Veil of Allegiance.𖥔 ݁ ˖🦢˚. ᵎ
Major iqbal × Fem! Indian! Reader [chapter XIV]
Synopsis Forced into a life built on lies, she takes on a new identity and enters a world where nothing is what it seems. And at the center of it all is him-Major labal. Calm, unreadable, and feared by everyone around him, he is nothing like she imagined... and yet, somehow worse.
Cws age gap, flashbacks, guns, violence, blood, betrayal, sexual tension, slowburn etc etc [Wc 11.5k]
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The hot water had long since turned cloudy. Not from dirt. From blood that no longer belonged to the body it had stained. By the time Sakina gently helped you out of the bathtub, your fingers had become wrinkled from how long you had remained submerged beneath the water, staring at nothing. The bruises blooming across your skin looked darker now that they had been washed clean, purple shadows slowly surfacing beneath your complexion where Rashid’s hands had found you. A shallow cut rested near your temple, another beneath your jaw, and angry fingerprints were already beginning to appear around your throat.
The water had removed the blood. It had not removed the feeling of it.
You barely reacted as Sakina wrapped the thick towel around your shoulders. She did not rush you. She did not ask questions. She simply stood there patiently until your trembling legs remembered how to support your own weight.
Outside the bathroom, the sounds of the celebration had finally faded. No more children’s laughter. No more music. No more voices.
The house had fallen into the kind of silence that only arrived after a storm.
Your damp feet left faint prints across the marble floor as Sakina slowly guided you back toward the bed. Fresh clothes had already been laid out—one of your older cotton suits, soft enough not to irritate the bruises scattered over your body. She helped you slide your arms through the sleeves with careful movements, stopping every few seconds whenever she noticed you wince.
Neither of you spoke. Words felt strangely unnecessary. By the time she had helped you in and adjusted your dupatta over your shoulders, a gentle knock echoed against the bedroom door.
A woman in her late forties stepped inside carrying a leather medical bag. She greeted you quietly before setting it down beside the bed.
The examination itself was clinical, almost detached, yet somehow comforting in its routine. She checked the swelling along your scalp where your head had struck the table, examined the bruising around your neck, pressed lightly along your ribs to ensure nothing had fractured, and carefully cleaned the small cuts scattered across your hands.
Every touch reminded you of another. You never flinched from the doctor’s hands. Only from the memories. When she finally finished wrapping a small bandage around your wrist, she gave a small approving nod.
“Zyada gehri chot nahi hai. Kuch din aaram kariye. Dard rahega… lekin theek ho jayega.”
She wrote down a few medicines before looking toward Sakina. “Main Major Saab se baat kar leti hoon.”
The title felt impossibly heavy tonight. The doctor quietly gathered her belongings and walked out, closing the door behind her with the same gentleness she had entered.
Silence settled once again. Sakina disappeared only for a minute before returning with a silver tray balanced carefully between her hands. A steaming glass of milk rested beside a small bowl filled with warm oil. The familiar fragrance of mustard oil drifted through the room, oddly grounding amidst the chaos that refused to leave your mind.
She handed you the glass first. The warmth seeped into your cold fingers. You stared at it for several long moments before finally taking a hesitant sip. It tasted exactly the same as every other night. Yet nothing else did. Sakina quietly placed the bowl beside herself before sitting behind you on the bed. She unfolded the towel from around your shoulders. Your hair, still damp from the bath, spilled down your back in dark waves. Without asking permission, she dipped her fingertips into the warm oil. The first touch against your scalp was impossibly gentle.
Her fingers worked the warmth into your hair with practiced movements, massaging small circles against your head while carefully avoiding the swollen area near your temple. Every now and then she would pause, perhaps afraid she had hurt you, only to continue once she realized you had not objected.
The room filled with nothing but the faint clink of your glass against its saucer and the quiet sound of her hands moving through your hair. She still did not ask. Not once. Not what happened. Not whether you were frightened. Not why you had been inside that room.
Somehow, that hurt even more. Because it meant everyone had already decided that tonight was not a night for questions.
It was only a night for surviving. You swallowed another mouthful of milk. It suddenly became difficult. Your throat still ached from Rashid’s grip. Sakina noticed immediately.
Without a word, she reached for the glass, lowering it back onto the bedside table before gently placing a folded cushion behind your back so you would not have to sit upright. Only then did she finally look at you properly. There was no suspicion in her eyes. No curiosity. Only an exhaustion that seemed far older than either of you.
As though she had seen too many nights exactly like this.She reached forward and tucked one damp strand of hair behind your ear. Very softly, almost as if afraid the room itself might overhear her, she murmured,
“Allah sab theek kar denge, beti.”
That was all. No speeches. No reassurances that everything would be fine. Just those few words. For reasons you couldn’t explain, they nearly broke whatever composure you still had left. You lowered your gaze before she could see your eyes beginning to sting. Because if you looked at her for even another second…you feared you might finally cry.
The room had barely settled back into silence when another sound disturbed it. The bedroom door opened. Not hurriedly. Not hesitantly. Just enough for the hinges to whisper against the frame before closing once more. You didn’t have to look up. You already knew who it was.
Sakina noticed him before you did. Or perhaps she had expected him all along. She rose without a single word, the bowl of mustard oil already empty beside her. Gathering only the brass tray beneath it, she quietly lifted it into her hands. The half-finished glass of milk remained untouched upon the bedside table.
For a brief second, her eyes met Iqbal’s. Nothing was spoken nothing needed to be. She inclined her head ever so slightly before walking past him, pulling the door shut behind herself with the same gentleness she seemed to carry into everything she did. The room fell silent once again. Only now…it was the two of you. You kept your eyes lowered. The blanket beneath your fingers had become strangely fascinating. Every loose thread, every crease in the fabric demanded more attention than the man standing only a few feet away.
You couldn’t look at him. You didn’t know what his eyes would hold. Pity. Disappointment. Anger. Betrayal. Or worse…understanding.
You heard the soft metallic click of his wristwatch as he removed it and placed it upon the bedside table. Then came another sound. His cufflinks. The quiet rustle of sleeves being folded higher.
Every tiny movement felt impossibly loud inside a room where neither of you seemed capable of speaking. Your heartbeat became the only thing you could hear. He still hadn’t looked at you. Perhaps…
perhaps it hurt too much. Or perhaps he simply couldn’t.
Because the woman he had left laughing beside their daughter only hours ago now sat bruised from head to toe, her wrists bandaged, her throat stained with darkening fingerprints.
The sight alone was enough to wound. He walked around the bed slowly. Not towards your face. Towards the place Sakina had occupied only moments earlier. He lowered himself onto the mattress behind you. Even then…
he left a respectful distance between the two of you. You remained perfectly still. Unsure whether moving would somehow shatter whatever fragile calm had settled over the room. For several long moments…nothing happened. Then… you felt it. His fingertips. They slipped into your hair with such care that, had your entire body not been trembling already, you might not have noticed them at all. Warm. Steady. Patient.
He dipped his fingers into what little mustard oil remained coating the sides of the bowl Sakina had forgotten to carry away.
Slowly, almost absentmindedly, he worked it between his palms before returning them to your hair.
His hands had always been rough.
Years of handling weapons, climbing mountains, endless field exercises and work had long erased whatever softness they might once have possessed. Yet tonight… they somehow felt impossibly gentle. He parted your hair with practiced fingers. Not expertly. Just… carefully. As though terrified of hurting you. Neither of you spoke. His fingertips travelled across your scalp in slow circles. Wherever they met healthy skin, the pressure remained gentle. Wherever they reached a bruise… they almost hovered. He barely touched those places at all. When his thumb reached the swollen bump near your temple, his hand stopped completely. You felt him hesitate. The silence stretched. Then, with infinite care, the pad of his thumb traced the edge of the swelling. Not pressing. Simply acknowledging it. His breathing faltered. Only once. But you heard it. You closed your eyes. Not because it soothed you. Because you couldn’t bear imagining the expression that must have crossed his face.
The room smelled faintly of bakhoor still lingering from the morning. It mixed strangely with mustard oil, antiseptic, and the fading fragrance of your shampoo. An ordinary evening. Filled with scents that no longer belonged to an ordinary life. He resumed the massage. Long, slow movements. His fingers glided through your hair until every tangled strand had loosened beneath his touch.
He had probably never braided anyone’s hair beside Laiba’s before. You wondered if he would braid your hair. Apparently… he did. Clumsily. Patiently.
He gathered your hair over one shoulder before separating it into three uneven sections. The first attempt immediately fell apart. He quietly started over. The second survived only halfway. He undid it again. Not once did irritation enter his movements. Not once did he sigh. Eventually, after what felt like several minutes, your hair rested in a simple braid against your shoulder.
A few damp strands escaped around your face. He didn’t tuck them away. He simply looked at them. You could almost feel his gaze lingering there. Your thoughts refused to settle.
‘He knows. He heard everything. He was standing outside. He heard Rashid. He heard me. He knows.’
The words repeated over and over until they no longer sounded like thoughts. Only punishment. Every second he remained silent made your chest tighten further. Perhaps…this was his way of waiting. Waiting for you to speak first. Waiting for you to tell him everything yourself. Waiting for you to admit that the woman he had welcomed into his home…had never truly belonged there. The weight of that possibility became almost unbearable. You barely noticed him moving until an arm slowly came around your shoulders.
Every muscle in your body seized. Your breath caught violently in your throat. His forearm brushed across your collarbone. For one horrifying heartbeat… it wasn’t Iqbal anymore. It was another hand. Another grip. Another room. Another man forcing you down against polished wood while your lungs fought desperately for air.
Your entire body jerked. You recoiled before you could stop yourself. The panic arrived faster than thought. Your shoulders stiffened. Your breathing became uneven. Your fingers dug into the blanket.
Iqbal froze. Immediately. The arm that had been reaching to draw you gently against him stopped mid-motion. For a fraction of a second, confusion crossed his face. Then realization settled quietly behind it. Not because he had done anything wrong. Because your body no longer knew the difference between comfort… and danger.
Without the slightest hesitation, he withdrew his arm.
He shifted back just enough to give you space again, his hands returning to his own lap as though afraid even their presence might overwhelm you. He didn’t apologize. He didn’t try again. He simply waited. The silence that followed somehow hurt even more than the panic itself.
After several moments, the mattress dipped once more. This time he moved around the bed instead, stopping directly in front of where you sat. Only then did you finally sense him kneeling. Your gaze remained fixed stubbornly upon your own hands.
You couldn’t look at him. Not yet.
Not when every part of you was convinced that the moment your eyes met his… everything would end. Gently… so gently it almost broke your heart…his hand lifted. His palm settled against your cheek, large enough to cradle nearly half your face.
Careful not to brush the bruises. His thumb rested beneath your eye without moving. He didn’t force your head upward. He merely waited. As though asking permission. Only after a long moment did he carefully guide your face toward him. Your eyes never quite reached his. They stopped somewhere near his collar. Near the first button of his kurta. Anywhere except where his own gaze waited. And for the first time since pulling you from that room…he truly looked at you.
The sorrow in his eyes was so quiet…it almost hurt more than tears ever could.
He kneeled there for what felt like an eternity. His hand still rested against your cheek, warm and impossibly careful, as though even the slightest increase in pressure might leave another bruise behind. His thumb never moved. It simply remained there, grounding both of you in a silence that neither seemed capable of breaking.
For a fleeting moment, his gaze drifted to your forehead. The thought came so naturally that it almost startled him. He wanted to kiss your forehead. Not out of romance. Not out of habit.
But because every instinct inside him demanded that he somehow reassure you that you were safe now. That whatever had happened inside that room was over. That no one would ever lay another hand on you again while he still breathed.
He wanted to draw you into his arms. To let you cry if you needed to. To tell you that you did not have to carry tonight alone.
His hand twitched ever so slightly, his fingers almost lifting from your cheek as though preparing to gather you against him. Then… he noticed it again.
The way your shoulders remained rigid. The way your breathing still hadn’t found its natural rhythm. The way your eyes refused to meet his. And, most painfully…
the way your body had instinctively recoiled only moments earlier when he had tried to pull you closer.
It hadn’t been rejection. He knew that. It had been fear. Fear that had nothing to do with him. But that did not make witnessing it hurt any less. His heart sank quietly inside his chest. If even a gentle embrace had frightened you… what right did he have to ask your body for any more comfort tonight? Very slowly, he lowered his hand from your cheek. Not because he wanted to. Because he believed it was kinder.
He took one small step back, creating just enough distance that you would never have to wonder whether he expected anything from you.
His eyes lingered on your face for another moment. The swelling near your temple. The faint marks around your throat. The exhaustion weighing down your expression. He hated every single one of them. Not because they made you any less beautiful. But because each bruise was proof that he had failed to protect someone who had been under his own roof.
His jaw tightened. For the first time that evening, anger flickered behind his eyes. Not towards you. Never towards you. Towards the man who had dared to lay a hand on his wife. It disappeared almost as quickly as it had come. There would be time for anger later. Tonight… you needed gentleness.
When he finally spoke, his voice was so soft that it barely disturbed the silence.
You remained still. He continued after a brief pause.
“Dawa asar karegi… neend aa jayegi.”
There was another silence. He glanced briefly toward the untouched glass of milk resting beside the bed before looking back at you.
“Agar kisi cheez ki zarurat ho…” he said quietly, ”…bas awaaz de dijiyega.”
His words were careful. Measured. As though he had rehearsed them before speaking.
“Main Sakina ko keh deta hoon ke aaj raat woh es kamre mein hi rahe.”
He didn’t say I’ll stay. He didn’t assume his presence would comfort you. After seeing your frightened reaction, he couldn’t bring himself to make that choice for you. He simply wanted you to know that you would not be alone. Not if you didn’t wish to be. For a moment, he remained where he was, almost expecting you to stop him. To say something. Anything. But the room remained silent. You still couldn’t lift your eyes. You were terrified that if you looked at him, you would find disappointment staring back.
he feared that if he stayed any longer, your silence would become another burden you felt obligated to carry. So he gave you the only thing he thought you might want. Space.
He reached for his watch from the bedside table, fastening it around his wrist with practiced movements. The familiar routine felt strangely foreign tonight.
Before turning toward the door, he looked back one last time. You sat exactly as he had found you. Small against the vastness of the bed. Your freshly braided hair resting over one shoulder. The glass of milk untouched. Your hands folded tightly in your lap, as though holding yourself together required all the strength you had left.
His chest ached. There was so much he wanted to say. So much he wanted to ask. But none of it belonged to tonight. Tonight belonged to your healing. Tomorrow… tomorrow could bear the weight of questions.
Without another word, he opened the bedroom door. The corridor beyond was dimly lit, the sounds of the celebration long gone. The house had finally surrendered to the stillness of midnight. He stepped outside and closed the door with deliberate care, ensuring the latch made almost no sound.
The softness vanished from his expression the instant he found himself alone. His shoulders straightened. His eyes hardened. The grieving husband gave way to the disciplined officer. There was still work to be done. A room downstairs had to be secured. Evidence had to be accounted for.
Questions would come eventually, and when they did, every loose end needed to have been tied before anyone thought to ask them. He drew a slow breath, gathering himself.
Then, without looking back toward the bedroom door, he walked down the silent corridor, disappearing into the darkness of the house while leaving behind the only thing he could offer you that night—the promise of safety, even if it had to be kept from a distance.
Downstairs…Major Iqbal returned. The house was silent now. The last of the guests had left hours ago, and the decorations that had filled the home with laughter now stood strangely still beneath the dim lights. Torn ribbons rested upon polished floors. Half-empty glasses remained forgotten on side tables.
The celebration had ended. Its aftermath had only just begun. His footsteps echoed through the hallway until he reached the meeting room. The door remained exactly where he had left it.
One of the guards standing nearby straightened immediately. Without a word, Iqbal unlocked the door and stepped inside. The metallic scent of blood still lingered heavily in the room. The large conference table stood slightly out of place from the struggle. One chair had been overturned. A broken glass lay scattered near the carpet. And Rashid…remained where he had fallen.
Bashir entered only a few seconds later. He stopped upon seeing the body but said nothing. He had stayed with Iqbal long enough to know that questions could wait.
Iqbal quietly reached into his pocket, removed a cigar and rolled it once between his fingers before placing it between his lips.
A small orange flame briefly illuminated the room before disappearing again.
The smoke escaped in a slow stream. There was nothing unfamiliar about this sight. Death had walked beside him for years.
He had seen bodies in forests, mountains and abandoned buildings. What unsettled him tonight…was not the corpse lying on the floor. It was remembering whose hands those were that had left bruises around his wife’s throat.
Instead, he nodded once toward Bashir. The older man understood immediately. Together they crouched beside the body.
Bashir reached beneath one shoulder while Iqbal took hold of the other side, intending only to roll him enough to prepare him for transport. The movement was barely an inch. Then—
A wet, involuntary spasm escaped Rashid’s lips. A trace of blood and saliva splattered forward, catching the sleeve of Iqbal’s kurta and the side of his hand. The room fell still. Bashir instinctively stepped back.
He looked down at the stain in silence. Then, very calmly, he removed a folded handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his hand clean. His jaw tightened. For several long seconds, he simply stared at Rashid’s face. The cigar remained between his fingers, its tip glowing quietly in the darkness. When he finally spoke, his voice was almost devoid of emotion.
“Tch…murda logon ka bas ye hi masla hain.”
The sentence was barely above a whisper. He crouched once more. Without haste, he lowered the burning end of the cigar until it briefly met Rashid’s forehead.
The sharp hiss lasted only a moment before he withdrew it again. There was no rage in the movement. No satisfaction. Only finality. As though, in Iqbal’s mind, the punishment had never truly been for a dead man. It was for the choice he had made while alive. Iqbal rose to his feet. He took one final draw from the cigar before crushing it beneath his boot. Then he looked toward Bashir. His voice returned to its usual composed authority.
“Gaadi ki dickey khol do.”
Bashir nodded immediately. “Ji, Major Saab.”
Together they lifted the body from the floor. Neither man struggled beneath the weight. Years of military service had made difficult tasks routine. Within minutes, the body had been wrapped securely before being carried through the quiet back entrance of the house. The night outside was cool. No neighbours watched. No lights flickered on. Only the distant sound of insects filled the silence. The rear compartment of Iqbal’s vehicle stood open. They carefully placed the wrapped body inside. Iqbal adjusted the covering himself, ensuring nothing remained visible before lowering the door shut with a heavy metallic thud. For a few moments, neither man spoke. Iqbal removed another handkerchief, wiping the remaining traces of dried blood from his fingers before folding the cloth neatly again. He looked back toward the house. Its windows glowed warmly against the darkness. Only hours earlier… it had been filled with children celebrating Laiba’s birthday.
Now one room inside carried memories he never wanted his family to see again. He turned to Bashir. His voice remained steady.
“Meeting room bilkul saaf hona chahiye.”
Bashir listened without interruption.
“Khoon ka ek qatra bhi nazar nahi aana chahiye.” A brief pause followed. “Furniture dobara apni jagah rakhwa dena.”
“Agar zarurat pade to poora paidaan badal dena.”
His eyes drifted toward the house once more. “Us kamre mein us aadmi ke hone ka koi nishaan nahi rehna chahiye.”
His tone lowered further.
Bashir gave a firm nod. “Samajh gaya, Major Saab.”
Iqbal stood silently for another moment, his gaze fixed on the dark windows of the bedroom upstairs. He wasn’t thinking about the body in the back of his vehicle anymore. He was thinking about the woman who would probably spend the rest of the night wondering whether he believed her. And that thought… weighed far heavier than the corpse behind him ever could.
The graveyard sat on the outskirts of the city, forgotten by almost everyone except the occasional caretaker who wandered through its weathered pathways. Most of the gravestones had long since surrendered to time, their engravings softened by years of wind and rain, while wild grass climbed around their edges as though nature itself wished to reclaim them. It was quiet—unnaturally quiet—broken only by the distant chirping of crickets and the metallic scrape of a shovel cutting into earth.
Iqbal drove his vehicle through the rusted gate without hesitation. This was not his first visit here. Nor, perhaps, would it be his last.
Near the farthest corner of the cemetery stood a freshly placed gravestone. The marble was clean, untouched by weather, carrying a name that belonged to no one. A false identity. A man who had never existed. Exactly the way Rashid Kareem soon would. Iqbal removed the shovel from the back of the vehicle and began digging.
The earth was heavy from the night’s moisture. Every thrust demanded force, and despite the cool night air, sweat slowly gathered along his forehead. His breathing deepened as the pit grew wider and deeper until it was finally enough.
Straightening his back, he wiped the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand before walking towards the trunk.
For a brief second, he simply stood there. Then he lifted it open. Rasheed’s body lay exactly where he had left it.
The gunshot wound through his head had long since stopped bleeding properly, yet dark blood still stained his beard and collar. His jaw had slackened after death, allowing thick crimson bubbles to slowly escape the corner of his mouth whenever trapped air forced its way out of his lungs. One eyelid had fallen shut.
The other remained barely open.
Merely the cruel mechanics of death.bIqbal’s expression never changed.bOnly disgust settled across his features.
Grabbing him beneath the shoulders, he dragged the lifeless body from the trunk with little effort before letting it fall heavily onto the ground.
The impact echoed through the empty graveyard.
Without another glance, he gripped him again and dragged him the remaining distance before giving one final shove.
Rasheed’s body rolled into the open grave below with a dull thud. Silence returned. Iqbal reached into his pocket and pulled out a cigar. The lighter clicked.Orange light briefly illuminated his face before disappearing beneath the evening breeze.
He lowered himself onto the loose mound of earth beside the grave, one knee drawn upward while his forearm rested casually across it. Smoke drifted lazily into the darkening sky as he stared down at the man who had once stood beside him in countless meetings.
For a long while…He said nothing. Then, quietly—
“Ajeeb baat hai, Rashid.”
“Insaan ko sab se zyada zakhm dushman nahin deta…” He exhaled. His eyes never left the grave. ”…apne dete hain.”
A faint, humourless smile appeared on his lips before disappearing just as quickly.
“Kabhi socha nahin tha ke woh ‘apna’ tum nikloge.” The smoke curled between them. “Pasand toh tum mujhe kabhi bhi nahin the. Zubaan tumhari hamesha zarurat se zyada chalti thi… lekin kaam…” He gave a small nod. ”…kaam tumhara saaf tha.”
His voice hardened. “Lekin ek baat tum samajh nahin paaye.” He leaned forward slightly. “Jo cheez meri hoti hai…”
”…us par haath rakhne ki ijazat main kisi ko nahin deta.”
The words settled into the stillness of the cemetery. There was no anger in his voice. No shouting. Only certainty.
“Aur jo yeh ghalti karta hai…” His gaze lingered on the body below. ”…uski manzil hamesha yahin hoti hai.”
Another long pull from the cigar. He watched the burning tip glow brighter before dimming once more. For the first time that night, regret crossed his face. Not sympathy. Regret.
“Tumhein itni aasaan maut nahin milni chahiye thi.”
“Jo meri biwi ko chhoota hai…” His eyes darkened. ”…usko maut nahin milti.” Another pause. “Usko misaal banaya jaata hai.” He looked at the grave one final time. “Tumhari qismat achhi thi.”
The cigar had nearly burned to its end. Iqbal flicked the remaining stub into the grave. A tiny ember landed beside Rashid’s motionless body before fading beneath the damp earth. He stood, picked up the shovel, and without another word began filling the grave. Each shovelful landed with a heavy thud. Slowly… The body disappeared beneath the soil. Then the blood. Then the clothes. Then every trace that Rashid Kareem had ever been there. By the time Iqbal pressed the last layer of earth flat with the back of the shovel, only the nameless gravestone remained standing above it.
He brushed the dirt from his hands, gave the grave one final look, and turned away without looking back. Behind him, the cemetery fell silent once more, keeping yet another secret beneath its soil.
The medicine the doctor had prescribed had done exactly what it was meant to do—it forced your exhausted body into sleep. Yet even that sleep refused to be kind. It wasn’t restful, nor comforting. It was the kind that left your body motionless while your mind remained trapped somewhere it desperately wanted to escape. Again and again, the same room unfolded before your eyes.
The heavy wooden meeting table. The suffocating silence. The smell of old furniture mixed with blood. Rasheed’s slow footsteps echoed against the walls as though he were taking his time on purpose, letting every step sink into your chest before the next one came.
You tried running every single time, yet your feet never obeyed. They remained rooted to the floor while he continued walking towards you with that same unnerving calmness, speaking in that low voice that had haunted every waking moment since yesterday.
“Mujhe ussi din shaq ho gaya tha…” The words bounced off the walls as though they were coming from every direction at once. Before you could react, his hand found the back of your neck again, forcing your head forward exactly as he had done before. You tried screaming, clawing at his arm, fighting back, but your throat refused to produce a single sound.
Your eyes flew open with a sharp gasp.
For several long seconds, you simply sat there, unable to distinguish whether you had truly escaped the nightmare or whether this was merely another part of it. Your breathing came in uneven bursts, each inhale making your bruised throat sting.
The room around you was quiet, bathed in the pale afternoon light filtering through the curtains. The lingering fragrance of bakhoor still floated faintly through the bedroom, mixing with the sharp scent of antiseptic that had settled there after the doctor had treated your injuries the previous night.
Slowly, reality returned piece by piece. Sakina helping you out of the bath. The female doctor examining every bruise with careful hands. Warm mustard oil being gently massaged into your scalp. A glass of warm milk. Medicines. Then darkness. That was all you remembered before sleep claimed you.
Instinctively, your fingers rose to your throat. Even the lightest touch made you wince. The bruises hidden beneath your dupatta throbbed beneath your fingertips, the soreness extending into your jaw and shoulders. Swallowing hurt. Breathing deeply hurt. It felt as though every part of your body had become painfully aware of yesterday’s struggle.
You lowered your hand, closing your eyes for a brief moment as another memory surfaced—the last thing you remembered before falling asleep had been Iqbal sitting behind you, quietly braiding your hair without asking a single question. Your stomach tightened painfully.
He had seen everything. Or at least… enough. Enough to know. Enough to understand.
The thought settled over your chest like an unbearable weight. Ever since that meeting room door had opened, your mind had refused to accept any other possibility.
Whether he had heard every word or not no longer mattered. Rashid had spoken too much. Far too much. If even fragments had reached Iqbal’s ears, then everything was over. The mission. Mustafa. Your identity. All of it. Yet instead of confronting you, he had remained silent. That silence frightened you far more than anger ever could. It felt deliberate, as though he were giving you one final opportunity to confess everything yourself.
Your gaze slowly drifted towards the bedside table where your phone rested untouched. Mustafa. You had to inform him. Rashid was dead. The entire operation had changed overnight, and he needed to know before anyone else did.
Gathering what little strength your aching body allowed, you carefully shifted across the mattress. Even that simple movement sent pain shooting through your ribs and thighs, forcing you to stop halfway before continuing again. By the time your fingers finally reached the phone, they were trembling so noticeably that unlocking it took two attempts.
The screen lit up. Your thumb instinctively hovered over the encrypted mail application before freezing in place.
What if Iqbal had already checked your phone?
Your heartbeat quickened. No… he wouldn’t. Would he?
Quickly, you began opening your recently used applications one after another, scanning them with almost desperate attention. Everything appeared untouched. Your encrypted mail remained logged out exactly as you had left it. Nothing seemed different. Nothing seemed disturbed.
Yet instead of reassuring you, it made the fear worse.
Perhaps he had looked through everything and closed it exactly the way it had been.
Perhaps someone had copied your data.
Perhaps your phone had been monitored without leaving a trace.
Perhaps he was simply waiting.
You locked the screen almost immediately, your grip tightening around the device. Every possibility your mind created ended the same way—with Iqbal already knowing the truth.
Your thumb unconsciously drifted towards his contact. Maybe… Maybe you should call him. Ask where he was. Hear his voice.
Perhaps you would know from the way he answered whether he knew.
Your finger hovered over the call button for several long moments before slowly pulling away again. No. You couldn’t. If he truly knew, every word that left your mouth would sound like a lie. And if he didn’t… you might only make yourself more suspicious. Quietly, you placed the phone back where it had been.
Only then did you realise how dry your throat had become.
The water jug stood on his side of the bedside table. Leaning over once more, you carefully poured yourself a glass. Your hands shook enough for the glass to lightly clink against the jug, the sound startling you inside the otherwise silent room. Bringing the glass to your lips, you took the smallest sip possible.
Pain immediately followed.
The water itself wasn’t cold enough to hurt, yet it felt as though it carried tiny shards of glass down your bruised throat. Your eyes squeezed shut instinctively as you forced yourself to swallow. You tried another sip, then another, hoping it would ease the dryness, but the soreness remained exactly where it was. By the time you placed the half-filled glass back onto the table, your throat burned almost as painfully as before.
Your eyes drifted towards the clock. Half past twelve. A quiet feeling of panic settled over you.
She would be back from school by now.
She would have looked for you first, just as she always did. The thought filled you with another wave of guilt. You had slept through the entire morning while your daughter celebrated the day after her birthday without her mother beside her. You attempted to sit a little straighter despite your aching body, wondering whether you should force yourself downstairs, when the bedroom door opened quietly.
Your entire body tensed before you even looked.
He wasn’t dressed for work. Instead, he wore a simple cream kurta with loose trousers, his glasses resting neatly on the bridge of his nose. His sleeves had been rolled just below his elbows, giving him the appearance of someone who had spent the day occupied at home rather than outside. For a brief moment he simply stood there, noticing that you were awake. Relief flickered across his face so subtly that it disappeared almost as quickly as it had appeared.
Without saying anything, he closed the door behind him and walked towards the bed at an unhurried pace.
“Aap jaag gayi…” His voice remained soft. Almost careful.
You nodded faintly. Speaking still hurt too much. He noticed immediately.
“Kaisi tabiyat hai ab?” Again, you simply nodded.
He remained standing for a moment, studying you quietly. There was obvious concern in his eyes, but not once did he allow it to overwhelm you. Instead of immediately sitting beside you, he hesitated slightly before speaking again.
“…Main aapko chhoo sakta hoon?”
The question caught you completely off guard. For several seconds you simply looked at him. He was asking permission.
As though afraid that even a comforting touch might remind you of what had happened yesterday. Your throat tightened for an entirely different reason this time. Slowly, you gave the smallest nod.
Only then did he move closer.
Instead of sitting directly beside your shoulder, he settled carefully near the edge of the bed, giving you enough space that you wouldn’t feel cornered. His hand rested lightly atop the blanket covering your legs, not applying any pressure, merely letting you become accustomed to his presence. After waiting another quiet moment, he slowly reached for your hand.
His fingers were warm. Steady. Patient. He enclosed your trembling hand between both of his without tightening his grip, his thumb gently brushing across your knuckles as though reassuring you that you were safe.
“Aapko kisi cheez ki fikr karne ki zarurat nahi hai,” he said quietly, his eyes never leaving your face. “Jo kuch hua… uska sab intezam ho chuka hai. Maine sab sambhaal liya hai.”
Your heartbeat stopped for a moment.
‘Maine sab sambhaal liya hai.’
The words echoed inside your mind with an entirely different meaning.
He knows. He had to know. He wasn’t talking about Rashid. He was talking about you.
Your fingers trembled uncontrollably inside his hands. Iqbal noticed the change immediately. He mistook it for fear. Not guilt. Not panic.
His grip remained just as gentle as before, never forcing you to look at him, never asking you to explain yourself. Instead, he simply stayed where he was, quietly holding your hand while his thumb continued its slow, comforting circles across your skin.
“Ab aap mehfooz hain,” he whispered. “Kisi cheez se darne ki zarurat nahi.”
Tears gathered silently in your eyes. You still couldn’t bring yourself to meet his gaze. You were convinced he knew everything.
And he was convinced that the only thing haunting you was yesterday’s attack. Neither of you spoke again.
The silence stretched between you, heavy with two completely different truths, while he continued holding your trembling hand until, little by little, the shaking finally began to subside.
The silence between you two it didn’t stop.
The first day after the incident, you assumed it was shock.
The second day, you thought perhaps he was angry.
By the third, fourth… fifth day, you realized it was neither.
Iqbal had simply become… impossibly careful. As though you were made of glass. As though one wrong word, one wrong movement, would make you shatter completely.
He never walked into a room loudly anymore. He always knocked softly before entering, even his own bedroom. If he noticed you sleeping on the sofa after taking your medicines, he would quietly place a blanket over you without waking you. Whenever he handed you something—a cup of tea, your medicine, a book—his fingers barely brushed yours before pulling away again.
It was almost painful to watch. Not because he had become distant. Because he hadn’t. He was closer than ever. Just… terrified of hurting you.
Only after several days did your own mind begin to settle. The fear that had clouded every thought slowly began making room for reason. You replayed that afternoon over and over again. The meeting room. Rashid’s confession. Your fight. His hands around your throat. The gunshot.
Iqbal had never heard the conversation. He couldn’t have. He had only arrived at the very end. The only thing he witnessed…was Rashid Kareem pinning his wife to the floor.
Your blouse torn near the shoulder.
Your saree in complete disarray from the struggle.
His hands around your neck.
That…That was all he had seen. Nothing about Mustafa. Nothing about the mission. Nothing about who you really were. Your chest tightened. He hadn’t saved a spy. He thought he had saved his wife.
That realization should have comforted you. Instead…it made the guilt worse. Far worse.
That night the house had already fallen quiet. Laiba had long since gone to bed after insisting on showing you a drawing she’d made in school. You had smiled. Pretended everything was normal. Pretended your throat didn’t still ache every time you swallowed. Pretended your nightmares hadn’t returned the previous night.
Iqbal closed the bedroom door behind him before quietly locking it. He wasn’t wearing his uniform. Only a simple charcoal-grey kurta and loose white pyjamas. His sleeves were rolled to his forearms. He looked exhausted. Far more exhausted than you remembered ever seeing him. He sat beside you without speaking. For a while…Neither of you did. The room smelled faintly of incense drifting in from the hallway. Outside, rain tapped softly against the balcony railing. Finally… He spoke.
“…Ab dard kaisa hai?” His voice was barely above a whisper. “Aapko kisi se darne ki zarurat nahi.”
You stared quietly at your hands. He continued after a long pause.
“Vada hai mera aapse.” He leaned back against the headboard. “Jab tak main zinda hoon…koi aap tak dobara nahi pohnchega.”
The words were spoken so simply. No dramatic oath. No raised voice. Just… certainty.
“I won’t let that happen again.”
The word echoed painfully inside your head. You wanted to tell him he hadn’t failed. That he had arrived exactly when he needed to. That another minute…and perhaps neither you nor Rashid would’ve walked out of that room alive. Instead…
You simply lowered your eyes.
“Maaf kijiye mujhe…” Your voice was still hoarse. Barely audible.
He looked confused. “Kis baat ke liye?”
You froze. You almost said too much. Instead you shook your head. “Kuch nahi.”
He didn’t push. He never did. After another long silence…He reached into the drawer beside the bed. You watched him curiously. He pulled out a small black velvet box. Then placed it between you.
You looked at the box. “Hai kya ye?”
He nodded toward the box. “Khud dekh lijiye.”
Slowly You opened it. Resting inside…was a compact black pistol. Beautifully maintained. Matte finish. Its grip polished smooth. You looked at it in surprise before looking back at him.
A faint smile appeared on his face. “Hm.”
He picked it up carefully before checking the chamber out of habit. “Vazan hai thoda zyada.” He placed it gently in your hands. “Recoil acha hai. Aap sambhaal lengi.”
You stared at the weapon. It felt strangely familiar in your hands. Too familiar.
Given your line of work, you obviously recognize the make and model of a handgun like this, but you might still find yourself surprised by how this one feels. It has a distinct polymer frame and a very clean matte black finish that gives it a professional look. While you know exactly what to expect from the recoil and handling of this type of firearm, this particular piece has been maintained to ensure it remains reliable and steady in your hands. It is designed for precision and durability, and once you see how it performs, it might just change your perspective on this class of equipment. Years of training made your fingers instinctively settle into the proper grip before you even realized what you were doing.
You caught yourself. Quickly adjusting your hold as though unsure. Iqbal didn’t notice. Or perhaps… He chose not to. He gently corrected the angle anyway.
“Aise.” His fingers briefly guided yours. “Safety yahan.”
He pointed. “Magazine release yahan.” Then he looked directly into your eyes. “Agar…”
He paused. The word itself seemed difficult for him. “Main aapke sath nahi hoon…toh main chahata hoon aapke paas apni hifazat ke liye ye ho.”
“Vaise…” He gave a small shake of his head. “…aisa waqt kabhi nahi aayega.” His voice became firm. “Main hone hi nahi dunga.”
“Kisi ko aapko choone tak nahi doonga.”
The room became unbearably quiet.
“Ek baar laparwahi kardi maine.”
You looked up immediately. He wasn’t looking at you anymore. His eyes were fixed on the pistol.
Your heart broke. He blamed himself. For arriving late. For not preventing it. For something that had never been his fault. And all the while…you were hiding the truth from him. Something inside you finally cracked. Without thinking… You set the pistol aside. Moved closer. And wrapped your arms around him. Tightly. So tightly your shoulders began trembling.
Iqbal froze. For only a heartbeat. Then his arms slowly came around you. Carefully. As though asking permission without words. His hand rested lightly against the back of your head. Another settled between your shoulder blades. He didn’t pull you closer. He simply held you exactly the way you needed to be held. Your tears soaked into his kurta almost immediately.
“Maaf kar dijiye…” You whispered again. This time… You weren’t even sure which apology you meant.
Sorry for making him carry guilt that wasn’t his.
Iqbal only rested his cheek lightly against your hair. “Shhh…”
His fingers slowly moved through your hair. Unhurried. Gentle. Like calming a frightened child.
Another slow stroke over your hair.
You cried harder. He mistook every tear. He thought they belonged to fear. To trauma. To what Rashid had done. He never imagined…they belonged to him. To the kindness he kept giving someone who didn’t deserve it. He continued stroking your hair.
Never asking questions. Never demanding explanations. Simply staying there. Holding you. Letting you cry until the sobs became quieter. Until your breathing steadied. Until the shaking finally stopped. Only then did he kiss the top of your head. Softly. Almost reverently.
“Tum meri amanat ho.” His voice was so quiet it was nearly swallowed by the rain outside, “Aur meri amanat ko…main kisi ko haath lagane nahi dunga.”
Your eyes closed. Not because his words comforted you. Because every one of them made the weight inside your chest feel heavier. He believed he was protecting his wife. And you… were falling in love with the very man you had been sent to destroy.
The room remained silent except for the faint ticking of the clock somewhere behind them.
Your tears had finally begun to slow, but they refused to stop completely. Every breath still trembled against his shoulder, and Iqbal’s hand continued its slow path through your hair, patient enough to wait for as long as you needed. He never rushed you. Never asked you to stop crying.
Eventually, you drew in a shaky breath and slowly pulled yourself away from the crook of his neck. His hands did not leave you.
They remained around your back, one resting carefully against your waist while the other stayed between your shoulder blades, as though he feared you would fall apart if he let go too soon.
Your cheeks were warm from crying, flushed a soft pink beneath the lingering marks of exhaustion. Tear tracks still shimmered across your skin, and your lashes clung together from the moisture. Your lips were parted slightly as you tried to steady your breathing, still damp from the tears you had unconsciously brushed away.
For the first time since he had entered the room…You looked at him. Iqbal had been watching you the entire time. His own expression carried no relief. Only pain.
His dark eyes searched every inch of your face as though memorising it all over again. The fading bruise near your temple. The marks around your throat that had already begun changing colour beneath your skin. The exhaustion that no amount of sleep could erase.
His jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. Seeing you like this hurt him more than any wound he had ever received himself. Very gently, almost absentmindedly, his thumb brushed beneath your eye, catching another tear before it could fall.
“Tum…” he murmured softly, his voice rough with emotion. “Itna mat roya karo.”
A tiny, helpless smile almost reached his lips before disappearing again.
Your heart tightened painfully. He still believed you were crying because of what Rashid had tried to do. He had no idea that half your tears came from the crushing weight of the secret sitting between the two of you.
Yet he continued looking at you with nothing except concern. The guilt became unbearable. Neither of you spoke. The silence no longer felt awkward. It felt fragile.
His forehead rested lightly against yours for only a second before he leaned back enough to study your face once more. As though making sure you were really here. Really safe. Really breathing.
Something inside you gave way. Without thinking… You leaned forward. There was no hesitation. No grand declaration. Only instinct.
Your fingers rose slowly, resting against the side of his face, and before your courage could disappear, you closed the small distance between you. Your lips met his. Softly. Almost timidly.
The kiss wasn’t hurried. It wasn’t desperate. It simply lingered. For a heartbeat, Iqbal remained completely still. His eyes fluttered closed, and he exhaled quietly through his nose, as though releasing a breath he hadn’t realised he’d been holding.
One of his hands moved carefully to cup your cheek. Not to deepen the kiss. Only to hold you there. As though afraid you might disappear if he let go. He kissed you back with the same gentleness you had offered him. Slow. Patient. Full of every emotion he couldn’t put into words.
There was no urgency between you. Only comfort. Only reassurance. Only the quiet promise that, despite everything that had happened, neither of you wished to pull away first.
When your lips finally parted, they remained only inches apart. Your foreheads touched once again. His thumb continued absentmindedly stroking your cheek. He smiled. The smallest smile. One that barely reached his lips but softened his entire face.
“Allah ka shukar hai…” he whispered, almost to himself. “tum theek ho.”
You closed your eyes. Another tear escaped despite your best efforts. Iqbal caught it before it could fall, brushing it away with his thumb exactly as he had done moments earlier.
Then, without another word, he rested his forehead against yours again, his arms still around you, holding you with the same careful tenderness—as though you were something infinitely precious that the world had already tried to break once, and he had silently promised himself it never would again.
You kissed Iqbal again slowly and gently, but this time, the kiss carried a deeper, more desperate neediness. Iqbal tried his best not to show how much it affected him, but as you leaned back and allowed him to lean into you, he lost himself in the moment. He was so completely consumed by making out that he almost forgot everything else. Suddenly, he pulled back, breathing heavily, and looked at you with a mix of guilt and panic.
"Maaf karna, mujhe itna aage tak nahi jana chahiye tha," he apologized quickly, his voice shaking.
Instead of answering right away, you bit down on your lower lip, your cheeks flushing. You looked up at him shyly, meeting his eyes, and whispered, "nhi aap…aage badhiye aur. Main chahati hoon."
Suddenly, the intense rush of feeling completely took over him, and a sudden surge of heat rushed south. Iqbal completely lost his restraint and practically jumped on you, pinning you down as he captured your lips again. This time, the kiss wasn’t just needy—it was overflowing with a deep, overwhelming love, his hands gripping you tightly as he poured every ounce of his passion into making out.
In that moment, the thought of everything else completely vanished from your mind.
Everything that had been weighing on you was completely lost and forgotten. The only thing that existed was the heavy, intoxicating rush of feelings as you lay there, entirely consumed by the presence of your husband on top of you.
Iqbal is now entirely on top of your his clothed cock pressing against your thigh. He pulls back breathing heavily looking down at you. Just taking in your beauty.
Then he reaches towards you, his hand trembling slightly—not from fear, but from the sheer intensity of how much he wants you. His fingers gently brush a stray lock of hair away from your forehead, his touch as light as a feather.
"Sambe azez ho tum mujhe," he whispers, his voice a low, soothing hum that sends a shiver of anticipation down your spine.
He leans in, his lips meeting yours again in a kiss that is slow, deep, and incredibly tender. It’s a promise, a slow burn that ignites a warmth in your chest. His hands slide down to your waist, pulling you closer until there is no space left between you, letting you feel the steady, heavy thrum of his heart beating against your own.
As he slowly guides himself down onto you, he keeps his eyes locked on yours, checking in with every move. He spends a long time just praising you, his lips trailing kisses along your jawline and neck, making you gasp softly. He knows you're nervous, and he takes his time to make sure you're completely relaxed and ready.
"Darna mat," he murmurs against your skin, his breath warm and comforting. "Agar acha na lage toh bol dena." He pulled your kameez over your head slowly. His eyes admiring your body. Tracing over each mark and curve.
Iqbal shifts his weight again, now fully eye level with your lower body with deliberate grace. He doesn't just move he lingers, his eyes never leaving yours, making sure you're comfortable and wanting this as much as he does. He gently hooks his finger on your waistband pulling your pants down along with your panty. He holds his breath. Nervousness taking over his entire body.
He gently parts your legs, his hands warm and steady as he brushes your inner thighs, his touch sending sparks of electricity through your skin. He looked at your body with so much love and admiration. Unable think straight he reached out touching your cunt with gentleness. He moves his finger along to slit. Excited when your arousal coats his thick fingers.
"Acha mehsoos hoga," he whispers, his voice thick with affection. "Relax karen zara, meri jaan."
He leans in, and the first touch of his tongue is a soft, teasing flick that makes you arch your back and gasp. He doesn't rush. He starts with slow, swirling motions, tasting you with a reverence that feels almost sacred. He treats you like something precious, his breath warm against your sensitive skin, creating a contrast that makes your toes curl.
As he feels you begin to tremble, he increases the pressure, his tongue becoming more firm and rhythmic. He finds the exact spot that makes you cry out, and he stays there, focused and devoted. He uses his fingers to gently open you further, ensuring every sensation is amplified.
You run your fingers through his hair, pulling him closer as the tension builds. Iqbal groans softly against you, the sound vibrating through your body, letting you know how much he loves the taste of you. He switches between slow, teasing licks and deep, suctioning pressure, driving you closer and closer to the edge.
He murmurs praises against your skin, his voice a low vibration that echoes in your core.
He doesn't stop until he feels your muscles tighten and your breath hitch in short, sharp bursts. As you peak, he holds you steady, drinking in every shudder of your release, staying with you through every wave of pleasure until you finally relax back into the pillows, completely spent and glowing with warmth. He placed a kiss on your cunt before moving up.
Iqbal slowly slides back up the bed, his eyes dark with adoration as he looks at you, flushed and breathless. He doesn't move away instead, he props himself up on one elbow, hovering over you with a small, tender smile on his lips.
His gaze drops to your chest, and he lets out a soft, shaky breath. "Allah ne tumhein fursat mein baith kar, bilkul mukammal banaya hai," he whispers.
He reaches out, his thumb grazing the curve of your breast with a lightness that makes your skin prickle. He doesn't just touch he admires, tracing the contours of your body as if he’s memorizing every inch of you. He gently cups you, the warmth of his palm filling your hand, and he gives a slow, soft squeeze that makes you let out a quiet moan.
He leans down, his lips pressing a lingering, sweet kiss to the valley between your breasts. Then, he moves upward, his tongue swirling gently around your nipple, teasing it into a hard peak. He alternates between soft sucks and delicate nibbles, his breath hot against your skin, sending fresh waves of heat rushing through your body.
He pulls back for a moment just to look at you, his expression filled with such raw love and desire that it takes your breath away. He whispers a few more praises, telling you how beautiful you are, before dipping his head back down to shower your chest with tiny, fluttering kisses, making you feel completely adored and cherished.
When he finally enters you, it’s slow and mindful. He pauses, letting your body adjust, his forehead resting against yours as he waits for you to settle. He kisses away a stray tear of nervousness from your cheek, his voice a gentle anchor. his eyes heavy with a mixture of raw desire and an overwhelming tenderness. He moves between your legs with a slow, deliberate grace.
"Aram se karunga main. Aap ghabrana mat," he whispers, his voice a low, vibrating rumble. He captures your hands, intertwining his fingers with yours and pinning them softly against the pillow, anchoring you to him.
He pushes forward with a steady, agonizingly slow motion. You feel him filling you, inch by inch, a sensation of fullness that makes your breath hitch. As he sinks deep inside, he lets out a long, shaky exhale, his forehead resting against yours, eyes closed in sheer bliss. He stays there for a moment, letting the intimacy of the connection wash over both of you.
When he begins to move, it's a slow, rhythmic glide. He pulls back almost entirely before pushing back in, the friction creating a searing heat that radiates through your entire lower body. Every thrust is mindful, timed to the sound of your shallow gasps. He watches your face, his expression one of absolute devotion, his gaze searching yours to ensure every moment is perfect.
“Kudha ne fursat se baith kar tumhe apne hatho se bilkul mukamal banaya hain.” Every thrust is shallow and sweet, designed to please you, to make you feel every inch of his devotion. He watches your face, his expression one of pure adoration, his hands cradling your head and holding your hands tightly entwined with his.
As the pace quickens, the tenderness evolves into a passionate hunger. He begins to drive deeper, his hips snapping against yours with a soft, rhythmic slap. The friction intensifies, rubbing against your most sensitive spots with a precision that makes your toes curl and your back arch. You can feel the tension building, a coil of heat tightening in your gut.
He shifts his angle, lifting your hips slightly to drive deeper, hitting that sweet spot that makes you cry out his name. The sound only spurs him on. He increases the speed, his breathing becoming ragged, his muscles straining as he pushes you both toward the edge.
"Mujhe dekho," he commands softly, his eyes locked onto yours. "Bas mujhe dekho."
The climax hits like a tidal wave. As you peak, your muscles clamping around him in tight, rhythmic pulses, Iqbal lets out a guttural groan and delivers a few final, deep thrusts. He pours himself into you, his body shaking with the intensity of his release, his heart hammering against your chest like a frantic drum.
He doesn't pull away immediately. He collapses softly onto you, his weight a comforting pressure, and he buries his face in the crook of your neck, kissing your skin with a devotion that feels eternal. He stays there, breathing in your scent, holding you close as the world slowly settles back into a peaceful, warm silence.
"Tumse pyaar ho gaya hai mujhe," he whispers, and the sincerity in his voice makes you melt.
You remained quiet. Not because you didn’t know what to say. But because you knew exactly what you wanted to say. The words sat at the tip of your tongue, pressing against your lips with an almost unbearable weight.
They wanted to come out. They wanted to exist between the two of you.
Yet they remained trapped somewhere inside your chest, tangled within every lie you had carried into this house, every mission you had accepted, every secret that still stood between your heart and your duty.
You couldn’t say them. Not when there was still so much he didn’t know. Not when every day felt borrowed. Not when you weren’t even certain whether you deserved to. A painful ache settled beneath your ribs.
Slowly, you pushed yourself up onto one elbow still naked, both your bodies tangled in blanket, the bedsheet rustling beneath you. Iqbal’s gaze followed every small movement, his expression calm, patient, never once expecting an answer from you.
Your eyes searched his face. The familiar curve of his jaw. The tiredness beneath his eyes. The softness that only ever seemed to exist when he looked at you. Almost absentmindedly, your hand rose to his face. Your palm rested against his cheek. His stubble tickled your skin, warm beneath your fingertips.
He instinctively leaned into your touch, closing his eyes for the briefest second, as though your hand alone was enough to quiet every storm inside him.
Your thumb brushed gently across his cheekbone. You smiled—small, fragile, almost apologetic.
“Main…” you whispered, before the words caught in your throat.
They wouldn’t come. No matter how desperately you wanted them to. Your gaze dropped for only a second. Then, instead of speaking… You leaned forward. Very gently. Your lips brushed against his. Just a tiny kiss.
Soft enough to disappear almost as soon as it happened. No urgency. No desperation. Only affection. Only gratitude. Only everything you were too afraid to say aloud. When you pulled back, your forehead remained close to his. You searched his eyes nervously, wondering if he would understand. Wondering if that tiny kiss had managed to carry the two words your voice couldn’t. Iqbal looked at you for a long moment.
Then, impossibly gently, he smiled. Not because you had said the words. But because he hadn’t needed to hear them. His hand came up to cover yours where it still rested against his cheek. He turned his head ever so slightly, pressing a lingering kiss into the centre of your palm.
“Samajh gaya,” he murmured, his voice warm enough to make your heart ache. “Har baat lafzon se kehni zaroori nahi hoti.”
The tightness in your chest only grew. Because somehow… He had understood anyway.
The very next day Iqbal resumed to his work after making sure you are in better shape than before. The meeting ended much the way it had begun. Quiet. Disciplined. No one lingered longer than necessary. The large conference room slowly emptied as files were gathered, chairs scraped lightly against the polished floor, and men exchanged brief salams before disappearing into the corridors. Yet despite the routine… There was an unmistakable weight hanging over everyone.
One chair had remained empty throughout the meeting.
No one mentioned it. Not because they hadn’t noticed. Because everyone had. Every pair of eyes had drifted toward that vacant chair at least once before quickly looking away again.
The rumours had already begun, but they existed only in glances and unfinished sentences. Rashid had entered Major Iqbal’s home during Laiba’s birthday gathering…and no one could remember seeing him leave.
Iqbal sat at the head of the table, closing the final file before him with a firm thud.
Silence. The room remained still.
Adeeb cleared his throat. “Major saab…”
“Woh… Rashid miyan nazar nahi aa rahe.”
A few men shifted uncomfortably in their seats. No one looked at either of them. Iqbal’s expression didn’t change.
“Woh tabiyat nasaz hone ki wajah se nahi aaye.”
It was said so matter-of-factly that, for a moment, it almost sounded believable.
Adeeb frowned. “Achha…” He nodded slowly. “Allah unhein shifa de.”
Iqbal merely inclined his head once. “Theek hai.” He stood. “Chaliye ab meeting khatam.”
That was all. Nobody asked another question. Nobody wanted to. Nearly fifteen minutes later, the parking lot had emptied considerably. The afternoon sun reflected off rows of parked vehicles while security personnel moved about their duties in practiced silence.
Iqbal unlocked his vehicle with a press of the key. Just as he reached for the driver’s door—
Adeeb approached with his usual careless gait, hands tucked inside his pockets. For once… He didn’t seem cheerful.
Iqbal looked at him. “Poocho.”
Adeeb hesitated. “Mera matlab… ajeeb si baat hai.” He scratched the back of his neck. “Maine Rashid miyan ko ghar ke andar jaate hue toh dekha tha…lekin bahar aate hue nahi dekha.”
Adeeb continued, trying to laugh it off. “Bas socha shayad meri nazar se reh gaya hoga…”
No answer came. Instead— Iqbal stepped forward.
Until Adeeb instinctively took a step backward. His back met the side of his own car. Iqbal stopped barely a foot away. He wasn’t shouting. He wasn’t angry. That somehow made it worse. He simply looked down at Adeeb.
“Tumhari nazar se kuch nahi nikla.”
Adeeb’s smile slowly faded. “Kya matlab?”
Iqbal held his gaze. “Rashid mar chuka hai.”
For a second… Adeeb genuinely thought he had misheard.
“Maine kaha…” Iqbal repeated calmly. “Rashid mar chuka hai.”
The colour drained from Adeeb’s face. “Lekin…Woh toh—Woh beemar tha…”
Iqbal interrupted him without raising his voice. “Nahi.”
A long silence settled between them.
Then Iqbal spoke again. “Usne meri biwi par haath daalne ki koshish ki.”
The words landed like stones. Adeeb stared at him. Completely frozen. Iqbal’s expression never shifted.
“Toh maine uske mote dimag mein ek goli daal di.”
Adeeb blinked. “Aap…aap mazaak kar rahe hain na?”
There wasn’t even the slightest hesitation.
He looked away for only a brief moment before speaking again. “Afsos sirf ek baat ka hai.”
Adeeb swallowed. Iqbal’s jaw tightened.
“Maine gusse mein usse foran maar diya.”
“Usse zinda rakhna chahiye tha. Toh har ek aadmi dekh sakta…meri biwi ki taraf buri niyyat se dekhne ka anjaam kya hota hai.”
The only sound came from a distant vehicle starting somewhere across the lot.
Adeeb couldn’t find a single word. For the first time since Iqbal had known him… The young man looked genuinely frightened.
The invisible pressure vanished as quickly as it had appeared. He opened his car door. Before getting inside, he looked at Adeeb one final time.
“Agle dafa…agar kisi cheez ke baare mein itni dischaspi ho…toh pehle soch lena.”
Without another word, he slid into the driver’s seat. The engine roared to life. Only then did Adeeb realise how close he had been standing. He hurriedly stepped away from the vehicle as it rolled forward. The black car disappeared through the compound gates without looking back. Adeeb remained exactly where he was. One hand still resting against the car behind him. His breathing had become strangely shallow. For the first time… He understood why no one ever questioned Major Iqbal. Making sure Iqbal’s car was no longer in sight he got inside his car and quickly opened his phone.
Idk if Matilda is actually but its one of my fav gun from resident evil my actual fav is re9 gun but i felt as if it wouldnt be a good gift because it has heavy recoil- sorry for being game nerd
Also sorry for updating so late maaf kijiye please will be posting new iqbal, hamza, sp aslam, and jassi one shots balle balle
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