” She asked after a while, fingers playing with the singular band of platinum that sat on his ring finger—bulkier version of the band on her hand, except for the diamonds encrusted in hers. The reminder of their union and every struggle they went through to have the life they do now, worn everyday proudly and kissed every night as they fell asleep in each other’s arms.

There was no underlying tension that hung in the air—unlike the initial years, where the wound of his wife begging for his life in front of another man sat deep in his heart—only a mild curiosity, like someone half-interested in wildlife watching a Nat Geo documentary on tigers.

He hummed thoughtfully, chin sitting on her shoulders while he tangled his leg with hers, making her grin knowingly before she kicked his leg away playfully.

“Woh shayad abhi kisi gaon mein ho—shehr se dur, you know. Somewhere quiet and peaceful without guns. Haari-bhaari jagah, bohot saare khet. Maybe, kheti bhi karte ho? Abb kisi insaan ka pata thodi hai kuch?” He wondered out loud, eliciting a small smile on Drisana’s face as Aarisha’s voice echoed in her ears—mere memory clinging through the time while friendship had became praying for her family’s safety and fulfilment of the only dream the petite woman had.

“Kya apko lagta hai woh dono India wapas chale gaye honge?”

The former major shifted, one arm snaking around her waist and pulling her until she was nearly lying on top of him, embracing her gently while his mind rushed to calculate all the possibilities of her question becoming a reality.

A shrug he offered then, beginning to explain the reason behind his answer before the verdict came: “pichle nau saal mein bohot kuch badal gaya hai—world politics, economies, intelligence, you know. Perfectly kahna thoda mushkil hai, Fakhta, but jitna mera andaza hai?”

A pause.

One that he knew would have her squirming for the answer, but she was far too stubborn to admit the truth, and he could seldom not give in to the wishes of his beloved family.

“Haan. R&AW ne unhe nikal liya hoga.”

He felt the small smile tugging on her lips against his shoulder, and instantly, his heart melted in a puddle. Fingers curling protectively into the soft fabric of her shorts around the hips while his nose dipped into the waterfall of her nail, inhaling her scent and letting out a soft sigh before a mischievous grin bloomed on his face.

“Waise,” he started, stretching the syllables like a teasing song, which made the woman lying atop him perk up with interest.

“Hamza ne bohot sare bacche kar liye honge.”

Drisana raised an eyebrow, sitting up, thighs bracketing his waist while she sat on his stomach, hands pressed on his chest while his hands moved to grab her waist. His intense eyes softened at the sight of her shifting and adjusting until she grinned proudly, comfortable at last.

“Humse zyada?” She prompted.

“Shayad?” Iqbal shrugged, his hand shifting until his thumb rubbed against her stomach in slow circles—a habit he had picked up when her body had began changing to carry their boys, and a habit returning as a new beginning came closer.

“Shayad,” Drisana whispered, closing her eyes, fingers curling around his—together and away from a world that condemned their union.

February 2010

Muridke, Pakistan

If anxiety had a face, it would have been the widened dark eyes and frizzed hair pulled back in a loose bun wearing a loose kaftan kurta and an equally loose trousers, slender yet trembling fingers wrapped around the steering wheels of the rented sedan while Aarisha glared at the device in her hands, cursing the fluctuating network of the city and the narrow yet crowded roads that obstructed the route.

The surroundings were a blur in the their mind, the focus completely on finding the two men that were hellbent on killing one another and making a widow out of an innocent woman—for reasons they thought valid, justified by their own ideals and varying worlds.

“Yaar, yeh network ko bhi abhi hi gayab hona tha?” The woman in the passenger seat groaned, frantic eyes glancing outside the window of the car as if the roads would answer her irritated question.

“Last location kya thi?” Drisana hissed, hand digging into the horn but the vegetable seller was an equally stubborn man, especially at the sight of two disheveled ladies and no man. But unfortunate for him, the former pilot was in no mood for entertaining misogyny, particularly when it came from an elderly with grey beard and sparse hair on head.

A hand reached to the side of the driver’s seat, rolling down the window to poke her head out of the car and yell profanities that had Aarisha flinching in her seat, her face twisting in discomfort while she glared at the woman in kaftan.

“—teri biwi ko bewa karne mein time nahi lagega mujhe! Side hata apna thela warna udda dungi tujhe aur tere tamataron ko!”

“Araam se bhi bol sakti thi,” came the small voice from her side as Drisana rolled the window back up, huffing in annoyance while watching the hawker push his cart to the side.

Her dark eyes—stormy from the anxiety and fear that brewed in her chest—moved to the wife of the Indian agent, the glare pining her into the seat as the former pilot growled quietly in her mouth, “I don’t need lessons on public etiquette right now.”

Usually, Aarisha would have had a reply for the biting words, but their circumstances were anything but the brief normality they had settled into—the normality that was left far too behind to return to, because now? Their respective partners could no longer bear the sight of each other’s living faces; their families no longer capable of living peacefully in overlapping horizons.

“Last updated location kisi choti si ga—”

The words were interrupted by the car skidding to an abrupt halt, Drisana’s heaving breath fading under the weight of sharp tang of gunpowder and fire in the air, sounds of bullets flying and men grunting overshadowing the panicked whisper of the sheltered wife as she was quickly dragged out of the car and made to crouch against the body of the sedan by the former pilot, who had never thought that her military skills would be used in a situation such as this.

A hand muffled Aarisha’s little sounds while sharp eagle eyes studied their surroundings, taking in note of the rangers on the roof and the men in normal Paithani kurtas, but among those men, she recognised a familiar face—not dressed in the uniform of the rangers, but fighting with them.

“Rizwan?” Drisana breathed out, not in confusion but in realisation that the entire time, she and Iqbal were surrounded by men that wished to see the latter dead.

Her hand fell from Aarisha’s mouth, mind fogged by the conflict of emotions that tightened her chest—was she supposed to be happy that her country was safe until the courageous men took breathe, or disappointed for she knew little about the men she had lovingly called ‘bhaiya’ once, unbeknownst to their true selves?

“Location kya hai, Aarisha?” She queried, voice blank with all the emotions suppressed by the looming doom that came closer with every spent second. The weight of truth that even a moment’s late could probably cost her lover’s life kicked out all the other thoughts, only one revolving in her mind—a goal.

Reach Iqbal as soon as possible.

“Pass ka goods station.”

The former Squadron Leader nodded, slowly inching closer to the curve of the hood of the sedan, peeking over the panel to see if any shooter had turned the muzzle of their guns in their direction. But fortunate enough for them, all of them were far too preoccupied to spare attention to escaping ladies.

“Back seat mein jhuk kar baith jao,” Drisana whispered to the woman kneeling on the concrete road with her hands pressing against her ears, trying desperately to muffle the loud noises echoing in the streets of the town of Muridke.

“Par—”

“Bharosa hai na mujhpar?” She queried, interrupting the polite protest of Aarisha, cupping her hand gently and squeezing it reassuringly before reaching up to slowly open the back door by an inch, and then more—just enough for the new mother to slip in.

Crawling like a caterpillar, the wife of Hamza Ali Mazari slowly got into the car, not seating on the backseat but settling on the floor, face propped against her arm on the center arm rest. Her doe-eyes glancing through the windows with fear in the brown pools as Drisana slid into the driver’s seat with her head bent in an awkward angle, starting the car.

The next few moments were a blur—the car moving in reverse before the sedan sped through the road, hitting a guy in a green kurta accidentally, but the car didn’t stop. A bullet crashed into the back mirror, shattering it until the evidence of its sheer existence was the pieces that gathered on the leather. The impact elicited a loud yelp from Aarisha, but the car couldn’t stop—not anymore because someone had began to target the moving vehicle.

Silver body of the sedan was adorned with bullet holes, some pierced through while others left only dents on the aged metal, a blurry figure disappearing into thin air amid chaos of conflicting groups—brushing past death and destruction to chase the path that lead either to despair or to chance relief.

The path that led to the goods station of Muridke.

Cargo boxes in vibrant colours towered against the clear sky and blazing sun, tall and heavy on the concrete foundation that stood an inch or two above the ground level. The railway track ran parallel along the horizontally built freight yard, barren except for the stationary rail tankers filled with petroleum meant to be transported across the country.

The car wasn’t parked, it was abandoned the second the concrete was close enough for the anxious woman behind the wheel to jump out safely, leaving behind a bewildered Aarisha in the back.

“Mere liye toh ruk—”

Words were ignored in favour of the sight of a tall figure running, dressed in a muted brown with hair shaved away and blood matting his skin, crazed look in dark and deep-set eyes while a menacing smile tugged on his lips. A soft sigh of short-lived relief escaped Drisana’s lips, legs halting in exhaustion before her gaze flicked over his shoulder and at the dark figure haunting him like a phantom.

Her anxious eyes filled with immediate tears—whether of fear or something far more overwhelming, she was not quite sure—breath shallow and uneven as she charged in the direction of her partner.

“Iqbal!”

The Angel of Death stopped, body freezing in complete shock at the familiar voice that should not be anywhere near the dreaded town of aged stones, but in the quiet walls of the ancient mansion of limestones that had became surprisingly a palace of solace for them.

“Fakhta?” His voice trembled, barely audible, as strong arms wrapped around the curve of her waist, body towering over her petite figure protectively. Careful hands cupped her face, concerned eyes watching her as he questioned her, “aap yaha kyu aayi? Apko yaha nahi hona chahiye, apki jaan ko khatra ho sakta hai—”

Slender fingers wrapped around the collar of his Paithani kurta, shifting their bodies until it wasn’t Iqbal’s back facing the approaching figure of Hamza but the stubborn front of Drisana. Her back pressed to her lover’s front while the fingers slip away from his collar to wrap around his wrist—almost a protective shield.

The advancing devil halted, not only because of the shift of the bodies, but because of the call of his name from the lips of his wife—jogging over with all the grace a mother recovering from postpartum could muster, wearing a dusky pink kurta that flowed with her movements. Eyes darkened with bloodlust widening at the sight of two women, who should be nowhere near the place, flickering between the two with a deep conflict taking root.

A battle of mind that compelled him to complete his mission and slay the beast that had tainted his nation in blood while his heart relented at the sight of the newest appearances—the ones he could not let witness the brutal side of him.

“Aap dono ko yaha nahi aana chahiye tha,” growled the man clad in black, a warning as well as a man trying to tame the beast inside him.

Iqbal’s hand on Drisana’s hips tighten protectively, furious gaze fixed upon the Indian agent while his mind was a battleground for a conflict—as was everyone’s in the present situation. His mind and heart both sang in union to drag his Fakhta to safety, a place he knows would be safe for her, but a small piece of heart desired to extract his revenge as well.

A payment in blood for betraying him and his trust.

But was blood truly more important than safety of the only woman after his deceased wife who made his heart stop and race at the same time?

“Bhaiya, please, I know it would feel impossible to but inhe chod dijiye,” the former pilot vocalised, perhaps, for the first time begging to someone on behalf of another. A tear escaped the holy boundary of her lash line, followed by another, and another until there was not a light drizzle but a downpour of fear condensed into water.

Hamza’s jaw tightened, teeth grinding against each other with barely concealed fury as his obsidian eyes stared at the man hiding behind his partner to save his life—a blow to his inflated ego, the intelligence officer was sure. Long fingers curled into a fist, heart pumping adrenaline while suppressed wraith threatened to break through all the self-imposed restraints and butcher the man responsible for many innocent deaths.

“Samne se hat jao, Drisana,” he murmured, voice calm like the winds before a storm. A force gathering all that is left in him—anger, despair, guilt, grief, bloodlust—everything that had been the fuel driving him forward whilst surrounded by perpetuators of terrorism in a foreign land.

The said woman shook her head, back pressing deeper into the chest she had laid her head upon countless times, counting breaths and listening to the lullaby of rhythmic heartbeat on sleepless nights. Her nails dig into the tanned skin of the wrist, leaving behind crescents and even drawing a sliver of metallic blood that gathered in her nail bed. Her lips trembled indeed, fearing what the man crazed with avenging his motherland would decide, but she remained firm in her stance.

One that she vocalised with a clear voice—a threat or perhaps, a condition. A price Hamza Ali Mazari—or perhaps, one paid by Jaskirat Singh Rangi—would have to pay to buy the revenge he longed for.

“Agar inhe marna hai toh mujhe bhi marna hoga.”

“Nahi—” Iqbal began, protective instincts crying out as an arm curled around her waist, trying to drag her back and shift their bodies until it was him being the protective shield and not Drisana—as it is supposed to be.

“Aap chup rahenge?” She hissed, turning around on her feet and trying to push him back, anger dripping into desperation as fingers gather the bloodied kurta.

The sight of her distorted face—hair messy and frizzy from the speed of the past few hours, eyes wide and swollen red, frantic as they search his dark ones, tears staining her flushed cheeks while her lips tremble—broke whatever composure the major was left with, his arm wrapping around her waist, pulling her into his chest as his nose nuzzled against her temple, inhaling her scent and memorising the warmth of her body pressed into his.

Just in case, it was their last embrace…

A last respite if fate had decided against them.

“Jaan,” Aarisha started, breath still heaving from the jog, slowly—as if approaching a wounded animal—stepping towards her raging husband. Her hand outstretched, an invitation just as it was a silent ask for permission, brown orbs softening at the blood that stained her husband’s skin and clothes.

“Main janti hu apke liye kitna zaroori hai usse marna, kitna intezaar kiya hai apne iss samay ke liye. Lekin main Drisana ko bhi samajhti hu,” she breathed out carefully, her eyes firm upon her husband, trying to calm the beast even though she, herself, wished the man clad in the brown kurta to die—why shouldn’t he when blood of innocents stained his hands?

But she knew the dread of a mother, whose husband could die any moment, whose child could become fatherless any second merely because of the cruel world. She lived in such dread every breathing moment since she found out her husband’s true identity—something she was immensely proud of, and yet, fear clung to her like a shadow every time Hamza kissed her brow and left for work. And truth be told, she couldn’t imagine Drisana going through the suffering—losing the father of her unborn child—whose mere thought had kept herself awake at night.

“Main bhi ek maa hu, jisse har din apne pati ko maut ke muh mein jaate hue dekhna padhta hai. Har din bass yeh dua karni hoti hai ki aap surakshit mere aur humare bete ke pass wapas aa sake. Har din bass yeh chinta rahti hai ki kahi apko k-kuch ho na jaye,” her voice trembled, eyes filling with tears as months of fear is vocalised and the guard of a strong woman falls only a little to show the face of an afraid wife.

Her brown eyes flicked to the guarded expression of Iqbal, hatred dissolved into the colour of mud before they soften at the sight of Drisana clinging to him, as if he would disappear the second her fingers let loose.

“Main janti hu ki woh admi reham ke layak nahi hai, par Drisana? Ya uska baccha? Woh toh yeh deserve nahi karte.”

For a moment, stunned silence reigned the goods station—not even a bird crying out overhead—as the said words were processed by the two men. One’s fist loosening as his heavy gaze fell upon the petite woman with her hand stretched, the mother of his dear son calling out to him, while another’s arms tightened around the former pilot hiding in his chest, eyes widening in surprise as he looked at her in amazement as well as a gnawing fear.

“Meri jaan…meri fakhta…k-kya yeh sach hai?”

Never in his life had Iqbal imagined himself stuttering, especially in front of a woman he had promised to protect and love with his very life. The woman he was supposed to be the pillar of, meant to be strong for. Yet, here he stood, facing his death and being told that she carried his child in her—and suddenly, the thought of dying was no longer comforting but haunting. The thought that he would have to leave her and their unborn child alone in this world—completely alone and unguarded.

Face still buried in his chest, her eyes opened, glancing up at him through the long shelter of her lashes as she nodded—the action little against him as a little hiccup escaped her quivering lips, muffled in the fabric of his kurta while her hand pressed right above his frantic heart.

The confirmation felt like a blade to his chest, his breath hitching while his face dipped, lips pressing a lingering kiss to her temple as he tried to keep the stinging tears at bay, refusing to cry in front of anyone but her. His scent engulfed her completely, lips making it a mission to kiss the rolling tears away, assure her that everything would be fine—even though he doubted the reality of his words.

“Main apko aur humare bacche ko kuch nahi home dunga,” he whispered against her skin, fingers rubbing gentle circles on her back while he rocked her like one rocks an agitated child.

“Aur aap?” Her question came trembling, voice cracking as her face emerged from his chest, tears glistening under the bare sky, eyes searching his as one of her hand moved north, cupping the side of his face. The soft flesh of her thumb brushed against dried blood that claimed the side of his face, wiping the crimson away as salt dotted her cheeks.

With great difficulty, Drisana peeled her eyes away from him to look over her shoulder, pleading gaze meeting the devil’s.

“Please, bhaiya, inhe jaane do. I swear, hum yaha se kahi dur chale jaenge. Kisi ko kuch pata bhi nahi chalega ki hum kaha gaye ya zinda bhi hai ya nahi. H-he will leave all this blood work—b-bass hume jaane do. Humare liye nahi toh humare bacche ke liye, p-please.”

The devil stopped—breath stalling completely as his mind raced back in time, past the life of Badshah of Karachi and King of Lyari, before he was Hamza Ali Mazari, an Indian intelligence agent—at the sound of that ‘bhaiya’, the desperate call of a pleading sister.

Perhaps, not from blood.

Definitely, from heart.

Eyes filled with rage soften into a strange mix of nostalgia laced in conflict as the beast gave way to a young adult wronged—a son left fatherless for a piece of land, a brother whose elder sister was butchered after atrocities no woman should endure, and a brother who became a monster in the eyes of the criminal system to save his younger sister. The small piece of guilt suddenly became a heavy burden on his broad shoulders, that regret of not being present when Harleen was robbed of her dignity as well as life, the despair of not being able to stop men from tormenting and kidnapping Jasleen.

Her heartbreaking screams still echoed in his ears, the memory of her tied up hands and legs flashing in front of his eyes like a cruel reminder of destiny.

The vision dissipated but the sight that greeted him remained somehow, achingly, the same. Of a sister calling him, begging him to change the course of fate that now rested in his hands with tears in her eyes and trembling lips.

The crack of her voice tugged at his heart strings, but the fire of vengeance was only subdued, but not extinguished still.

“Jaan.”

The press of Aarisha’s hand on his chest dragged him out of the plague of his thoughts, eyes shifting away from Drisana to look at the petite woman he loved with all his being—every limb, every inch, every bit of his soul.

“Jaane do unhe,” she whispered, pressing the slope of her forehead on his chest, right where his heart raced only for her, longing for her touch alone and the soft purrs of their son sleeping on his abdomen—the weight infinite times better than the weight of duty that he carried on his shoulders.

Hamza—or perhaps, Jaskirat in his alias’s body—stood motionless, arms slowly rising to keep his wife by close to his side while a realisation settled on his shoulders with an invisible startle: the fate of the growing family was in his hands, and every choice felt like the wrong one.

The right one? Well…there was simply none.

No path a journey through which all of them could emerge complete and content.

His eyes—green as the Jadeite found in the depths of Burma, or as it call it now, Myanmar—dart in between the two sights that fuel the conflict in his mind.

The dark locks slowly unravelling from the messy bun, tips grazing his forearm. Brown orbs that is his first sight in the morning when he wakes up and last as he drifts off to sleep hidden from his gaze under the fall of her lashes. The long bridge of her nose pressed firmly against the linen shirt underneath his coat and vest, uncaring of the scent of blood and violence clinging to him.

And then, his eyes rise to the couple in front—wrapped into each other with desperation seeping from their skin, Drisana’s face pressed into Iqbal’s shoulder while his face hid away in the crook of her neck. His arms draped around her, one hand pressed in between her shoulder blades while the other rested on her waist, holding her as if slightest of slack in grip would lead to her disappearing in front of his eyes. A sight he was sure the universe had seen himself and Aarisha in when they found out about the little bundle of joy coming into the world.

The only difference? He was a man fighting for his country and the people that were slighted, while Iqbal? He was a man fighting for what he was led to believe by his surroundings—a hatred deep rooted from childhood and watered by the society.

Late February 2010

Iqbal’s Ancestral Mansion

Nights trapped in the sandstone walls had many degrees and variations—some spent in heavy rage brewing in the air after the Brigadier had drunk himself crazy and began to spat sharp-edged insults, some were quietly peaceful when Iqbal sat down with Laiba and Drisana in his daughter’s room, others were surrounded by a thick layer of tension after the major had sat down on the couch while his father continued to rave about his achievements while the Godfather of ISI sat knowing the truth.

The nights were colder still while the days had become pleasant, winter slowly giving way to the moderate summers of Karachi. But the temperature in the mansion had been dropping ever since the distinctive sound of tyres halting in the courtyard fell distantly on the only woman of the family.

Iqbal had been under tremendous pressure in the last few days, something about unknown gunmen targeting important men.

Drisana knew just well why those men were important, but she had retorted to silence, quietly thanking whosoever had eliminated the dead weights of sin from the world while running fingers through the luscious locks of her stressed partner—trying to offer him a little comfort and a safe space in the midst of chaos.

She had expected the same old ritual of hearing the hate of Jahangir distantly—never capable of hearing the words, but always the intentions. She had expected heavy footfalls before the door would have opened and the tired major would have quietly approached the bed she sat on, placing a kiss on a peacefully sleeping Laiba’s forehead before he would whisk Drisana away to their shared bedroom. A conversation would have followed before he would disappear for a quick shower and she would heat up food for them. A quiet dinner succeeded by Iqbal holding her close in his arms and conversing about nothing and yet, everything until sleep took both of them.

But that night, nothing was routine.

Laiba was awake still, despite the late hour, her cherub cheek pressed against the former pilot’s lap while her fingers fiddled with the lace hem of the black kurta Drisana wore. A permanent pout plastered on her lips as she shifted—restless, unlike her usually peaceful self—settling against her pillow but her fingers remained tangled in the lace.

“Abbu kab aaenge?”

The question had become a constant before she fell asleep, because a few months ago, her father made sure he was there when she fell asleep. But these days? She sparsely saw him.

“Unhe aane mein der hogi, meri gudiya. Aap so jao,” the lady sitting with her back pressed to the bedrest hummed, rubbing soft circles on the child’s scalp—trying to aid her into relaxing and letting go of her consciousness. After all, it was better for her to not see her father with dark circles underneath his deep-set eyes and tension lining his shoulders.

The child whined, shifting closer to the adult that sat patiently beside her—the only solace in these past few days. Safiya had become overbearing, or perhaps, she always was and Laiba only realised it after Drisana. Iqra was always busy in making sure the mansion worked perfectly while her aapa devoted most of her time to the child. And Iqbal was simply not present most of the times.

The lady hoped that her words sat true and the major came late, because then, at least, the child won’t bear witness to the hatred of her grandfather—something she knew existed, very much evident in the way she drew everyone in colours but used the slowly diminishing black crayon for the wheelchair-ridden man.

But unfortunately, the faraway sounds began—the venom clear but not the words. And yet, it wasn’t the only sound that came.

There was a silence, for a short period of two minutes that felt like years, and then? The vigorous splashing of water, as if someone was struggling to come out of it. Drowning.

“Ammi, yeh kaisi awaz hai?”

Drisana blinked, knowing what was happening outside, but the child deserved to be kept in the dark—away from the brutal reality of the world and the ugly side of her father. For Laiba, her father was a man that loved him and both her mothers—deceased and the one that stepped up—and that would remain the reality for her, as long as the lady sitting beside her took breath.

“Lagta hai dada paani se khel rahe hai, beta.”

The girl nodded with as much seriousness as a child could muster, the action felt by the solemnly sat pilot who continued rubbing calming circles on her scalp, slowly and assuredly lulling her to sleep. And not more than fifteen minutes later, the child snored softly into her pillow, a delicate frown pulling at her eyebrows—much like her father.

And yet, the former Squadron Leader remained sat beside her, not yet wanting to let go of the child and face the brutal reality that would meet her when she would step out of the small world of crayons and innocent hopes—a world that unfortunately began and ended in the four walls of Laiba’s room.

But every person has to ultimately face the reality.

With a deep, composing breath, Drisana slowly stood up from the bed, pressing a kiss on the child’s forehead before she quietly padded out of the room, closing the door behind herself because she unsure of what else will conspire in the night.

The eerie silence of the mansion was spine-chilling, making the light footsteps of the lady echo distantly. But ever more frightening was the sight of the living room—not because it laid out the details of the struggle that must have taken place, but because it was well-kept. The television still danced with a looped video of a man being shot dead while a reporter continued to do her work with dedication. The crystal decanter was half-full with whiskey, the glass beside it empty though.

Nothing out of place.

Hesitant feet slowly approached the adjoining bathroom, breath hitching in chest at the spilled water that slowly dried on the marble.

Death no longer startled her much, having experienced the trauma of losing a parent and then saluting at the funeral of martyred comrades, yet it had always filled her with the unique weight of grief. But the sight of the corpse of the old, bitter man floating in the bathtub only brought her a satisfaction she could not explain.

It was a good riddance—the world eased of the weight of a man who knew only hatred, even towards his family members.

Then the worry seeped in and Drisana turned on her feet, leaving behind the dead body to check on the son that had brought an end to his father’s life with his bare hands. The major who portrayed himself to be unflinching, especially when it concerned the now-deceased Brigadier, and yet, she was sure that the act had costed him something—a piece of his soul or an extra weight on his chest.

Something.

Their bedroom door opened with a low creek, much like the exaggerated ones in horror movies, her petite figure slipping in before closing it behind her—making sure that it was locked.

Iqbal sat on the edge of their bed, head hung low between his tense shoulders while his fingers flexed against thin air between his spread thighs. The change in his appearance was stark—luscious locks her fingers combed through every night gone and in its place, a shaved head that made everything more rugged. Something that startled her enough for her feet to pause her approach.

A soft call of his name escaped her parted lips, capturing his attention. Intense eyes rose slowly, breath stilling in quiet contemplation while the gears of his mind worked hard—debating over whether their closeness warranted her to witness his vulnerability or not. But the need for her warm embrace far outweighed his want to remain aloof, a quiet hand suspended in air in an invitation that won’t be mentioned in any future conversations.

Drisana’s eyes softened, her lips parting in a soft exhale while her smaller hand slipped into his offered one, careful steps halting only when she stood between his thighs. His head lulled forward, forehead pressed against her stomach while his arms wrapped around her waist—holding her close while he tried to breathe through the kaleidoscope of overwhelming emotions.

Betrayal, because the man he had considered to be his brother had been spying on them all along. Anger, because the same man had killed his colleagues like flies. A bone-deep dread, because killing one’s own blood is a sin no sacrifice of hair could erase.

And above it all? Exhaustion.

From having his back sliced open with betrayals he could no longer count on his fingers, the parasite of worry for the two women in his life that chewed away at his sanity—especially now that he knew that a snake sat closer than expected—and the weight of every silence between himself and Drisana after a night he came late. The kind that asked questions without any voice—questions that he could not answer, and even if he did, the answers would only gnaw at them until their carefully threaded love was nothing but strands of hatred.

“Hamza ek Hindustani agent hai.”

Drisana’s breath stilled in her chest, hands wrapped around his broad shoulders halting the soft circles she had been rubbing. Questions swirled around her head, answers to which could only be given by the only friend she had made outside the walls of this mansion.

But right now? Her questions were far less important than soothing the raging beast.

“Abb?” She prompted quietly, eyes closing as her lips moved in a silent prayer—hoping that he doesn’t take a harsh decision. Especially not now—when everything was finally wonderful, and a small weight of uncertainty already sat in Drisana’s stomach since past few days.

Iqbal let out a controlled breath against her, nose nudging against the soft fabric of her kurta before he leaned back, dark eyes finding hers before they move to the small suitcase that sat empty in the corner—waiting to carry the things the ISI major would need for his small trip to Muridke.

A trip that had already filled the former pilot’s stomach with unexplainable dread the very day he had informed her of it. And now? Perhaps, she knew why.

The dread turned into fear—one she could not word, for he needed her to strong at the moment, even though it killed her inside.

“Abb ya toh woh bachega ya phir main.”

“Iqbal—”

He stood up then, interrupting whatever she had to say, towering over her softened figure with his intense eyes caressing every inch of her face. His hands moved north from her face, large palms cupping her cheeks as he leaned down, forehead grazing against hers while he committed her to his memory.

“Drisana, mere liye, please aaj mujhe mat rokna.”

Tears sting her eyes at his words, and suddenly, she realised how her mother must have felt every night before Major Hirdesh Rajput left his family behind for his duty. But there stood a difference that raked a wound in her heart—Iqbal is everything her father had stood against, and yet, she could not deny the love that bloomed between them like the arrival of spring after a harsh winter.

Trembling hands cupped his cheeks while she stood up on her tip toes, pressing a lingering kiss on his forehead before she took a step back, one hand grazing the front of her abdomen before she moved to pack his clothes.

“Jana sach mein zaruri hai?” She queried softly, placing a set of brown Paithani kurta and salwar in the suitcase, chocolate eyes finding his, trying to be brave despite the tears that swim in her eyes. A longing in them that broke his heart, one that begged for a normal life—away from their contrasting worlds and ideologies, one where they were just a man and woman in love.

“Badakismati se, haan, meri jaan.”

Drisana nodded, moving efficiently through the spacious room, gathering his shaving kit and the aftershave she had brought him a month ago, placing his go-to perfume along with his underwear and that one extra cartridge of bullets for his handgun. All with a heavy heart and even heavier eyes, stomach twisting in knots that won’t unravel until she was sure he would be safe.

And knowing the violence the Balochi gang under the leadership of Uzair and Hamza had committed during the Lyari gang war, her heart all but sank to the bottom of her stomach.

She could not lose him.

Not anymore.

Not after everything that had happened.

By the time the sun slowly began to peak through the horizon, Iqbal had already bathed and changed into his traveling clothes, sitting beside the unusually quiet figure of the former pilot on the edge of their shared breath—both of them basking the last few moments of closeness before the reality would come crashing upon them.

His arm was slung over her slender shoulders, squeezing reassuringly from time to time, her head resting against his chest, his bearded chin resting on top of her head while his empty hand was laced into hers. Her scent engulfed his senses, his fingers tightening against hers as if he too was reluctant to let her go.

But alas! Fate had cruel intentions.

His phone rang by his side, begging for his attention that was devoted to the woman curled into him—very unlike her composed, strong self. Quiet and stormy as she too engraved the moment into her very marrow—something to hold on to until his safe return.

“Jaan,” he hummed quietly, his nose brushing against her strands, catching the whiff of her chocolate shampoo, lips pressing against her temple in a parting gesture before he stood up.

He watched her whimper at the loss of his warmth against her, smaller fingers trying to hold on to him like a child trying to keep her favourite toy close.

“Mujhe jana hoga,” he affirmed softly, swallowing the lump that had formed in his throat—every inch of his body only wanting to engulf her in a tight embrace and never let go. But he knew it wasn’t possible, even if he wanted to make it so.

Not this time.

“Thodi der aur ruk jao.”

His eyes softened at her words, leaning down to press another kiss on her forehead, lips lingering long enough to memorise the feel of her soft skin underneath him. But like every thing comes to an end, so did the moment—the man pulling away and standing up tall. Not anymore Drisana’s Iqbal but the Angel of Death himself.

“Hum dobara zaroor milenge,” he whispered, long fingers wrapping around the handle of the suitcase, steps blurring away until he stood at the threshold of their safe haven. He paused there, taking in the figure of his beloved under the soft glow of a new day rising, his heart clenching violently in his chest before he whispered his farewells to her:

“Mera intezaar karna, jaan.”

And he was gone, not like he was never present in the room, for his scent still clung to her like a shadow, for his abandoned clothes were in the laundry bag still. But gone like a fireplace extinguished by the cold pour of a jug of water, or like a hourglass running out of time.

Her stomach churned again—not that it had stopped since she had come across the sight of Brigadier Jahangir’s corpse floating in the water—like her guts were trying to tell her something. As if trying to scream a truth that she hadn’t come across yet.

On instinct, as if her body was on autopilot, she rose from the bed, mechanical steps leading her into the bathroom. A small box remained hidden behind the plethora of skincare products she used, the strip inside it heavy between her fingers despite its small size.

Three minutes felt like an eternity, but the second her phone vibrated beside her, the timer having run out at last—her body froze completely.

But she had to look.

For her sake.

For Iqbal’s sake.

For their future’s sake.

Two pink lines glared back at her, the strip falling from her trembling fingers with a low thud while her vision clouded with tears, breath shallowing while her knees weaken while the weight on her shoulders grew tenfold. This was no longer a joke, and if Hamza and Iqbal were to battle…

She shook her head, refusing to even acknowledge the possibility of a world without him, the mere thought of it making her stomach clench in ache that had her gasping for air.

Drisana moved, wiping away the stray tears that had fallen before stepping out of the bathroom, pulling her hair back in a messy bun before she grabbed the car keys to a spare Jeep Compass that sat in the driveway of the mansion—a vehicle Iqbal had made sure was in a perfect condition, just in case of an emergency.

If only he had known what emergency would it be…

The black SUV sliced through the still empty streets of Karachi that was still yet to rise properly, zooming past traffic lights and breaking all the speed limits to have ever existed in the city streets, her mind set on reaching a single destination in record time:

Aarisha and Hamza’s mansion.

For if anyone was capable of calming the monster that Hamza would become? It was only his wife and the mother of his son.

She did not care that it was still too early to visit the lady recovering from childbirth—she could not when the life of the father of the child growing inside was at line.

And Iqbal wasn’t just that.

He was Laiba’s father—the man that narrated her stories of brave men and women, sitting down beside her to colour flowers like a normal man, pressing comforting kisses on her forehead and tending to scrapped knees or small paper cuts with the gentleness only a father of a girl could muster.

He was also the love of her life—the only man who had pressed his handgun into her trembling hand and asked her to shoot him if it soothed her hurting heart, remembering every little detail about her as if he had a file readied upon her. The man that whispered sweet nothings in his rusty voice, holding her until sleep clouded her every night and kissing her awake every morning.

The man that she would not lose at any cost.

The housekeeper was startled to see the sight of the distorted woman standing in front of the entrance at five in the morning, trying to stutter out a question. But Drisana had no time for questions or their stupid answers, walking past the middle-aged lady and in the direction of the staircase, marching straight to the master bedroom.

She had noticed already that Hamza’s convoy was gone from the doorway—something that did nothing to soothe her anxiety as she banged her fist on the door, breath heavy and eyes cloudy with tears.

“Aarisha! Jaldi darvaza kholo!”

The faint rustling on the other side of the door was drowned by the loud thudding of her heart in her chest.

The door opened to a confused Aarisha standing in loose loungewear with a frown tugged over her features, eyes widening slowly as she took in the sight of Drisana—chest heaving with shallow pants, eyes glassy with tears while her hands trembled by her side, one of them settled against her flat abdomen.

July 2009

Aarisha and Hamza’s Mansion

Power in Karachi was a shifting variable—sitting in the corrupt hands of Aquib Asif Zarwari one second, and dancing in the plump hands of Nawab Shafiq the other, mocking the former for his inability to neutralise the violence brought to Lyari due to the gang war while shaking hands with the victor of the very same war.

But it wasn’t the only power transfer that had followed the demise of Rehman Dakait.

Arshad Pappu was eliminated—beheaded publicly and played football with on camera by the bloodthirsty cousin of the deceased Sher-e-Baloch. But Uzair’s reign as the undisputed king of the historic locality was shorter than the lifespan of a mayfly, eclipsed by his arrest in Dubai in an attempt to run from the Pakistani government after the issuance of his arrest warrant under the Anti-Terrorism Act.

And then came the rise of Hamza Ali Mazari.

Not only the King of Lyari.

But the Badshah of Karachi.

The man in charge of everything happening under the careful mask of a mere supporter of the new leader—not merely in Karachi, but in the entire Pakistan.

The man that ruled the entire forest like a lion.

A journey that began from working in the shop of Aalam Bhai to living in the small matchbox apartment that once belonged to the brother of Ulfat bhabhi, but later, became his and Aarisha’s ‘Kabootarkhana’, and finally, the life of a nomad moving place to place ended with the mansion that overlooked the entire Karachi—a gift to the mother of his unborn child, whose joy had brought him peace in his chaotic life.

The click of car doors being shut echoed in the spacious lawn while moon gleamed bright in the sky, witnessing the bickering of the pair that approached the main door.

“Agli baar se teen ghante pehle phone karke kaha na ki kisi ke ghar jana hai, toh bohot maarungi apko,” Drisana hissed, hands fixing the fall of her dupatta before she pressed the doorbell. A dagger-like glare thrown over her shoulder when she heard the snort from the towering man, a quiet warning that the major would not heed at all.

Iqbal shrugged with a smirk tugging at his lips, intense eyes set upon the figure of his beloved—scolding him like he was a child guilty of stealing her snacks, while she looked like one to him. Especially with the white kurta flowing down her body, framing every dip and curve he had learned in the past five months. Dark hair and golden skin a contrast against the angelic embroidery, wide fawn-like eyes his greatest weakness and strength.

“Humne apko tab bataya jab hume pata chala,” he replied matter-of-factly, raising an eyebrow when she turned around with a huff, her slender fingers reaching up to carefully straighten the collar of his Paithani kurta.

“Aap ghar chaliye, apki saari zahanat nikalungi.”

The major huffed a breath of amusement, eyes gleaming with anticipation and mischief as he leaned down, hair of his beard brushing against the tip of her ear as he whispered against her temple, “hum bhi dekhenge aap kya karti hai, jaan-e-jaan.”

Oh how he enjoyed the sight of her breath hitching and cheeks flushing. But alas! The moment lasted shorter than he would like, which was, in truth, forever. The sound of the front door opening made their attention shift, from each other to the middle-aged housekeeper who bowed respectfully before asking them to follow her inside.

The mansion was spacious, with long glass panes and warm lights, plants thriving in the white walls while charming chandeliers hung overhead. Tasteful luxury unlike the flashy show of wealth that most of the rich in Karachi possessed, designed by the lady of the house, as was expected. Because Drisana was sure that the place would resemble the dark weight of Iqbal’s ancestral mansion if Hamza was incharge of decorating the space, and she doubted whether the burly man had such patience for furniture or colour combination.

The said man stood like an executioner awaiting to deliver the judgment, the fingers of his right hand curled above the expensive watch on his left wrist, composed as always with his dark mane of long hair combed to perfection. Tailored blazer hugged broad shoulders and burly arms while a buttoned vest sat underneath it, leathery texture of black above the cotton kurta and salwar. Collar of the bottom-most layer sat leisurely over the long blazer, baring a sparse of the top of his toned chest and revealing the silver chains that sat in contrast against his crisply tanned skin. Gaudy silver rings lined rough fingers while his intense gaze watched the couple step into his territory.

But then again, the entire Karachi belonged to Hamza Ali Mazari now.

A polite smile tugged on his lips as he opened his arms to embrace the major, but not before nodding respectfully at the graceful woman, a hand pressed to his heart.

“Mere veer!”

“Iqbal bhai.”

The men hugged each other like old comrades meeting after a long time has passed, even though Drisana remembered Iqbal murmuring about some meeting with Bade Sahab that Hamza had attended too. They delivered pats on each other’s backs before letting go off one another, the Angel of Death returning to the side of his pilot, a large hand resting on her back instinctively.

“Bhabhi, sab khariyat?” The Sher-e-Baloch asked, corner of his eyes crinkled with the impact of his smile—not the polite plastic of an underworld king but the reality of an elder brother-like figure. And how could he not smile that way? Especially with how often the woman found herself by Aarisha’s side in the past five months.

“Khariyat? Apke bhai ne toh hume bataya hi nahi ki apne dinner pe bulaya hai. Teen ghante pehle phone kar ke kahte ki taiyar ho jana, Hamza ne bulaya hai,” she began, shutting the fearsome major with a single glare when his lips parted with the intention to defend himself. And even though he would never admit it out loud, the entire sight amused the observant Badshah despite the weight of the reality sitting heavy on his shoulders.

“Abb aap hi batao, bhaiya—kya koi teen ghante mein ghar ke saare kaam karva kar khud taiyar ho sakta hai? Nahi na? Lekin inhe toh yeh baat samajh hi nahi aati. Aur kah do toh bolte hai ki daat rahi hu.”

Hamza nodded, glancing between the two before he chuckled quietly, wrapping an arm around the major’s shoulder with familiarity while he addressed the woman who stood with her arms crossed and her eyes glaring at her husband.

“Arrey bhabhi, abb hum admiyon ko samajh nahi aata isiliye toh hum aap aur Aarisha jaisi samajhdar ladkiyon se nikkah karte hai,” he hummed, punctuating his words with a breath of laughter as the major patted his side in agreement.

“Sahi kaha Hamza ne.”

Drisana rolled her eyes, huffing in mock annoyance at the dramatics of two men that the entire Pakistan feared, reduced to husbands buttering their wives just to avoid any conflict.

“Yeh makhan kisi aur ko lagana, main toh ja rahi hu Aarisha ke pass.”

“Woh bedroom mein hai, bhabhi,” Hamza informed, a hand waving to gesture to the floor above while his face tilted in the direction of the staircase—more out of habit than necessity, for he knew that the woman clad in white knew her way around the mansion just well.

Iqbal moved, stepping closer to the former Squadron Leader, his long fingers curling around her hand and offering it a reassuring squeeze—the most public show of affection he would allow himself—before he looked back at the Lion born in the Balochi lands.

“Thik hai, jaan. Hum utne kuch zaruri baat kar lenge humare veer se.”

Both the men knew exactly what was to be discussed, and while Drisana wasn’t aware of the exact happenings, she knew the matter to be important enough to cloud Iqbal’s mind in the brief silences in their shared bedroom. Enough to make her concerned, but not enough for her to ask—not because she didn’t love him enough, but because she was afraid of his words turning out to be a poison to their connection.

White heels click against marble flooring as she moves through the corridors of the mansion with ease, guiding herself to the master bedroom situated on the first floor with nothing but her memory, nodding and smiling at the familiar faces of the servants that greeted her.

Fingers knocked against the smooth surface of the door, a gentle call of the name of the lady of the house as Drisana waited patiently outside the room.

The door opened to reveal the petite figure of sunshine personified—wearing a warm orange angarkha kurta and a loose palazzo with thin border at the hem and golden embroidery threaded at the top and the sleeves. Small golden jhumkas adorned her ear piercing, loose waves framing her face while her dusky skin came alive under the warm lights.

“Hi!” Aarisha squealed, arms wrapping around the taller woman, her baby bump nudging against the white linen of Drisana’s kurta. Her smile brushing against the former pilot’s shoulder before she dragged her into the room, closing the door behind them.

Drisana raised an eyebrow at the sight of the mess around the room—the tangled golden jewellery sitting in the corner of the vanity table, the half-finished packet of tamarind candy on the bed and the telltale mess of dupattas sitting in a heap on the chair.

Hamza’s wife returned to her place on the bed, unwrapping another piece of candy and popping it into her mouth with the grace of a newborn fawn, humming at the tangy taste before she patted the space next to her—a quiet invitation for the former Squadron Leader, who didn’t need to be asked twice.

Slipping out of the white high heels, she perched on the edge of the bed, crossing her legs while her dark gaze flicked to the packet of the tamarind candy. There was no doubt that she was salivating at the sight of her childhood favourite, but knowing Aarisha, Drisana was sure her question would spark mass teasing by the pregnant woman. Especially when she was aware of all the changes in the pilot’s and her major’s dynamics since February.

But the former soldier had forgotten that she was good at flying fighter jets, not hiding her longing expression for a pregnancy favourite—even though she wasn’t pregnant…yet.

“Lo na,” Aarisha encouraged, forcing the packet into her hands while she reclined back, one hand resting protectively on the curve of her baby bump while she licked the remnants of masala sticking to her fingers, humming to herself with her eyes closed.

Drisana whispered a thanks, fingers already diving into the open packet and fishing out a long stick of spiced tamarind wrapped in a thin sheet of plastic. Unwrapping it with the speed of light, she popped it into her mouth, letting out a pleased sigh as the taste of her childhood returned with delicate steps—the loud footsteps of children running through the farms of her ancestral village, giggling amongst themselves about a mischief; the laughter of her father and the other older men of her family, most of whom were deceased now; the overdramatic conversations of the ladies, whispering secrets and passing judgments.

The days when life was praise from teachers for good grades and a fun game of Kho-Kho.

“Yaad kar lo taste—” Drisana’s eyes snapped open at slow beginning, suspicious at the delicate stretch of every syllable but not yet replying, letting the pregnant lady complete herself, “—after all, kuch time baad apko bhi toh cravings hogi iski.”

“Par k—” she didn’t complete her question as confusion slowly turned into realisation, her jaw slackening while her eyes widened in quiet horror at the blatant suggestion.

Or rather, at the glaring prophecy.

An embarrassed squeal of Hamza’s wife’s name escaped the blushing lady—her composure gone like it didn’t exist in the first place. All while the woman dressed warmly giggled uncontrollably, not at all remorseful. And why would she be when she had voiced the obvious?

Drisana groaned into her hands, hiding the burning cheeks while she shook her head, trying to steer the conversation away from the topic, but her words failed her now. Traitorous, just as her cheeks were, for one left her when she needed it the most while another stubbornly clung to her.

“Woh sab chodo,” she tried, earning herself an acknowledging hum and a raised of eyebrow.

“Socha ki bache ka naam kya rakhogi?”

A meaningful silence followed the question as Aarisha glanced down at her bump, her hand caressing the curve while the other one cradled it—almost as if she wanted the growing life in her to be closer. Not physically but soulfully.

The young woman nodded with a small smile, her bubbly nature settling down into the maternal calm that made Drisana’s breath catch.

“Ladka hua toh Varun,” Aarisha announced proudly, at last, peeling her gaze away from her baby to the older lady sitting in front of her in white—pretty like an angel descending upon the mortal world, fierce and wise like a learned warrior.

“Aur ladki hui toh K se naam rakhungi.”

The pilot nodded, her gaze staring into a distance as her mind raced back to that one sleepy conversation she had with Iqbal on a random night after hours spent in intimacy and pleasure. One where the thoughts of a shared future had sneaked in without knocking, and they had laid in each other’s arms, panting and sweating and confessing dangerous secrets.

After all, what was more dangerous than two people meant to be enemies falling for one another and imagining the faces of their offspring?

“Yaha? Pakistan mein?” Drisana queried quietly, concerned because the name and the suggestion of another felt too unlikely for a child born to a Muslim couple—which Aarisha and Hamza are in the eyes of the world, and while the Squadron Leader remained unsure of the latter, she knew the former to be a Hindu though and though.

Much like herself.

“Mere dil mein.”

And then, before her three words could be registered in a mind and replied to, Aarisha shifted, slowly standing up from the bed and gesturing to the door separating the room from the rest of the mansion—or perhaps, from the rest of the world itself. A safe haven nestled deep in a hell.

“Neeche chale? Humare shauhar hum dono ki raah dekh rahe honge.”

Indeed, the said men sat in the living room, long fingers curled around their respective glasses of whiskey while the major quietly admitted to the weight of the ongoing spree of unknown men with guns killing men closely tied to ISI and their certain operations.

The shades say low on the bridge of his nose, baring only parts of his eyes, guarding most of it. But it wasn’t merely the eyes it protected, but the windows to the dark soul of Major Iqbal.

“—bass Hamza bhai, inn buzdilon mein thoda sa bhi dum ho toh samne se aake maare. Yeh chup-chup ke vaar toh kamzoor karte hai,” he hissed, fingers running through his hair in restrained frustration while he took decent sip of his drink. His second peg of the evening, and the ladies had been gone for only a handful of minutes.

The long-haired man leaned over the table separating their seated figures with a smile that held far more mysteries than the dark corners of Internet, patting the knee of the fearsome man while he reassured him: “aap chinta mat karo, Iqbal bhai. Main sab shambhal lunga.”

Iqbal let out a huff of breath, the sound treading dangerously between the line separating amusement from mockery, while he nodded slowly before raising his half-empty glass in a silent toast to his friend.

“Yehi toh etminan hai ki aap hai.”

“Agar itna hi etminan hai toh inhe hi ghar le chaliye,” the sarcasm dropped like a bomb unanticipated, and the godfather of ISI stood up in slight surprise, his arm snaking around Drisana’s waist while he hummed in response to her words.

Hamza too stood up, his arm carefully pressed against the back of his pregnant wife as he leaned down to place a kiss on her hair, other hand holding hers in quiet support. She was, perhaps, not glass, but in the eyes of the burly man—she was nothing less than the rarest of a flower in its bloom. Not merely his wife, but the mother of his already beloved child too.

Despite the hard exterior he preferred to portray, Iqbal’s eyes softened at the sight of the beautiful protection and love of a husband caring for his pregnant wife. A life he had experienced once as well, albeit a long time ago, cherished it enough for his chest to feel hollowed at the thought of his deceased wife. And still, he could say nothing for none in the room knew about his past except for the woman clad in white, standing by his side.

Drisana recognised the longing in his hidden eyes, almost like a bird recognises the distress of her children or mate. A hand pressed to his side, her head resting against his shoulder—a reminder that she stood in solidarity with him, not for certain actions of his, but for the past that still made pieces of him ache.

Because who could understand longing for a life left behind in a past other the woman who once was a Squadron Leader.

She doesn’t comfort him with words, not when they stood under the roof of someone else, surrounded by walls not their own. Instead, her free hand curled in front of her stomach, an action of shy embarrassment at the sight of affection to the eyes that watched, but most would not notice the brush of her fingertips against the hand sitting on her waist.

“Dinner kare?” Aarisha beamed, her petite body snug against the well-dressed mountain of muscles, Hamza’s hand sitting comfortably on her slender shoulders as they gestured to the dining room.

The major came out of his stupor from bittersweet nostalgia at the question, nodding at the question while his hand naturally slipped into Drisana’s, fingers threading together as they followed the couple into the large room with a long dining table in the middle. A large chandelier hung overhead, with warm lights illuminating the room painted in white and contrasted with a black wood table, servants quietly rushing in to place the different dishes made in the honour of the two guests that sat side by side.

Iqbal’s hand, unseen by the moving servants and the couple sitting in front of them, rested on Drisana’s thigh—a gesture to anchor himself to her, and a reminder to him that she sat beside him willingly. The feel of the embroidery of delicate flowers over white cotton a gentle assurance that he wasn’t hallucinating anything but experiencing reality.

Steam curled deliciously above the ceramic pot sitting in the middle of the various delicacies—the central recipe that tied the rest of the menu together—but it made Drisana stiffen.

She has had mutton only once in her life, a few months ago when Iqbal had dragged her to some polite party hosted by a colleague of his. A small piece she had, and for the next couple of days, she had told shift to plain oats because her stomach had relented—not politely but aggressive enough for her to wake up at the middle of night to empty her stomach’s contents.

“Yeh mutton hai kya, Hamza bhai?”

Drisana blinked, surprised by the sound of the question as she glanced over at the man sitting on her right. His dark eyes firm at the container of mutton biryani before he scanned the other dishes that sat delicately under his scrutiny.

“Haan. Koi dikkat?” The Sher-e-Baloch queried, his deep set eyes watching the pair, trying to understand what was happening.

Hamza had seen the major consume mutton without any hesitation at his Walima, even praising the rich spices, and yet, the man seemed ready to torture the already dead meat for sitting on the same table as him. His gaze flicked to the former pilot, taking in the sudden pallor of her face and the nervous drifting of her eyes to her husband.

That is when he understood.

Drisana does not eat mutton.

“Myreen mutton nahi kha paati,” the man responsible for every action of the government informed with a matter-of-factly ease that made his wife flus and glance away. Not merely because of embarrassment of refusing food made in her honour, but because he remembered.

Because he didn’t need her to hesitate or glance at him or complain quietly—he just remembered.

“Arrey, toh Myreen humare saath veg kha lengi,” Aarisha suggested, nodding at the nearby servant with a smile before her eyes met Iqbal’s dark ones again, almost as if she was challenging him to refuse her offer. But why would he do so when he knew his partner’s comfort lined the best with vegetarian food?

Much to the quiet shock of the couple pretending to be something they aren’t, the Angel of Death smiled like a man half-smitten by the angelic beauty sitting by his side.

A smile tugged the corner of his lips heavenwards, not in the usual prideful authority he carried but in a genuine manner—one that made his entire aura less dangerous. He leaned sideward, nudging his shoulder against Drisana’s in quiet affection while his eyes were trained at the sight of the beauty that honoured him by letting him have her.

“Abb toh khush hai na aap, meri Fakhta?”

The words were quiet, not for the ears of others but only for Drisana, the only person other than his daughter that received the rare sight of his unconditional affection. The only two ladies in his life that whose mere breathing presence brought the unseen side of him out.