Note: MINORS AND AGELESS BLOGS DO NOT INTERACT. This content is intended for audiences 18+ only.
A/N: this is the first part of my headcanon series which I'll post regularly from now on, for this one I just wanted to give MY headcanon for each fuckable male character of Dhurandhar. Without further explanation- ENJOY<3
1. Hamza:
Hamza... He is a Gentle Dom. He wants you to surrender, but he’ll guide you through every step of that surrender - literally. I'm talking- talking you through it and praising you into heaven for taking it.
Physics: He's above average, definitely nice and thick, filling you up reaaaally nicely. He's beefy, so he's stronger than you, you basically disappear under him every time you fuck and you love it.
Kink: Impact play (light) and Praise Kink. He loves the sound of a sharp palm against your skin followed immediately by his soothing voice. Size Kink: You will look small next to this fridge- and he will love it - no matter your size or weight- he's constantly picking you up and fucks you in the shower holding you up- trust this man is STRONG.
Turn-Ons: Hearing you say "Please." He needs to hear the desire in your voice. He loves eye contact during the most intense moments and oh boy- he loves Thighs. Let me tell youuu- this man goes crazy for your thighs ans grabs them everywhere you go. He's such a sucker for lingerie as well, buying you so much that he could just open a damn shop of his own.
In Bed: He talks... a lot. "Look at me. Tell me you feel that. Good girl just like that." He’s very big on "checking in" without breaking the mood, using his thumb to wipe away tears or sweat, always has his hands on you. He's experimental, lets you try things you wanna try and even gives up dominance sometimes, letting you take charge by Riding him for example.
Favorite Positions: Missionary, definitely. He loves your pretty face, the look in your eyes, how your lips part when you moan, he goes crazy for it. He likes every position that he can see you face with nicely, but missionary is definitely his favorite. Honorable Mention: Riding and Mating press
Aftercare: High-effort. He will carry you to a warm bath, wash your hair, and wrap you in one of his oversized shirts. He’ll whisper how proud he is of you until you fall asleep- he's the KING of Aftercare my friends
2. Rehman:
Rehman is a man that is in control- also in bed- ESPECIALLY in bed. His actions are loud...very~ He is a "Munch" through and through— eats pussy for breakfast lunch and dinner and will always ask for dessert. He views your pleasure as his primary duty and his greatest reward.
Physics: Do not think because he's more on the Average size that he doesn't know how to work with it. Damn- this man can FUUUCK. He's lean, but muscular and he's strong- his hands are rough- and feel amazing against your skin and pushed into your mouth.
Kink: He's a chronic Pussy-Eater and loves Sensory Deprivation. He loves blindfolding you so you can only feel the heat of his breath and the skill of his tongue- Another thing he's very fond of is Orgasm Control~ he looves telling you to hold it back until you are cross eyed and shaking all over. Tbh, he just likes giving you orders~
Turn-Ons: Watching your face while he’s between your legs- yes I don't make the rules this man loves Pussy LOOK AT HIM. He also loves "marking"—leaving bruises or hickeys where only he knows they exist, he likes to make you wear lingerie under your clothes all day or he makes you wear vibrators with him relentlessly using that remote.
In Bed: He’s a "taker" when it comes to your pleasure. He will stay down there nose deep in your bits for hours if he has to. If you try to pull him up, he’ll just grip your thighs tighter and growl, "I didn't say you were done yet." He makes you BEG for him to fuck you, and once he gives you what you wanted he isn't stopping before he gave you at least 3-5 orgasms ON HIS DICK ALONE. (Ulfat so lucky-)
Favorite Positions: Well maybe I didn't say it yet but- BRO NEEDS PUSSY IN HIS FACE TO SURRIVE OKAY- SIXTY-NINE is his favorite. Being able to taste you making a mess on his tongue AND fucking your pretty mouth? Yeah. This man is in heaven. Honorable Mentions: Reverse Cowgirl and Spooning
Aftercare: Very physical and grounding. He needs skin-to-skin contact. He’ll pull you onto his chest, legs tangled, and just breathe you in, rubbing his chin against your neck, he would often watch you because, after that many earth shaking toe curling orgasms, you'd pass out right after sex, but you know that you're always taken care of<3
3. Uzair:
Uzair is the most "creative" of the bunch. To him, sex is a playground- He’s playful, unpredictable, and likes to push boundaries. One night he might be sweet; the next, he’s treating you like his favorite sextoy
Physics: DAMN, big dick energy- wow. Hes definitely big, not as thick tho, still definitely more than ENOUGH. Hes athletic and surprisingly flexible for his Height. He uses his Tallness to manipulate your body into positions you didn’t know were possible girl-
Kink: Exhibitionism/Risk & Edging. He loves the thrill of "almost getting caught"—locking a door at a party or being loud in a room with thin walls or fucking you outside or in a damn elevator- hes HORNY everywhere and he likes how shy you get about maybe being caught. He is the king of edging you until you’re crying for it, hes such a damn tease.
Turn-Ons: Feistyness. He loves it when you try to take control or talk back, just so he can "punish" you for it- he loves fighting for dominance with you. Also, This man stares at your Ass sooo much- that even other people notice. He loves to grab it and spank it while walking by, and your reactions to it.
In Bed: It’s high energy, girl he can fuck you for houurs- There’s a lot of laughing, biting, and hair-pulling, from both of you, He might record a voice note of your sounds just to play it back to you later, or film you to watch it later. He wants to be your most "memorable" experience- trying EVERYTHING you wanna try, from dressing you up to Public sex, Vanilla to SM, hes in for it as long as you two are fucking and happy after it.
Favorite Positions: Oh boy. He likes many- but if he has to pick one, it's the Pretzel.- You two are entangled and so fucking close- he uses his flexibility and puts you in a position that forces your body to be all accessible to him, to reach down and pinch your clit, pull your head back for breathless kisses or spanking these pretty open thighs of yours. Honorable Mentions: Doggystyle and infront of a mirror
Aftercare: Playful and sweet. He’ll order late-night takeout, feed you fries while you’re both naked in bed, and joke about the marks he left on you. He’ll stay up late just talking and kissing your forehead, he makes you laugh and feel save with him, but also tease you about how high-pitched your moans got while he pounded you.
4. Iqbal
Iqbal doesn't do "light." He is a Hard Dom into heavy BDSM. For him, your submission is his biggest pride. He loves to be in charge and take care of your needs while fulfilling his own.- Yet. He's always checking in, and he makes sure you have your safeword memorized and feel save with the more extreme side of his.
Physics: Thats a big cock let me tell you and its thick too- it might scare you first and lemme tell you he LIKES that. He scarred, tall , muscular and intimidating. Just his presence in the room makes the air feel thinner and girl guess what's gonna feel fuller soon-
Kink: Bondage (Rope/Cuffs), Breath Play, and Fear Play. He likes the primal aspect of intimacy. He wants you bound and helpless, relying entirely on him for your next breath or your next peak. He has you tied to bed or the Doorframe with your legs spread open in place and there's nothing that could get him harder than seeing how excited you are to be taken care of by him, getting wet with just the clink of the cuffs. He likes chasing you around for fun, overpowering you easily.
Turn-Ons: Absolute obedience. The way you shiver when he enters the room with a set of leather cuffs. He loves the contrast between his rough, weathered skin and your softness. He loves your Consent. He loves to check on you ans you saying "fuck don't stop I love it-"
In Bed: It’s intense and often silent, punctuated only by his low commands. "Don't move," or "Take it." He uses toys and tools with clinical precision. There is a deep, dark heat in his eyes that tells you he is worshiping you even while he’s being the one in charge. Then again- it can get very loud- screaming in pleasure while his hand slaps your ass- your crys into his biceps while he bends you over and fucks you- its really a mix if two extremes.
Favorite Positions: Prone bone. girl I can't even- like do I have to explain- you pressed down with him behind you pounding you while your face is either pressed into the pillows screaming or resting on your cheek while you have to tell him you want it harder?!- yes. The answer is yes. Honorable Mentions: Double Decker and up against the wall/door with your hands tied behind your back
Aftercare: This is where the softness, the protector comes out. After a heavy session, he is incredibly gentle. He will personally check every mark, apply ointment to any rope burn, and hold you in a protective embrace that makes the rest of the world disappear. He’s the "weighted blanket" of partners, always telling you how amazing you were and that you are most precious to him.
That is it for this Part of my Headcanon series- I'll write this along with the next fics- also you can comment whatever you wanna read next!
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Pairing: Stalker! Major Iqbal x Rehmans Daughter! Reader.
NOTE: MINORS AND AGELESS BLOGS DO NOT INTERACT! This content is intended for audiences 18+ only!
Disclaimer: The themes explored in this story—including stalking, violence, perversion and extreme possessiveness—are purely for fictional and narrative purposes. These behaviors are dangerous and inexcusable in real-life relationships! I do not condone or romanticize these actions outside the realm of the "Dark Romance" genre.
Warnings: MINIMAL DHURANDHAR 2 SPOILERS! age gap, power dynamics, possessive, obsessive behaviour, mention of assault, mention of rape, guilt tripping, foul language.
Part 5 of ?
The morning sun in Karachi was relentless, a sharp, intrusive gold that bled through the heavy velvet curtains of your bedroom. For days, the room had been your sanctuary and your shroud. The scent of the Oud-al-Maliki had turned stale, replaced by the medicinal smell of the ointments the doctor had used on your wrists and the lingering, phantom odor of the warehouse—dust, salt, and terror.
You were sitting in the armchair by the window, your knees pulled to your chest, staring at the dust motes dancing in a single shaft of light. You hadn't spoken since the night the Major carried you over the threshold of the haveli. Your voice felt like a rusted instrument, buried under layers of psychological silt.
The house was unnervingly quiet. Usually, you could hear the distant clatter of breakfast being served or Rukhsaar’s muffled laughter, but today, the silence was heavy, almost respectful.
A soft, rhythmic knock sounded at your door. You didn't answer. You didn't have the strength to tell your mother you still weren't hungry, or to tell your father that the "talk of the town" didn't matter because you felt like you were already dead.
The door creaked open.
You expected the soft rustle of your mother’s lawn dupatta. Instead, the air in the room seemed to change instantly—displaced by a sudden, grounding weight. The scent of sandalwood and expensive tobacco, laced with the faint, metallic edge of starch, filled the space.
You turned your head slowly.
Iqbal stood in the doorway. He wasn't in his tactical gear, nor was he in his formal gala uniform. He wore a dark kurta and matching trousers, the sleeves rolled up slightly to reveal the dark hair on his forearms and the silver watch that glinted like a weapon. He didn't wait for an invitation; he stepped inside and closed the door behind him with a soft, final click.
Your heart, which had been beating in a slow, sluggish rhythm for days, gave a violent, panicked leap. Your father hadn't told you he was coming. To be alone in a room with a man—even the man who saved you—was a breach of every rule you had been raised with.
But as you looked at him, the terror of the warehouse flickered in your mind, and then vanished. You remembered his arms. You remembered the way he had stepped between you and the blade.
"Major Saab.." you whispered. Your voice was a dry crackle, barely audible.
He didn't move toward you immediately. He stood by the door, his hands clasped behind his back, his obsidian eyes scanning your face with a terrifying, clinical intensity. He saw the dark circles under your eyes, the paleness of your lips, and the way you flinched when the floorboard creaked.
"You are awake," he said. His voice was low, a resonant hum that seemed to vibrate the very air in the room. "Maine suna hai ke tumne teen dinon se kuch nahi khaya.. Hmm?"
You looked down at your hands, ashamed. "I... I wasn't hungry.."
He walked further into the room, his movements fluid and silent, like a leopard navigating a familiar thicket. He stopped a few feet away from your chair. Up close, he was towering. He felt like a fortress made of flesh and bone.
"Thank you.." you said, the words catching in your throat. You forced yourself to look up at him. "For that night. For... for everything. I know you risked your life.."
Iqbal’s expression didn't change. He didn't smile with the false modesty of a politician. He simply watched you, his gaze tracing the faint, fading bruise on your jawline.
"I did not risk my life," he said calmly. "Jo mera hai, usay bachana mera farz hai."
The possessiveness of the statement went over your head, masked by the sheer relief of his presence. To you, he was the only person who knew exactly what had happened in that dark warehouse. He was the only one who didn't look at you with the suffocating pity your mother did.
"You must eat.." Iqbal said. He moved to the small tray on your nightstand, which held a bowl of fruit and a glass of juice, untouched. He picked up a piece of sliced apple, his movements deliberate. "Your mother is weeping in the kitchen. Your cousin, Rukhsaar... she is terrified that you will fade away into nothing. You are scaring them."
"I don't mean to.." you whispered, a tear finally escaping and rolling down your cheek. "I just... I feel like if I close my eyes, I’m back there. I can still hear them talking about... about what they wanted to do.."
Iqbal stepped closer. The heat radiating from his body was immense. He reached out—a slow, careful movement—and caught the tear with the pad of his thumb. His skin was rough, calloused by a lifetime of triggers and steel, but his touch was surprisingly light.
"Woh ab kabhi nahi bolain gay," he hissed, his voice dropping into a dark, jagged register. "Unki zubaanein ab mitti mein hain. Tumhe darrne ki zaroorat nahi hai. Jab tak main zinda hoon, koi tumhari taraf ankh utha kar bhi nahi dekh sakta."
You leaned into his touch, a treacherous sense of safety washing over you. You were a broken bird, and he was offering you a cage made of iron. You didn't realize that the bars were already being forged.
"My father told me what people are saying in the city.." you said, your voice trembling. "The gossip... they think I am... that I am not...pure anymore."
Iqbal’s eyes darkened, a flash of that cold, murderous fury you had seen in the warehouse flickering for a second. He pulled his hand back, but he didn't move away.
"Logon ki auqat nahi hai ke woh tumhare baare mein baat karein," he said, the Urdu sharp and authoritative. "Main unki khamoshi khareed loon ga... ya unki saansein rok doon ga. Tumhare naam par koi dhabba nahi lag sakta, kyunke tumhara naam ab kisi aur ke saath jurr gaya hai."
You looked at him, confused. "What do you mean?"
He didn't answer directly. He walked to the bed and sat on the edge of it, his weight making the mattress dip. He gestured to the space beside him. He didn't ask. He didn't plead. He commanded the space around him with the effortless gravity of a king.
The room felt smaller, the air thicker. You felt a strange, magnetic pull toward him—the man who had seen the worst of you and still stood there, unblinking and unshaken. You stood up on shaky legs, your knees weak, and moved toward the bed.
He watched you move, his gaze following the line of your throat, the way your hair fell over your shoulders. He looked like a man who had finally brought his most difficult quarry to ground.
When you reached the bed, you sat down, leaving a respectful distance between you. But Iqbal didn't allow the distance to remain. He shifted, turning his body toward yours, his presence overwhelming.
He reached out and took your hand. His grip was firm, not hurting, but letting you know that he wasn't going to let go. He looked into your eyes, his face a mask of intense, dark devotion.
"Yahan aao," he whispered, his voice a low command that felt like a caress. "Mere paas baitho."
The sunlight in the room seemed to lose its warmth, turning into a pale, clinical glare as you moved from the armchair to the bed. Every step felt like wading through deep water. You sat down where he had gestured, your weight barely registering on the mattress compared to the solid, unyielding presence of the man beside you.
Iqbal did not turn fully toward you yet. He looked out at the balcony, his profile silhouetted against the morning haze—a profile of sharp angles and old scars. The silence between you wasn't empty; it was heavy, vibrating with the unspoken memory of the blood he had shed to bring you back to this room.
When he finally spoke, his Urdu was a masterpiece of silver-tongued precision. It wasn't the bark of a commander or the rough growl of the warehouse; it was a low, melodic hum, laced with a false, terrifying empathy.
"Main jaanta hoon ke tum par kya guzri hai.." he began, his voice barely above a whisper, yet it filled every corner of the room. "Aur main yeh bhi jaanta hoon ke tum bilkul paak ho. Mere liye, tumhari izzat aaj bhi wahi hai jo pehle din thi."
He turned his head slowly, his obsidian eyes locking onto yours. There was no pity in them—only a dark, focused intensity that made you feel like a specimen under a microscope.
"Lekin dunya... dunya bohot zalim hai.." he continued, his tone shifting into a mournful, almost fatherly cadence. "Logon ki zubaanein zahreeli hain..Woh nahi jaantay ke tum kitni neik ho. Woh sirf tamasha dekhtay hain. Aur is tamashay mein, sab se zyada dukh tumhare baap ko ho raha hai."
You flinched at the mention of Rehman. The guilt, which had been a dull ache in your chest, suddenly sharpened into a knife.
"Maine Rehman-Bhai ko dekha hai.." Iqbal hissed softly, leaning in just an inch closer. "Woh andar se toot chukay hain. Unka sar jhuk gaya hai. Har taraf un par tanz kiye ja rahay hain. Tumhari Ammi, tumhari behen... sab is matti mein mil rahi izzat ko dekh kar ro rahay hain.."
He reached out, his hand hovering near yours but not touching—a calculated show of restraint that made you crave the contact.
"Kya tum chahti ho ke tumhara baap isi tarah har roz thora thora maray..?" He asked, his voice dripping with a manufactured sorrow. "Kya tum chahti ho ke tumhara bhai bahar nikalne se darray kyunke log usay tumhare naam ke taanay daitay hain?"
"Nahi..!" you gasped, your voice breaking. ,,I never wanted that. I didn't ask for any of this...!-"
"I know you didn't.." Iqbal murmured, his eyes softening into a look that felt like a trap closing. "Isi liye, maine socha hai ke ab main maamlaat apne haath mein le loon. Main is dunya ki zubaanein band kar sakta hoon. Main Rehman Bhai ka sar dobara fakhar se ooncha kar sakta hoon."
He paused, letting the weight of his "solution" hang in the air. He didn't tell you what the solution was. He didn't mention a wedding or a contract. He only offered the end of the pain.
"Lekin.." he whispered, the word sharp and chilling. "Main yeh tabhi karoon ga jab tum chaho gi.. Agar tumhein lagta hai ke tum khud sambhal sakti ho, toh main peeche hat jaata hoon. Main tum par koi bojh nahi banna chahta. Tum chaho toh main chala jaata hoon, aur tum is dunya se akeli larr lo."
It was the ultimate manipulation. He was offering you a choice that wasn't a choice at all.
He was painting a picture of your family’s ruin and then handing you the brush, asking if you wanted to finish the painting. The thought of being left alone—without his strength, without his shadow to hide behind—sent a jolt of pure, cold terror through your heart.
You looked at him, your eyes wide and brimming with tears. You saw the "hero" who had killed for you. You saw the only man in Pakistan who wasn't afraid of the gossip.
"Please.." you whispered, reaching out and clutching the sleeve of his kurta. "Don't leave us. Please... do whatever you think is best. I'll do anything. I just want the noise to stop. I want my father to be able to breathe again..!"
Iqbal didn't react with a smile. He didn't look triumphant. He remained perfectly, terrifyingly calm. He looked at your hand on his sleeve—your small, trembling fingers against the dark fabric—and the satisfaction in his eyes was so deep it looked like madness.
"Tum ek bohot achi beti ho.." he said, his voice returning to that silken, authoritative hum. "Eik farmabardar larki. Tumhe wahi karna chahiye jo tumhare baray tumhare liye behtar samajhtay hain. Unhone bohot soch samajh kar eik faisla kiya hai..Kya tum unka saath do gi?"
You didn't know what the decision was. You didn't know that your father had already handed your life over to the man sitting beside you. All you felt was the crushing weight of the guilt he had poured into your soul and the desperate need to make amends for a "shame" that wasn't even your fault.
"Haan..!" you said, your head bowing as if under a physical yoke. "I will do whatever they ask. I promise.."
The silence that followed was absolute. For a moment, even the birds outside seemed to stop singing. You had given him the only thing he didn't already have: your consent, wrapped in the chains of your own conscience.
Iqbal reached out then. He didn't take your hand; he placed his large, heavy palm on the top of your head, his fingers tangling slightly in your hair.
"Shabash.." he whispered, the word vibrating through your skull.
He leaned in, his breath warm against your forehead, his scent—sandalwood and steel—overwhelming your senses. "Ab.. tum fikar mat karo..hmm? Ab sab kuch main sambhal loon ga.. Tumhare raste ka har kanta main apne hathon se hataoon ga. Tumhe sirf meri hifazat mein rehna hai."
He stood up then, the bed creaking as his immense weight left it. He looked down at you—small, broken, and utterly submissive—and the wickedness that had been flickering in him for days finally settled into a cold, permanent glow.
"Eat your breakfast now." he commanded, though the tone was soft. "Your mother is coming up..Smile for her. Tell her you are feeling better."
He walked to the door, his movements sharp and military. He didn't look back as he opened it. He stepped out into the hallway, where your father was undoubtedly waiting, leaving you alone in the shaft of gold light.
You sat there, staring at the tray of fruit. You felt a strange, hollow relief. The noise was going to stop. The world was going to be silent.
You didn't realize that the silence wasn't peace. It was the quiet of a tomb, and Major Iqbal had just turned the key..
The door had barely clicked shut behind Major Iqbal when the silence of the room was shattered by a different kind of energy. It wasn't the heavy, predatory stillness of the Major, but a frantic, fluttery excitement.
Rukhsaar burst in.
She didn't creep in with the somber, funereal face she had worn for the last three days. Instead, her eyes were bright, her cheeks flushed with a sudden, pink heat. She looked like the girl she had been before the glass broke—before the screaming started. She rushed to the edge of the bed and threw herself down beside you, grabbing your cold, stiff hands in hers.
"You said yes!" she whispered, her voice a high-pitched trill of disbelief and relief. "Shukar hai, Allah ka shukar hai! Tune maan liya!"
You looked at her, your mind still clouded by the silver-tongued words the Major had just poured into your ears. You felt heavy, as if your limbs were made of wet clay. The guilt he had harvested in you was still throbbing.
"I said I would do what the elders want, Rukhsaar.." you said, your voice sounding like a stranger's. "I said I would make the noise stop for Baba."
Rukhsaar squeezed your fingers so hard her nails bit into your skin. She didn't notice. She was vibrating with a strange, secondhand triumph.
""Tu ne toh dunya ke munh par thappar mara hai! Sab ko chup karwa diya hai Major Saab ne..!"
You felt a cold shiver crawl down your spine. "What are you talking about?"
Rukhsaar laughed, a short, breathless sound. "Chacha ne abhi niche sab ko bataya. Major Saab ne unse tera hath maang liya hai. Aur Chacha ne haan kar di! Aglay hafte Nikkah hai!"
The word hit you like a physical blow to the solar plexus. Nikkah.
You already knew. Deep down, in that dark, instinctive part of your soul that you had been trying to suppress, you had known since he sat on the edge of your bed. You had known when he spoke of your name being "joined" to someone else’s. You had known when he looked at you not as a victim to be saved, but as a territory to be occupied.
But hearing it out loud—hearing it from Rukhsaar’s smiling lips—made the walls of the room feel like they were closing in.
"Next week?" you gasped. "Itni jaldi?-"
"Zaroori hai na~!" Rukhsaar insisted, her eyes wide. "Logon ki zubaanein tabhi band hongi jab woh dekhein gay ke Pakistan ka sab se taqatwar mard tere liye kharra hai. Jab tu uski Begum ban kar bahar niklay gi, toh kiski jurrat hogi ke woh purani baatein yaad karay? Woh sab darrain gay, jaan!"
She began to babble about the preparations, her words a chaotic blur of dreses, jewelry, and guest lists. She talked about how your mother was finally eating, how your father’s chest was out again, how the "stain" was being washed away by the Major’s rank.
You listened, but the sound of her voice began to fade into a dull hum. You looked at your hands. The zip-tie marks on your wrists were still faint pink lines. You thought of the Major’s hand on your head—the way he had said "Shabash." He hadn't been comforting a girl. He had been praising a bride to be.
"Rukhsaar.." you interrupted, your voice trembling. "Kya yeh... kya yeh sahi hai? Woh mujhse itne baray hain..Aur woh... unhone un logon ko mara hai..!"
Rukhsaar’s smile faltered for a micro-second, a shadow of the night flickering in her eyes, but she pushed it away with a violent internal shove. She was too desperate for the "safety" he offered to look at the cost.
"Wohi toh khoobsurti hai!" she hissed, her voice low and intense. "Woh mard hai..Asli mard..! Usne khoon bahaya hai teri izzat ke liye. Kaunsa dusra mard aisa karta? Sab toh sirf baatein kartay hain. Major Saab ne kar ke dikhaya. Woh tujhse mohabbat kartay hain, jaan. Unki aankhon mein dekh, unhein tera junoon hai."
Junoon. The word felt heavy and oily.
"Aur rahi baat umar ki.." Rukhsaar continued, waving her hand dismissively, "Toh baray mard hi hifazat karna jaantay hain. Larkay toh sirf darrtay hain...! Soch, tu unke ghar ki malka hogi. Pure mulk mein teri izzat hogi..!"
She was guilt-tripping you again, using the same silver-threaded needle the Major had used. Every word was designed to remind you that your freedom was the price of your family’s dignity.
"I promised him.." you whispered, more to yourself than to her. "I told him I would do what was best for the elders.."
"Toh bas!" Rukhsaar stood up, pulling you with her, forcing you to stand on your weak, shaky legs. "Ab rona dhona khatam..Ab humein taiyari karni hai. Kal Major Saab ne kapray aur zewar bhijwanay hain. Unhone kaha hai ke sab kuch unki pasand ka hoga."
Of his choice. The realization sank in. From the color of your bridal dress to the locks on your doors, everything was now "of his choice." You were being moved from the dark warehouse of the Pashtuns to the gilded fortress of the Major.
Rukhsaar led you toward the bathroom, talking about hair masks and glowing skin. She didn't see the way you looked at the door—the door the Major had closed so softly. You felt like a prisoner who had just been told their execution was actually a coronation.
You looked in the mirror. You didn't recognize the girl staring back. Her eyes were hollow, her spirit a flickering candle in a storm.
"Tu bohot khush-naseeb hai..!~" Rukhsaar whispered from behind you, resting her chin on your shoulder as she looked at your shared reflection.
"Haan.." you lied, your voice a ghost. "Very lucky.."
Downstairs, you could hear the low, booming laughter of your father and the steady, authoritative cadence of the Major. They were making plans. They were discussing the future. Your future.
A few days after the Majors visit, The haveli, which only a week ago had been a tomb of shattered glass and stifled sobs, had been resurrected into a palace of frenetic, golden energy. The air was no longer thick with the scent of antiseptic; it was heavy with the fragrance of crushed jasmine, expensive silks, and the rich, spice-laden steam of the kitchen.
Major Iqbal had not just saved your life; he had restored the House of Rehman to a status even higher than before. The gossip that had threatened to drown your father had been vaporized by a single announcement. Now, the phones didn't stop ringing with congratulations, and the courtyard was perpetually clogged with delivery trucks bearing the Major's crest.
Rehman walked through the halls with his shoulders back, his chest out, a man reborn. The Gangster had become the father of a future General’s wife. He stood in the drawing room, watching the servants polish the silver, his face glowing with a satisfaction that bordered on the divine.
Ulfat, your mother, was in a state of ecstatic delirium. The trauma of the attack had been pushed into a dark corner of her mind, replaced by the ancient, rhythmic joy of wedding preparations. She sat on the floor of your bedroom, surrounded by mountains of scarlet and gold fabric, her fingers flying over the embroidery.
"Mera khwab pura ho raha hai.." Ulfat said, looking at you with eyes that were finally bright again. "Har maa chahti hai ke uski beti ka ghar aisa ho jahan koi dukh na pahunch sakay. Iqbal ek farishta hai, beti. Usne tumhe maut ke munh se nikala hai."
Even young Faizal was transformed. He no longer woke up screaming from nightmares of the knife at his throat. Instead, he spent his afternoons following the Major’s security detail around, mesmerized by their discipline and their gleaming black rifles. To him, Iqbal was a superhero from a comic book come to life.
And then, there was you.
You sat in the center of this whirlwind, a silent, painted doll. You let the tailors measure your waist; you let the jewelers drape heavy emeralds around your throat; you let your mother paint your hands with intricate patterns of henna. Deep down, in the silent basement of your soul, a cold, persistent dread remained—a small, shivering voice that whispered that this "safety" felt very much like a cage. You remembered the way the Major looked when he killed. You remembered the mechanical, soulless precision of his violence, you remembered the day you met, his inappropriate words, and you remembered the twitch in his hands on the way back to your Home, after he could not finish what he started to these boys that walked after you in the streets, or so you thought. It was violent- it was inhumane, and the thought of these hands holding your own..scared you.
But then, you would look at your father’s smiling face. You would see your mother’s hands, no longer trembling. You would remember the warehouse, the filth, and the absolute certainty that you were going to die—and how he had walked through the dark to save you.
Gratitude is a powerful sedative. It dulled the "bad vibes" until they were nothing but a faint hum in the background. You told yourself that your fear was just the lingering ghost of the trauma. You told yourself that you owed him your life, your family's honor, and your future in return for his actions.
Every evening, like a celestial body returning to its orbit, Major Iqbal arrived at the haveli. He didn't come with the chaos of a suitor; he came with the steady, quiet authority of a master checking on his prize.
He would find you on the terrace or in the small garden, always ensuring you were comfortable, always bringing a gift that was far too expensive to be mere affection. A diamond-encrusted watch. A rare, first-edition book. A shawl of the finest pashmina.
He walked toward you now, the sunset casting long, dramatic shadows across his face. He looked at you with an intensity that made the air feel thin. He reached out, his hand—larger and warmer than anyone else's—gently taking yours.
"Aaj tumhari tabiyat kaisi hai?" he asked, his voice a low, vibrating hum.
"I am better, Major Saab.." you whispered, lowering your eyes. "The bruises are almost gone."
He stepped closer, his presence obliterating the rest of the world. He lifted your chin with one finger, forcing you to look into those obsidian eyes. There was no warmth in them—only a dark, possessive satisfaction.
"Maine suna hai ke tumne aaj naya joda pasand kiya hai," he said, a ghost of a smirk playing on his lips. "Laal rang tum par bohot khilta hai..." It was a fabric and color of his choice, not yours. You felt a shiver, a mixture of respect and a strange, breathless fear.
"Thank you..you are very kind to us. My father... he is very happy because of you."
Iqbal’s thumb traced the line of your jaw, a slow, deliberate motion that felt like he was marking a boundary.
"Main sirf tumhare baap ki khushi ke liye yahan nahi aata..hmm?" he hissed softly, the words sounding like a secret oath. "Main tumhare liye aata hoon. Tumhe khush dekhna meri sab se barri zaroorat hai."
He leaned in, his scent—sandalwood and the cold ozone of a storm—filling your lungs. It was an intoxicating, suffocating smell.
"Kya tum khush ho?" he asked.
It was the question he asked every single day. It wasn't a question, really. It was a calibration. He was checking to see if the walls of the cage were comfortable enough yet.
You looked at his face—the man who had shed blood for you, the man who had bought your father’s silence and your mother’s joy. You thought of the alternative: the warehouse, the shame, the loneliness.
You sniled at him, nodding slowly.
"Ji, main khush hoon," you whispered.
Iqbal’s grip on your chin tightened, just for a fraction of a second—a flash of the hunter’s grip before it relaxed back into the "gentleman’s" touch.
"Shabash.." he murmured, his breath hot against your forehead. "Tumhe khush hona chahiye. Kyunke ab se, tumhare raste mein koi kaanta nahi aaye ga. Main har dukh ko tumse pehle khud jheel loon ga.."
He let go of your chin and offered his arm, a silent command to walk with him through the garden. You placed your hand on his sleeve, feeling the rock-hard muscle beneath the fabric.
As you walked, he talked about a house somewhere far, He talked about the mountains, the solitude, and the life he had planned for you.
You listened, and for a moment, the idea of being hidden away—far from the whispering aunties and the judgmental eyes of Karachi—sounded like heaven..
You felt a deep, profound gratitude. You felt that you were the luckiest girl in the world to have earned the obsession of such a powerful man.
And yet, as the sun finally dipped below the horizon and the shadows stretched across the grass, you felt a sudden, sharp chill. You looked at the hand resting on his arm, and for a fleeting second, it didn't look like your hand. It looked like the hand of a ghost.
"Chalo, andar chaltay hain.." Iqbal said, his voice bringing you back from the brink of the thought. "Tumhare baap hamara intezar kar rahay hain. Aaj humein Nikkah ki aakhri tareekh taye karni hai.."
You nodded, walking beside him toward the brightly lit windows of the house. Inside, you could hear your mother singing a wedding folk song, her voice cracking with joy.
You were going to be a bride. You were going to be safe.
You walked into the house, into the light, and into the arms of the man who had saved you, never realizing that the savior and the shadow were the exact same person..
Only hours later, Major Iqbal sat in a high-backed leather chair, his posture as rigid as a blade. Across from him, framed by a massive bay window that looked out over a dead garden, sat the man who had authored his nightmares.
Brigadier Jahangir was a skeletal ruin of a human being, anchored to a wheelchair. His skin was the color of old parchment, stretched tight over a skull that seemed too large for his shrunken frame. A thick wool blanket was draped over his useless legs, but his eyes—milky with cataracts yet burning with a prehistoric, predatory malice—were wide awake.
He was a man who had built a career on the desecration of others. In the wars of '65 and '71, he hadn't just been a soldier; he had been a butcher whose name was whispered in the dark corners of the border. He had treated the women of East Bengal and the villages of India as spoils of war, and he had treated his own family with the same chilling lack of humanity.
"Baloch.." the old man spat. The word came out like a piece of rotted meat. "Ek Baloch kutti ko mere ghar ki bahu banao gay?"
Iqbal didn't flinch. He didn't blink. He sat with his hands resting on his knees, his face a mask of absolute, frozen discipline.
"Hamare waqt mein.." Jahangir wheezed, his voice a jagged saw cutting through the silence of the room, "aisi auraton ko hum galiyon mein phenk detay thay. Izzat nahi di jati thi unhein. Sirf istemal kiya jata tha!"
The Brigadier began to laugh—a wet, rattling sound that ended in a violent coughing fit. He leaned forward, his shaking hand gripping the armrest of his wheelchair.
"Tum naram dil ho gaye ho, Iqbal!" he hissed, his eyes narrowing into slits of pure arrogance. "Pehle wali biwi ko bhi tum ne sar par charha rakha tha. Aur ab yeh? Ek tawaif ki tarah bazaar mein ghisatne wali larki ko tum 'Begum' kaho gay?!"
Iqbal’s jaw tightened until the bone threatened to snap through his skin. The mention of his first wife—a woman the Brigadier had broken with psychological cruelty until she had simply faded into nothing—was the only thing that could still strike a spark in the Major's frozen heart.
But he said nothing. He had learned long ago that to speak to Jahangir was to give him a target.
"Tumhare khoon mein hi khot hai.." the old man barked, his voice rising in an ugly, shrill crescendo. "Maine tumhe mard banane ki koshish ki, lekin tum sirf ek rakhaid ke ghulaam ban kar reh gaye ho..! Hamare zamane mein, hum dushman ki betiyon ko utha letay thay..Unki cheekhein hamara nasha hoti thi..! Aur tum? Tum usay phool de rahay ho? Usay shaadi ka jora pehna rahay ho?!"
The Brigadier began to brag, his chest swelling with the grotesque pride of a war criminal. He spoke of 1971, of villages where the smoke of burning homes was the only thing thicker than the smell of rape. He spoke of "cleansing" the land of those he deemed inferior. He viewed the Baloch, the Sindhis, the Indians—anyone not of his specific, warped lineage—as sub-human cattle.
"Woh larki... " Jahangir spat, a string of saliva hanging from his lip. "Uske saath wahi hona chahiye tha jo un gunday mawaaliyon ne socha tha. Unhein karne daitay apna kaam. Phir usay kisi koothay par baich daitay..! Mere ghar mein uski jagah nahi hai!"
Iqbal’s gaze remained fixed on a point just above his father’s head. He despised this man. He loathed the very marrow in Jahangir’s bones. The Major’s own brand of evil was cold, calculated, and obsessive—it was a desire for order and possession. But Jahangir’s evil was chaotic, loud, and filthy. It was the evil of a man who broke things just to see them bleed.
"She is not coming to this house." Iqbal said. His voice was low, devoid of emotion, yet it carried a subterranean power that momentarily silenced the old man’s ranting.
"Kyun? Darr lagta hai ke main usay maar doon ga?" Jahangir mocked, a twisted grin revealing yellowed teeth. "Ya shayad darr hai ke main usay bata doon ga ke uska shohar kis baap ki aulaad hai? Ke hum ne kaisay un auraton ki izzat looti thi jinhein tum aaj 'Mohtarma' kehtay ho?"
Iqbal stood up. He moved with a terrifyingly slow grace, walking toward the wheelchair. He didn't stop until his polished boots were inches from the Brigadier’s withered feet. He leaned down, his face a few inches from his father's.
"Woh mere ghar jaye gi," Iqbal whispered. The words were no longer respectful; they were a death sentence. "Aur wahan na aapka saaya pahunch sakay ga, na aapki aawaz. Aap yahan is kachray mein sarrtay rahain gay, aur main usay apni malkiyat banaoon ga."
The Brigadier tried to strike out, his skeletal hand clawing at Iqbal’s chest, but the Major caught his wrist. He didn't squeeze, but the strength in his grip was enough to make the old man gasp.
"Aap mardangi ki baat kartay hain?" Iqbal hissed, his eyes burning with a dark, concentrated loathing. "Aap ne auraton ko tabaah kiya kyunke aap unhein jeet nahi saktay thay. Maine usay jeeta hai. Maine uske baap ko khareeda hai, uske darr ko khatam kiya hai, aur uske wajood ko apne naam kar liya hai. Woh mujhse mohabbat nahi karti, woh meri parastish karti hai. Woh meri hifazat ko apni jannat samajhti hai."
He leaned in closer, his breath cold on the old man’s skin. "Woh meri hai. Aur mere qabzay se usay koi nahi nikaal sakta. Aap ki dunya khatam ho chuki hai, Brigadier. Ab meri dunya hai."
Iqbal let go of the wrist. The Brigadier fell back into his cushions, panting, his face a mask of impotent fury.
"Tu pachtaye ga, Iqbal!" the old man screamed as the Major turned toward the door. "Woh Baloch khoon hai! Woh tumhe dhoka de gi! Woh kisi din tumhe kaat khaye gi!"
Iqbal didn't look back. He walked out of the room, the heavy oak doors thudding shut behind him, cutting off the Brigadier’s shrieks.
He stepped out into the hallway, where his orderly was waiting. Iqbal adjusted his collar, his face returning to its mask of stoic, military calm. He felt a deep, oily satisfaction. His father called him "soft" because he married the prey instead of discarding it. But Iqbal knew the truth.
To discard the prey was easy. To make the prey love the hunter—to make her walk into the cage willingly and thank him for the privilege—that was the ultimate victory.
He walked out into the cool evening air, his mind already shifting back to the haveli, back to the preperations and back to you. The Brigadier was a ghost of the past, a relic of a loud, messy evil. Iqbal was the future. He was the silent, inescapable darkness that didn't just break a woman’s body, but colonized her very soul.
As he climbed into his car, he checked his watch. The Nikkah was only forty-eight hours away..
The city of Karachi began to dissolve in the rearview mirror, its frantic neon pulse and choked arteries of traffic replaced by the long, sweeping shadows of the outskirts. Major Iqbal drove himself. He didn't want the intrusion of a driver or the idle chatter of an orderly. He wanted the silence of the cockpit, the rhythmic hum of the engine, and the absolute clarity of his own thoughts.
He was leaving the shriveled, poisonous ghost of his father behind in the Cantonment. Brigadier Jahangir could rot in his wheelchair, screaming at the walls about wars fought fifty years ago. Iqbal was a man of the present, and the present required a new stage—a theater where he was the only director, the only spectator, and the only god.
The new house was located in a stretch of land where the desert air met the salt of the sea, far enough from the city that the sirens and the gossip couldn't reach it, yet close enough that his authority still cast a shadow over the port.
As the iron gates swung open—operated by a silent guard who snapped a sharp salute—Iqbal felt a surge of cold, visceral satisfaction.
The house was not a modern monstrosity of glass and chrome. It was an estate of old-world gravity: thick, cream-colored stone walls, high arched windows, and sprawling verandas that wrapped around the structure like a protective shroud. It looked like a colonial officer’s residence, modernized with the brutal efficiency of a military bunker.
He parked the SUV and stepped out. The silence here was physical. There was no sound of rickshaws, no distant call to prayer from a dozen competing minarets. Only the low whistle of the wind through the neem trees and the rhythmic thud-thud of his own boots against the gravel.
He walked up the steps, his eyes scanning the perimeter. The walls were topped with discreet electrified wiring; the cameras were tucked into the eaves of the roof, invisible to the untrained eye.
"Behtareen.." he whispered to the empty air.
He entered the foyer. The floors were a dark, polished marble that reflected the dim light like a black lake. The furniture was heavy, dark wood—mahogany and teak—upholstered in deep forest greens and charcoals. There was a scent of beeswax, cedar, and the faint, lingering smell of a house that had been scrubbed clean of any previous life.
He walked through the drawing room. It was vast, yet suffocatingly quiet. He imagined you sitting there, small and fragile against the massive scale of the room. He imagined the way your voice would struggle to fill the high ceilings, only to be swallowed by the heavy velvet curtains. The idea was so amusing to him that he couldn't help but smile as he continued to roam the halls.
Iqbal climbed the stairs to the master suite. This was the heart of the house. The bedroom was enormous, dominated by a four-poster bed that looked more like a throne. The windows looked out over the back gardens, which were enclosed by a ten-foot stone wall. Beyond that, there was nothing but the scrubland and the horizon.
He stood on the balcony, his hands gripping the stone railing.
"Yahan koi tumhe nahi dhund paye ga.." he murmured, his voice a low, dark caress. "Yahan dunya ka shor khatam ho jata hai. Sirf meri hawa hogi, aur mera waqt.."
He had already staffed the house. Six servants, all of them retired military families who owed their livelihoods—and their silence—to him. They wouldn't talk to the neighbors. They wouldn't answer the door to anyone without his express command. They were extensions of his own will.
He walked back inside and opened the door to a smaller room connected to the master suite. He had designed it as your "study." It was filled with books, a beautiful writing desk, and a window that offered a view of the sunset. On the surface, it was a gesture of profound kindness—a space for you to continue the studies he had promised your father you would finish.
But Iqbal looked at the door. He checked the hinges. He looked at the lock. It was a room designed to keep a bird happy, so that it would never notice it had forgotten how to fly.
He went back downstairs to the kitchen. His head housekeeper, a stern woman named Sofia whose husband had served under Iqbal in the North, was already organizing the pantry. She stood at attention when he entered.
"Major Saab, sab kuch taiyar hai," she said, her voice devoid of curiosity. "Kamre saaf hain. Khana aapki hidayat ke mutabiq taye kiya gaya hai."
Iqbal nodded. "Shabash, Sofia... Yaad rakhna, Mohtarma ko kisi cheez ki kami nahi honi chahiye. Lekin unhein bahar jane ki ijazat tabhi hogi jab main saath hoon ga. Suraksha meri zimmedari hai."
"Ji, Saab."
He walked back out to the veranda, lighting a cigarette as the sky turned a bruised, royal purple. He thought of your father, Rehman, who was probably at home right now, boasting to his friends about the "safety" his daughter would enjoy. He thought of your mother, Ulfat, packing your trunks with silks and memories.
They thought they were sending you to a home. They didn't realize they were giving you to a man that did not want to save, but own their daughter.
Iqbal took a deep drag, the smoke curling around his face like a veil. He felt a sense of peace he hadn't known in years. For his entire life, he had been surrounded by the noise of his father’s failures and the chaos of war. But here, in this house, he had created a vacuum.
He would bring you here after the Nikkah. He would carry you over the threshold, and the iron gates would close behind you. You would be grateful at first. You would thank him for the silence. You would thank him for the way the gossip couldn't reach this far.
And by the time you realized that the silence was a wall—that the protection was a prison—it would be too late. You would already belong to the house. You would already belong to him.
"Bahut jald, jaan.." he whispered, looking toward the distant lights of the city he was about to leave behind. "Bahut jald tum mere is naye jahan ki malka bano gi. Aur yahan... yahan sirf mera hukm chalay ga.."
He finished his cigarette and crushed it under his boot, the same way he had crushed the fingers of the man in the warehouse. The house stood behind him, dark and beautiful and utterly inescapable.
The stage was set. The butcher had built his sanctuary. And tomorrow, the lamb would be brought home..
The night before the Nikkah was a kaleidoscope of gold leaf, orange marigolds, and the rhythmic, hollow thrum of the dholak.
The air in the haveli’s inner courtyard was thick—suffocatingly so—with the scent of high-grade incense, crushed rose petals, and the heavy, sweet musk of motia garlands.
To any observer, it was the picture of a perfect Pakistani wedding. The Mayun was in full swing. Bright yellow and lime-green drapes hung from the balconies like silk waterfalls. The women of the family, dressed in their finest lawn and chiffon, sat on large floor cushions, their laughter ringing out against the ancient stone walls.
You sat in the center of it all, perched on a small wooden takht draped in marigolds. You were the angel of the house. Your face was devoid of makeup, as per tradition, and your hair was braided with silver thread. Your yellow dress felt heavy, as if the fabric itself was made of lead.
Rukhsaar was at your feet, her eyes sparkling with a feverish, vicarious joy. She held the dholak between her knees, her palms striking the taut skin in a rapid, celebratory beat.
They danced in circles around you, their colorful dupattas fluttering like the wings of trapped butterflies. They teased you about the Major, whispering scandalous jokes about "the soldier’s strength" and how you would be "conquered" by the end of the week. Every time his name was mentioned, a cheer went up, a collective sigh of envy and admiration.
You forced your lips into a smile. You practiced the modest downward tilt of your head. You even managed a small, soft laugh when your aunties smeared the yellow ubtan paste onto your cheeks, the cool turmeric staining your skin.
"Dekho kitni pyaari lag rahi hai...!" your mother, Ulfat, whispered, her eyes brimming with tears of pure, uncomplicated happiness. "Iqbal Saab ne sahi kaha tha... hamari beti ab khushiyon ke saaye mein rahay gi."
But inside, you felt a chilling dissonance.
The music felt too loud, the lights too bright. Every time the dholak gave a particularly sharp crack, your mind flickered—just for a microsecond—to the sound of the glass shattering. To the sound of the Major’s suppressed gun. Phut. Phut. Phut. You looked at the girls dancing. They saw a wedding. You felt a funeral for the girl you used to be. The girl who wanted to study in London, the girl who used to argue with her father about politics—she was being buried under layers of turmeric and silk.
Rukhsaar leaned in, her face inches from yours, her breath smelling of cardamom sweets. "Tu kyun itni khamosh hai?" she whispered, her smile not quite reaching her eyes. "Aaj toh rone ka din nahi hai. Aaj toh jeet ka din hai!"
"I'm just tired, Rukhsaar.." you lied, your voice a brittle thread. "Bas thora darr lag raha hai.."
"Darr kaisa?" Rukhsaar scoffed, her hands returning to the drum. "Major Saab jaisa mard milay toh darr nahi, fakhar hona chahiye. Woh tujhe malka bana kar rakhay ga. Tu dekhna, kal ke baad teri dunya badal jaye gi."
Your world will change. The words echoed in your skull. You looked toward the heavy iron gates of the haveli. You knew that outside, stationed in the shadows of the street, were the Major's men. They were there to "protect" you. But as the singing grew louder and the girls began to pull you up to join the dance, you felt like they were guards outside a cell.
"Chalo, dulhan! Thora sa thumka lagao!"
You stood up, your legs feeling like they belonged to someone else. You allowed them to wrap a yellow dupatta around your waist. You moved your arms in time with the music, your bangles clinking—a metallic, rhythmic sound that reminded you of the zip-ties on your wrists.
You looked at your mother. She was clapping, her face radiant, the wrinkles of worry finally smoothed away by the promise of the Major’s protection. You looked at your father, standing in the doorway, watching the scene with a smug, peaceful satisfaction.
For them, this was the ultimate resolution. The scandal was dead. The house was safe. The daughter was provided for.
You realized then that you couldn't tell them. You couldn't tell them about the coldness you felt when the Major touched your chin. You couldn't tell them that his "protection" felt like a heavy, airless shroud. To speak your fear would be to shatter their peace, to bring the "shame" back into the house.
So you danced.
You spun in circles until the gold embroidery of the room became a blur. You laughed when they fed you sweets that tasted like ash in your mouth. You let them sing songs about a "brave groom" and a "lucky bride."
"Mubarak ho, mubarak ho!"
The night wore on. The older women eventually retired, leaving you with the younger girls. The fire in the center of the courtyard died down to glowing embers. One by one, the girls fell asleep on the floor cushions, exhausted by their own joy.
Only you remained awake, sitting back on the wooden takht, the smell of the ubtan drying on your skin.
You looked up at the moon, visible through the opening in the courtyard roof. Somewhere, on the outskirts of the city, in a house made of cream-colored stone and silence, Major Iqbal was waiting. He was probably sitting in his dark study, looking at his watch, counting the minutes until you became his legal property.
You touched the sapphire pendant he had given you—the one you were forced to wear even tonight. It felt cold against your skin. You remembered his words: "Shabash. Tumhe wahi karna chahiye jo tumhare baray tumhare liye behtar samajhtay hain." A single tear, hot and silent, traced a path through the yellow paste on your cheek. You wiped it away quickly, terrified that even the walls might report your sorrow to him.
Tomorrow, you would say "Qubool hai."
Tomorrow, the "Hero" would take his prize home.
You closed your eyes and tried to pray, but the only image that came to your mind wasn't of God. It was of the Major, standing over the bodies in the warehouse, his hands stained with blood, looking at you with a hunger that no amount of wedding songs could ever disguise.
"Allah Hafiz.. " you whispered to the girl you used to be.
The morning was coming. And with it, the end of the world that you knew..
The morning of the Nikkah did not break with the soft, golden light of a new beginning; it arrived with a stark, blinding glare that seemed to strip the haveli of its shadows. By 8:00 AM, the house was a fever dream of activity. The scent of frying parathas and sweet halwa mingled with the cloying, heavy fragrance of several hundred pounds of fresh red roses that Major Iqbal’s men had delivered at dawn.
You sat in front of the vanity mirror, a hollow vessel for the tradition being poured into you. Your mother and Rukhsaar worked with a frantic, joyful energy, draping you into your weddingdress—a masterpiece of traditional deep red silk, so heavily encrusted with gold zardozi work that it weighed nearly twenty pounds. The fabric felt like armor. Or a shroud..
"Kitni haseen lag rahi hai meri beti," Ulfat whispered, pinning the massive, translucent red dupatta to your hair with trembling fingers. "Bilkul ek malka..!"
You looked at your reflection. The deep crimson against your skin made you look as if you were bleeding from the inside out. The heavy gold jhumar on your temple pulled at your skin, and the nath felt like a hook. You were being prepared for the altar, and every pin felt like a nail.
As you were led downstairs toward the partitioned area of the drawing room, you passed the outer courtyard. The Major’s security detail stood like statues, their black fatigues a jarring contrast to the marigolds.
Standing near the fountain was Hamza.
Hamza had been your father’s right-hand man for a long while, He was the one who saved your father from the SP, the one who knew every secret of the Rehman family. He had married only a month ago—a love match that had filled the haveli with genuine laughter. Usually, Hamza was the first to crack a joke, the first to offer a celebratory Mubarak.
But today, Hamza looked like a man standing at a funeral..
As you walked past him, supported by Rukhsaar, your eyes met his for a fleeting second. Hamza didn't smile. His face was tight, his brow furrowed in a look of profound, silent agony. He looked at the Major, who was standing by the entrance talking to your father, and then he looked back at you.
In his eyes, you saw it. He didn't see a hero. He didn't see a savior. Hamza, who understood the mechanics of power better than anyone, for some reason, saw the Major for exactly what he was: a wolf who had convinced the sheep to open the gate. He looked at you—filled with a deep, grieving empathy. He looked as if he wanted to scream, to grab you and run, but he was pinned by the same "gratitude" that had paralyzed your father. You didn't know yet, but just nights prior, in a dark room of Rehmans home, Hamza had tried to talk your Father out of this idea. However, his pleas were not being heard.
He looked away quickly, his jaw clenched, his hand white-knuckled as he gripped a stack of papers. The sight of his fear sent a fresh jolt of ice through your veins. If the man who handled your father’s darkest business was afraid of your groom, what hope did you have?
The drawing room had been divided by a heavy, ornate silk curtain—the Parda. On one side sat the men: the Qazi, your father, your brothers, and the Major. On your side, the women crowded around you, their whispers a chaotic hiss of excitement.
You were seated on a low cushion, your head bowed so low that all you could see was the intricate henna on your hands and the polished marble floor. The scent of burning agarbatti was so thick it made your head swim.
Through the silk curtain, you heard the Qazi’s voice—deep, rhythmic, and terrifyingly final. He began the recitation, the Arabic verses flowing over you like a tide you couldn't swim against.
Then, the silence fell. It was the kind of silence that precedes a gunshot.
"Bibi..." the Qazi’s voice came from the other side, addressing you by name. He began the formal declaration. He stated the Mehr—a staggering sum of money and property that Iqbal had insisted upon—and the name of the groom: Major Iqbal Jahangir.
"Kya aap ko yeh Nikkah qubool hai?"
The room seemed to shrink. You felt your mother’s hand press firmly against your back, a silent, desperate command to speak. You felt Rukhsaar’s bated breath beside you.
Across the curtain, you could sense him. You didn't need to see him to know exactly where he was sitting. You could feel the Major’s gaze piercing through the silk, pinning you to the floor. He wasn't waiting for an answer; he was waiting for his property to acknowledge its owner.
You thought of the warehouse. You thought of the "Shabash." You thought of your father’s restored pride. You felt the weight of the red silk, the weight of the gold, and the weight of a thousand years of "good daughters" who had sat exactly where you were sitting.
"Qubool hai.." you whispered.
The women around you let out a collective, soft sigh of relief. But the Qazi wasn't finished. Law and tradition demanded the triad.
"Bibi, kya aap ko yeh Nikkah qubool hai?" the Qazi asked a second time, his voice louder, more official.
You felt a tear escape the corner of your eye, tracing a hot, wet path through the heavy bridal makeup. It felt like your soul was being signed away in ink made of blood. You thought of the quiet house in the outskirts, the one with the high walls and the silent servants. You thought of the "protection" that would never let you go.
"Ji... qubool hai.." you said, your voice a little stronger, forced by the sheer momentum of the tragedy.
A few women began to giggle quietly, the tension breaking into the first flickers of celebration. Your mother started to sob softly—tears of joy, she would say later.
But then came the third time. The final nail. The moment where the law of man and the law of God would lock the door and throw away the key.
The Qazi cleared his throat. The men on the other side of the curtain shifted. You heard the distinct, metallic clink of the Major’s medals as he sat up straighter, his presence expanding until it seemed to fill the entire haveli. He was waiting. He was savoring this.
"Bibi..." the Qazi’s voice was solemn now, the gravity of the finality settling over the room. "Akhri baar puchta hoon. Kya aap ko Major Iqbal Jahangir se yeh Nikkah... qubool hai?"
You looked up slightly, your gaze catching a gap in the silk curtain. For a split second, you saw him. He wasn't looking at the Qazi. He was looking directly at the spot where you sat, a dark, triumphant glint in his eyes that promised a lifetime of silence.
You took a breath. It felt like the last breath of a free woman. You opened your lips, the red lipstick feeling like a seal.
Pairing: Stalker! Major Iqbal x Rehmans Daughter! Reader.
NOTE: MINORS AND AGELESS BLOGS DO NOT INTERACT! This content is intended for audiences 18+ only!
Disclaimer: The themes explored in this story—including stalking, violence, perversion and extreme possessiveness—are purely for fictional and narrative purposes. These behaviors are dangerous and inexcusable in real-life relationships! I do not condone or romanticize these actions outside the realm of the "Dark Romance" genre.
Warnings: age gap, power dynamics, possessive, obsessive behaviour, mention of assault, kidnapping, violence, death, Iqbal being one shameless fucker
Part 4 of ?
The night had a sickly, unnatural stillness to it. The heavy, humid air of Karachi pressed against the haveli’s stone walls like a damp shroud, and the usual street noise—the distant hum of rickshaws and the barking of pariah dogs—had been strangled into an eerie, pressurized silence.
Inside, the family was adrift in the false peace the Major had gifted them. Your father, Rehman, was away at a late-night political summit, bolstered by his new status. Your mother, Ulfat, was in the drawing room, her prayer beads clicking softly in the dim light. Rukhsaar was beside her, thumbing through a magazine, while your younger brother, Faizal, sat at the dining table, hunched over a schoolbook.
Its been almost a week that your doubts had been strangled by the Majors calm, deceptive apology. Your father had risen to a man even more powerful, thanks to him. Most people, those that respected your Father, were joyous over the Dakait Family's fortune- yet...there were others- those that were full if hate toward your family, simply for existing.
You felt a strange, lingering calm. The Major’s apology at breakfast had acted like a sedative, dulling your instincts. You were leaning against the doorframe, watching Faizal, when the silence was shattered.
It wasn’t a bang; it was the sound of glass weeping.
The massive stained-glass window in the foyer exploded inward. For a heartbeat, there was only the crystalline chime of falling shards, and then the vacuum was filled by the roar of boots.
Men poured through the breach—shadows draped in heavy, dark perahan tunbans, their faces obscured by the rough wrap of Pashtun turbans. They didn't move like thieves; they moved like a flash flood, violent and indifferent.
"Ammi!" Faizal’s voice was a thin, terrified reed.
Before he could move, a thick, calloused hand seized him by the hair, yanking his head back with a sickening crack of vertebrae. A long, curved blade—a chara—was pressed against his throat. The boy’s eyes went wide, white circles of pure, primal horror. He didn't even scream; the air had been choked out of him by the cold steel.
"Faizal!" Ulfat shrieked, springing from the sofa. Her prayer beads scattered across the marble floor like teeth.
One of the men, a giant with a jagged scar running into his beard, intercepted her. He didn't use a weapon; he used the back of his hand. The blow caught your mother across the temple, sending her crashing into the mahogany coffee table. She crumpled, a soft groan escaping her as blood began to bloom against her white headscarf.
"Ammi! No!" Rukhsaar lunged toward her, but another man caught her by the waist.
He lifted her off her feet, his laughter a low, guttural rasp that smelled of cheap tobacco and rot. Rukhsaar fought like a cornered animal, clawing at his face, her silk dupatta tearing in his grip. He slammed her against the wall, his hand fumbling with the drawstring of her trousers, his intent written in the jagged yellow of his teeth.
"The little bird has spirit!" he hissed in a thick, Pashto-accented growl. "We’ll see how long she sings in the mountains."
The terror was absolute. It was the sound of your mother’s ragged breathing, the sight of your brother’s trembling lip as the blade drew a thin line of red on his neck, and the visceral, sickening thud of Rukhsaar’s head hitting the stone.
Then, they turned to you.
The leader, the man with the scarred face, walked toward you with a slow, agonizing deliberation. You tried to back away, but your heels caught on the edge of a rug. You fell, the cold marble biting into your palms.
"The Balochs little treasure!~" he mocked, his voice a gravelly pit.
He reached down, his fingers—filthy and smelling of woodsmoke—locking around your throat. He pinned you to the floor, the weight of his body crushing the air from your lungs. You thrashed, your nails digging into the rough wool of his sleeve, but it was like fighting a mountain.
He leaned in, his face inches from yours. You could see the broken capillaries in his eyes, the absolute absence of mercy. He took the tip of his knife and traced it down the line of your jaw, the cold metal leaving a trail of gooseflesh in its wake.
"I wonder.." he whispered, "if you’ll still look so regal when I’m done carving my name into that pretty skin."
He gripped the collar of your kameez, the fabric groaning as he prepared to rend it. The violence was senseless, brutal, and seemingly unstoppable. In that moment, the haveli—the sanctuary of your ancestors—became a slaughterhouse.
You looked over at your family. Ulfat was barely conscious, her hand reaching out feebly toward Faizal. Faizal was sobbing silently, the knife still biting into his throat. Rukhsaar was being dragged toward the broken window, her screams turning into muffled whimpers as a hand was shoved over her mouth.
The evil in the room was palpable. It wasn't the clean violence of a soldier; it was the chaotic, degrading terror of a pack of wolves in a sheepfold. You felt a tear slip down your temple, mixing with the dust and the heat. You closed your eyes, waiting for the blade to sink in, waiting for the final desecration.
You were alone. Your father was gone. The guards were dead or payed to stay behind. The world had vanished, leaving only the smell of the attacker’s sweat and the cold, sharp promise of the steel.
"Please.." you gasped, the word barely a puff of air. "Please, don't hurt him. Take me, just let the boy go..!"
The scarred man laughed, the sound echoing off the high ceiling like a curse. He raised the knife, the blade catching the dim lamp-light, and for one heartbeat, the world hung in the balance of a strike.
The vacuum of the haveli was filled with a primal, rhythmic screaming that didn't sound like human voices anymore. It was the sound of a family being dismantled in the dark.
The man with the scarred face didn’t strike you with the blade. He did something worse. He sheathed the knife with a metallic snick and reached down, his thick, grime-stained fingers locking into the roots of your hair. He didn't pull you up; he hauled you backward. Your scalp felt as if it were being flayed from your skull, your neck snapping back at an agonizing angle as your body was dragged across the jagged remains of the shattered stained glass.
"No! Please! Ammi!" you shrieked, your fingernails clawing uselessly at the cold marble, leaving streaks of red where the glass had sliced your palms.
"Shut her up.." the man growled.
A second set of hands seized your ankles, and a third man—the one who had been hovering over Rukhsaar—gave a final, brutal shove to your cousin’s shoulder, leaving her curled in a broken heap on the floor. They dragged you toward the gaping hole where the window had been. You saw your mother, Ulfat, struggling to rise, her face a mask of crimson from the blow she’d taken. She reached out, her fingers trembling toward you, her voice a broken, wet sob.
"My daughter... take me! Take me instead!"
They didn't listen. They threw you over the jagged windowsill like a sack of grain. Your ribs slammed into the stone, the breath leaving your lungs in a silent puff of agony. Outside, a battered, dark car sat idling, its exhaust coughing black smoke into the humid night. They threw you into the back seat, your head cracking against the door frame. The world spun into a blur of grey upholstery and the smell of stale grease.
Inside the house, the horror was reaching its crescendo. The remaining three attackers had turned back to the family. One had Faizal by the throat again, lifting the boy off the ground, while the others moved toward the sprawling, semi-conscious forms of Ulfat and Rukhsaar.
Then, the world went cold.
It wasn't a sound that changed the room. It was the sudden, absolute absence of it. The humid air seemed to freeze.
Phut. Phut. Phut.
Three muffled, clinical pops echoed through the foyer. It wasn't the roar of a street fight; it was the sound of a silenced suppressed weapon, fired with the rhythmic precision of a metronome.
The man holding Faizal didn't even have time to gasp. A small, neat hole appeared exactly between his eyes, the back of his skull erupting in a spray of grey and red against the white plaster wall. He folded like a suit of empty clothes.
The two men over Rukhsaar spun around, their hands reaching for their holsters, but they were already dead. Two more silver flashes, two more wet thuds. They hit the floor simultaneously, their blood pooling into the patterns of the Persian rug.
Major Iqbal stepped through the front door.
He didn't look like the man from the gala. He didn't look like the "friend" from breakfast. He was a shadow given form, dressed in tactical black, a suppressed submachine gun held low against his thigh. His face was a mask of granite, his eyes twin voids of obsidian that held no anger—only a terrifying, mechanical vacuum.
He moved with a predatory grace that made the chaos of the Pashtun gang look like child’s play. He didn't look at the bodies. He stepped over them as if they were trash blocking a sidewalk.
"Major!" Ulfat wailed, crawling toward him, her hands stained with her own blood and the blood of the men he had just executed. "They took her! They took my light! Save her!"
Iqbal didn't answer immediately. He knelt beside Rukhsaar first. With a movement that was shockingly, jarringly tender compared to the slaughter he had just performed, he reached out and pulled a heavy, dark tactical jacket from his shoulders. He draped it over your cousin, covering her torn clothes and exposed skin, his hand resting briefly, reassuringly, on her trembling shoulder.
He stood up and crossed to Faizal, picking the sobbing boy up with one arm and setting him gently beside his mother. He checked the wound on Ulfat’s head with a quick, professional touch.
"They are gone, Ulfat.." he said. His voice was a low, resonant hum—the voice of a god deciding the fate of mortals. "The house is secure."
"The car!" Ulfat gripped the hem of his tactical vest, her eyes wide with a mother’s madness. "The black car! They have her! Iqbal, please! You swore you were our friend! Bring her back!"
Outside, the sedan’s tires screeched against the pavement. The three men who had grabbed you—the scarred leader and his two lieutenants—were peeling away, the doors slamming shut as they vanished into the labyrinthine shadows of the Karachi streets.
Iqbal stood at the edge of the broken window, watching the taillights disappear. He didn't run. He didn't shout. He stood perfectly still, the moonlight catching the silver of his insignias.
He turned back to your mother. The coldness in his eyes shifted, just for a fraction of a second, into a look of solemn, iron-clad promise. It was a look that would have been comforting if it weren't so absolute.
"I will bring her back," Iqbal whispered. "I will bring her back, and I will bring the heads of the men who touched her. You have my word."
"Go!" Ulfat cried out, her voice breaking. "Go now!"
Iqbal nodded once. He tapped a device on his collar. "Unit One. The package has been moved. Initiate the net. Track the secondary signal. I am coming in hot."
Inside the car, you were pinned to the floorboards by a heavy, mud-caked boot. The scarred man was in the front seat, screaming at the driver to move faster, his eyes darting to the rearview mirror.
He stepped through the broken window, out into the night, vanishing into the darkness before the echoes of his boots had even faded.
"Who was that?!" the driver yelled, his voice cracking with fear. "That wasn't a guard! Those were headshots! Professional!"
"Shut up and drive!" the scarred man roared. He looked back at you, a jagged, panicked grin on his face. "It doesn't matter. We have the prize. Once we get her to the safe house, the damn Baloch can't do shit! "
You lay in the dark, the vibration of the road rattling your teeth, your hair matted with blood and dust. You thought of your mother’s face, of Faizal’s small, terrified hands. You thought of your father. He would return to his house in pieces, his wife hurt, his son scared, his niece sitting in between shreds of her clothes and his only daughter missing
You prayed for him to come and safe you.
They had given him exactly what he needed: the opportunity to be the only thing standing between your family and total annihilation.
You didn't see the Major climb into his own black SUV a block away. You didn't see the way he checked the glowing red dot on his dashboard—a tracker embedded in the very jewelry he had gifted you. You didn't see the smirk on his face as he realized the "Pashtun gang"—men he had indeed not hired, gave him an advantage nobody else could have. He could be a real hero now, saving you wouldn't be hard. Killing them wouldn't bother him..but you would be grateful for the rest of your entire life
The car sped into the industrial outskirts of the city, the skyscrapers giving way to rusted warehouses and skeletal cranes. The darkness here was total.
The three men in the car with you were dead men walking. They just didn't know it yet. To them, they were kidnapping a girl to punish Rehman. To Iqbal, they were merely the props in a play designed from above, to make you love the man who would rescue you from one horror, just to be trapped into another.
It was perfect. It was the happiest coincidence he could think of for himself.
"Stop here!" the leader barked as they reached a derelict cold-storage facility.
They dragged you out of the car, your knees scraping against the gravel. The air here smelled of salt and rotting fish. They hauled you toward a heavy iron door, the leader’s grip on your hair tightening until you cried out.
"This is it, little bird.." he hissed, throwing you onto the dirt floor of the warehouse. "Your cries won't be heard by anyone, the city is too far."
The night air in Karachi had turned thick, not just with the humidity of the coming monsoon, but with the metallic tang of blood and the electric current of pure, unadulterated panic.
When Rehman’s car screeched into the courtyard of the haveli, he didn't wait for anyone to open the door. He burst out, his face pale, his expensive silk waistcoat stained with the sweat of a man who had just watched his world collapse via a single, devastating phone call. Major Iqbal had contacted him ten minutes prior—a short, clipped conversation that had stripped the air from Rehman’s lungs.
The foyer was a vision of carnage. The shattered stained glass crunched under Rehman’s polished shoes like the bones of his ancestors. He saw Ulfat huddled on the floor, her head bandaged in a rough tactical dressing, her eyes glazed with a shock so deep she didn't even cry out when she saw him. He saw Faizal, his young son, trembling in the corner of a sofa, staring at the three bodies draped in white sheets near the doorway.
"Ulfat! Faizal!" Rehman roared, falling to his knees beside his wife. ,,The girls..?! Where is-"
Ulfat could only point toward the darkness of the street, her hand shaking so violently it looked like a dying bird. "The car.... they took her, Rehman..!"
Before Rehman could speak, his phone chimed. A notification from an unknown number. His breath hitched as he swiped the screen.
The first image was a blurred shot of you in the back of the car, your hair matted with dust, your eyes wide with a terror that pierced Rehman’s heart like a bayonet. The second was worse—a close-up of a scarred hand gripping your jaw, the cold steel of a knife pressed against your throat.
Then came the text. It wasn't a ransom demand for money. It was a manifesto of hate. The Pashtun gang didn't want gold. They wanted to break the House of Rehman. They detailed, in graphic, stomach-turning prose, exactly what they intended to do to you before the sun rose. They spoke of "publicly stripping the pride" of the haveli, of filming your desecration and sending it to every news outlet in the province. Just because his sudden political rise didn't sit right with some men that felt threatened.
"I will kill them.." a new voice growled from the doorway.
Uzair, stood there, his face contorted with a rage that bordered on insanity. He was flanked by six of the family’s private guards, all of them armed with shotguns and assault rifles. "I’ve already called the boys in Lyari. We’re going to the Pashtun quarters. Every shop, every home, every man who shares their blood... we will burn it all until they crawl out of the holes and give her back..!"
"No."
The word was quiet, but it carried the weight of a falling mountain.
Major Iqbal stepped out of the shadows of the drawing room. He had been standing in the dark, watching the street, his tactical gear silhouetted against the moonlight. He moved toward Uzair with a terrifyingly calm purpose, his hand resting on the hilt of a combat knife strapped to his chest.
"You will stay here, Uzair." Iqbal said. His voice was a low, resonant hum that cut through the hysteria of the room. "If you go into the quarters now, you will start a civil war. The police will cordoned off the area, the gang will panic, and they will kill her before you even cross the first bridge. Is that the price you want to pay for your 'revenge'?"
Uzair stepped into the Major’s space, his chest heaving. "They have Rehman Bhai's daughter! My little sister!- They are talking about...- i won't sit here like a coward..!"
Iqbal didn't flinch. He didn't even raise his voice. He simply looked at Uzair with eyes that had seen a thousand deaths. "You aren't a coward, Uzair. You think with your heart. I think with a map. This is not a street fight, Uzair. This is a tactical extraction. Every second you spend arguing with me is a second they spend touching her."
Iqbal turned his back on the boy, dismissing him entirely, and walked toward Rehman.
Your father was a broken man. He was staring at the photo of the knife against your throat, his fingers hovering over the screen as if he could pull you through the glass. He looked up at Iqbal, his eyes wet and searching.
"Iqbal-" Rehman whispered, his voice cracking. "You are right, the Pashtuns just wait for us now- but what do we do? I can'tsit here and watch..!"
Iqbal knelt before Rehman, and the "friend" was gone. What remained was the soldier—the butcher—and for the first time, Rehman saw the true scale of the man he had invited into his home. There was no mercy in Iqbal’s face, but there was an absolute, terrifying sense of duty.
"Listen to me, Rehman-Bhai," Iqbal said, his voice dropping into a register of iron-clad gravity. "This is not about little gang wars anymore.."
He reached out and took Rehman’s hands, his grip so firm it grounded your father’s trembling.
"The men who took her are not soldiers. They are filth." Iqbal hissed, the words dripping with a cold, controlled venom. "They think they can use her as a message to the city. They think they can bargain with the honor of a daughter of this house."
Iqbal stood up, checking the slide on his sidearm with a mechanical, lethal clack. He adjusted the comms unit on his ear, his gaze shifting toward the warehouse district on the edge of the sea.
"Rehman-Bhai, listen.." Iqbal commanded.
Your father looked up.
"I am leaving now." Iqbal said. "Main us andhere mein utar raha hoon... aur akela wapas nahi aaunga. Unki shartein aur unki jaanein mere liye koi maayne nahi rakhti. Meri jaan aur meri rooh gawah hai, uski izzat par koi aanch nahi ayegi. Jin logon ne wo tasveerein bheji hain, kal tak is shehar ko unka naam tak yaad nahi hoga."
He leaned in closer, his voice a chilling, final vow between gritted teeth. ""Rehman, aaj raat chahe kuch bhi ho... wo is ghar ki izzat hi rahegi. Main uske liye poori duniya se larr jaunga, aur jo uski taraf maili aankh se dekhega, usey mita doonga. Mera waada hai. Main usey wapas le aaunga.."
Iqbal didn't wait for a response. He didn't need one. He turned and walked out of the haveli, his black tactical boots clicking against the marble, moving toward his idling SUV.
As he climbed into the driver’s seat, the light from the dashboard illuminated the cold, predatory smirk that played on his lips for only a second. This was the moment he had built. He hadn't sent the Pashtuns—this time, the threat was real, a wild card he hadn't played. But it was a gift. It was the ultimate test.
He tapped the screen on his dashboard, tracking the signal from the sapphire pendant he had gifted you. The red dot was stationary in an old cold-storage warehouse by the docks.
He roared out of the driveway, the gravel spraying like buckshot. Behind him, the haveli was a house of mourning and prayer. Ahead of him, in the dark, stinking industrial outskirts of the city, you were waiting, surrounded by men who thought they were in control.
They didn't realize that the man coming for them wasn't a saviour but a man who's obsession they took from them, and nobody could save them from their fate that was written in blood on the Majors hands.
The warehouse smelled of stagnant seawater, rusted iron, and the sharp, acidic tang of cheap cigarettes. Time had ceased to be a linear thing; it had become a jagged, pulsating weight. You layed on the cold concrete floor, your cheek pressed against the grit, your wrists raw and weeping from the plastic zip-ties that bit into your skin every time you shivered.
Hours had passed since they had thrown you into this dark, cavernous tomb. The light from a single, flickering bulb overhead cast long, skeletal shadows against the corrugated metal walls. Outside, the muffled roar of the Karachi docks—the claning of containers and the low moan of foghorns—felt like a broadcast from a different planet.
But inside, the air was thick with the filth of their voices.
The scarred leader, the man who had dragged you from your home, sat on a wooden crate just a few feet away. He wasn't touching you yet—that was the psychological torture of it. He was savoring the anticipation, leaning forward with a toothy, yellowed grin as he spoke into his phone, recording a voice note for your father.
"Do you hear her breathing, Rehman?" he hissed, his voice a gravelly pit of malice. "She sounds like a trapped bird. Soon, she won’t even have the breath to scream. We’re going to start with the face... that pretty, aristocratic face. We’ll make sure everyone in the province sees what happens when a merchant tries to play at being a king."
He began to detail the specifics of the desecration. He spoke of the cameras they had set up, of the "public viewing" they intended to host online. He described, with a stomach-turning, clinical lewdness, exactly how he and his men would take turns breaking the "honor" of the House of Rehman. The words were like physical blows, more violating than any touch.
You squeezed your eyes shut, hot tears carving tracks through the dust and dried blood on your cheeks. You prayed to a God that felt a million miles away. You whispered your father’s name, your mother’s name, hoping—failing to believe—that the doors would burst open and the world would right itself.
Please, Baba. Please..
Then, the leader stood up, his boots crunching on the gravel. "Enough talk..! Its time for a bit of fun~ The camera is live..! Bring the girl to the chair."
Two men approached you. You scrambled backward, your heels scraping the floor, a broken, animalistic sob escaping your throat. One of them reached down to grab your arm—
And then, the light bulb overhead shattered.
The warehouse was plunged into a thick, suffocating darkness. The men froze.
"The fuse?" one of them barked, his voice jumping an octave. "Check the—"
A wet, heavy thud cut him off. It wasn't the sound of a punch; it was the sound of a sandbag hitting the floor. Then, absolute silence. No shouting. No gunfire. Just the low, rhythmic hum of the wind outside.
A hand suddenly clamped over your mouth.
You jumped, your heart nearly stopping, a scream dying in your throat. The hand was gloved in cold, tactical leather, smelling of gun oil and that hauntingly familiar scent of metallic smoke. A face leaned down into your field of vision, illuminated only by the faint, ghostly green glow of night-vision optics pushed up onto a forehead.
It was Iqbal.
He didn't say a word. He pressed a single finger to his lips, his obsidian eyes locking onto yours with a focus so intense it felt like a physical grip. He was a shadow made of steel. He reached down and, with a flick of a combat knife, severed your zip-ties. The relief was a sudden, painful throb of returning blood.
"Stay.." he breathed, the word vibrating against your ear.
He didn't move you to safety. He didn't whisk you away. He stepped back into the darkness, vanishing as if he had never been there.
"Kaun?!" the leader roared, his voice cracking with a sudden, sharp edge of panic. He pulled a pistol from his waistband, the metal clicking as he chambered a round. "I’ll kill her! I swear I’ll kill her right now!"
He fired blindly into the dark. Bang. Bang. The muzzle flashes illuminated the warehouse for a microsecond, a strobe-light effect that revealed a nightmare.
In the first flash, Iqbal was ten feet away, a silhouette of black tactical gear.
In the second flash, he was gone.
Then, the screaming started.
It began from the far corner. A muffled, gurgling sound followed by the snapping of bone. You watched from the floor, your breath hitched, as he started to eliminate the men that dared to touch you. Iqbal didn't use a gun; he was moving too fast for that, too close.
He appeared behind the man who had been standing over you just moments before. In the dim moonlight filtering through the high rafters, you saw Iqbal’s arm wrap around the man’s throat, his other hand driving a blade into the base of the skull with a sickening, clinical efficiency. The man didn't even have time to drop his weapon. Iqbal caught the body before it hit the ground, lowering it silently.
One down.
The second man turned, firing his AK-47 in a wild, frantic arc. The sparks from the bullets hitting the iron pillars showered the room like dying stars. Iqbal didn't duck; he flowed. He moved with a terrifying, liquid speed, closing the gap in three strides. He caught the man’s wrist, snapping it with a sound like a dry branch, and then drove his knee into the man’s chest with enough force to collapse the ribcage.
You watched, paralyzed, as Iqbal transitioned from one kill to the next. This wasn't a rescue; it was an execution. There was no hesitation, no mercy. He was a predator in a pen of cattle. He was systematically erasing the men who had talked about touching you.
The leader was the last one left. He was backed against a stack of crates, his gun shaking so violently the barrel tapped against the wood.
"Stay back! I’m a dead man anyway, I’ll take her with me!"
The leader turned the gun toward where you were huddled. You flinched, waiting for the end.
A silver flash cut through the air.
A throwing knife buried itself in the leader’s shoulder, the force of it spinning him around. The gun clattered to the floor. Before he could recover, Iqbal was on him.
The Major didn't kill him immediately. He grabbed the man by the throat and slammed him against the crates, his boots dangling off the floor. Iqbal leaned in, his face inches from the man who had described the filthy things he wanted to do to you.
"Tumhara khayal bohot gehra hai..." Iqbal whispered. The voice was cold, empty, and more terrifying than the violence that had preceded it. "Lekin tum se ek tadbeeri ghalti ho gayi.. Tumhe laga ke Rehman apne un gali-kucho ke gundo ko bhejega jo shor machate huay ayenge—tum ne mujhe aate huay nahi dekha."
Iqbal’s hand tightened. The man’s face turned a bruised, mottled purple. His legs kicked uselessly. You watched, your eyes wide, your soul shaking, as the Major slowly, deliberately, choked the life out of the man. It wasn't a quick death. It was a statement.
With a final, wet, loud snap, Iqbal finally let go of the man.
When the leader finally went limp, Iqbal dropped him like a piece of trash.
The warehouse fell back into that heavy, pressurized silence. The only sound was the wind and your own frantic, sobbing breaths.
Iqbal turned toward you. He wiped his blade on his tactical trousers with a slow, methodical motion. He looked at you, and for a second, the "butcher" was still there—the man who had just ended five lives in as many minutes. The blood on his vest wasn't his.
Then, the mask slid back into place.
He walked toward you, his movements softening, becoming the "gentleman" again. He knelt in the dirt beside you, his eyes filling with a simulated, heartbreaking tenderness.
"It’s over..don't worry.." he murmured. He reached out and pulled you into his chest. His tactical vest was hard and cold, but his arms felt like the only solid thing left in a world made of glass. "I promised your father that i would make sure you return, safely."
You collapsed against him, burying your face in the crook of his neck, your sobs racking your entire body. You didn't see the bodies. You didn't see the blood pooling on the concrete. You only felt the strength of the man holding you.
"Aap ne mujhe bacha liya.." you whispered, the words broken and wet. "Aap mere liye aaye..!"
He smoothed your hair back, his touch light and reverent. "Main hamesha tumhare liye aaunga. Ab tum mehfooz ho. Duniya khatam ho chuki hai. Ab sirf hum hain.."
He picked you up in his arms, carrying you toward the door. As he walked past the body of the leader, his boot stepped squarely over the man’s hand, crushing the fingers into the dirt without a second thought.
You didn't see it. You were looking up at the stars, believing with every fiber of your shattered being that the man holding you was your savior. You believed that you must have been insane to have doubted him before.
You didn't realize that the man who had just cleared the warehouse hadn't done it to save your honor. He had done it to ensure that he was the only one who would ever be allowed to break it.
As he walked you out into the cool Karachi night, the black SUV waiting with its doors open, you clutched his neck like a lifeline. He was no longer a shadow on the wall; he was the man carrying you home. And as the car pulled away from the blood-soaked warehouse, you felt a terrifying, beautiful sense of belonging..
The trap was finally, perfectly shut.
The drive back to the haveli was a blurred kaleidoscope of streetlights and shadows. The interior of the Major’s SUV was a sanctuary of cold leather and the scent of gun oil, a stark contrast to the filth of the warehouse. You didn't sit on the seat; you huddled against him, your fingers locked into the heavy fabric of his tactical vest as if letting go would mean falling back into that abyss of concrete and jagged whispers.
Iqbal didn't pull away. He didn't even shift his weight. He sat with a terrifying, mountainous stillness, driving with one hand, his arm draped around your shoulders like a heavy iron bar wrapped in velvet. Occasionally, his gloved hand would stroke your hair—a slow, possessive motion that was so rhythmic it felt hypnotic.
You were shattered. The girl who had looked at him with suspicion in the house, the girl who had felt the "bad vibes" of his watchful eyes, had been burned away in the heat of the warehouse. In her place was something raw and fragmented. Every time you closed your eyes, you heard the leader’s voice describing the "filthy things" they would do to you. Every time you breathed, you felt the ghost of a knife against your throat.
And every time, the memory was interrupted by the image of Iqbal moving through the dark like a vengeful god. He had killed for you. He had waded through blood to reach you. The logic was simple, primal, and devastating:
He saved me. Therefore, he is good. He saved me. Therefore, i owe him everything.
Beside you, in the dim glow of the dashboard, Iqbal’s face was a mask of stoic concern. But beneath that mask, his heart was beating with a dark, triumphant rhythm. This hadn't been his plan—the Pashtuns had truly been a wild card, a genuine threat he hadn't authored. But as a master tactician, he knew that a lucky accident was better than a thousand calculated moves. The universe had handed him the perfect trauma, and he was going to use every jagged shard of it to stitch himself into the very fabric of your soul.
He felt your shiver and tightened his grip, his lips curving into a microscopic, wicked smirk that remained hidden in the shadows of the cabin.
When the SUV pulled into the courtyard of the haveli, the gates had barely closed before the front doors burst open. The scene was one of relief.
Rehman was the first to reach the car. His face was aged a decade in a single night, his clothes disheveled. Behind him, Ulfat was supported by Uzair, her eyes red-rimmed and frantic.
Iqbal stepped out first. He didn't just lead you out; he lifted you. He carried you in his arms, your head tucked into the hollow of his neck, your silk kameez torn and stained with the dust of your ordeal. He looked like a Crusader returning with a lost relic.
"Beti! Oh, my God, my daughter!" Rehman’s voice broke into a high, wheezing sob. He reached out to take you, but for a second—a fraction of a heartbeat—Iqbal’s grip tightened. He didn't let go immediately. He made your father wait, asserting a silent, physical claim over you in front of the entire household.
Finally, he lowered you to your feet, though he kept his arm firmly around your waist to support your weight.
"She is safe, Rehman-Bhai," Iqbal said, his voice a low, resonant rumble that commanded the space. "Wo mehfooz hai, us ki izzat salamat hai. Maine is baat ka khayal rakha hai.."
The word honor acted like a magic spell. The tension that had been strangling the family snapped. Ulfat collapsed at your feet, wailing with gratitude, clutching your knees. Uzair, who had been ready to burn the city down, looked at the Major with a gaze that bordered on worship.
"... how can we ever... what can we possibly..." Rehman couldn't finish the sentence.
"Maine wahi kiya jo ek ba-izzat insaan karta.." Iqbal replied, his voice a masterpiece of humble, silver-tongued modesty. "Maine apna waada pura kiya, bhai."
The family flooded around you, pulling you into the house, but your eyes remained locked on Iqbal. You felt a terrifying sense of vertigo as you were pulled away from him. He was the only thing that felt real. The only thing that felt powerful enough to keep the nightmares away. You reached out, your fingers brushing his sleeve one last time before Rukhsaar and your mother pulled you toward the stairs.
The women and the younger men retreated to the upper floors to tend to your wounds, leaving the foyer smelling of antiseptic and raw emotion. But below, the atmosphere shifted from relief to a cold, sharpened steel.
Rehman turned to Iqbal, his eyes hardening. The merchant was gone; the patriarch was back, and he was thirsty for blood.
"They sent me pictures, Iqbal.." Rehman hissed, his voice trembling with a different kind of rage. "They told me what they would do. They tried to use my daughter to humiliate me. I want them erased. I want every person who touched her, every person who knew about it, to be wiped from this earth."
Iqbal nodded slowly. He looked at the bloodstains on his own boots—your blood, and the blood of the men he had killed—and his eyes went dark.
"I agree," Iqbal said. "A message must be sent. Not just to that gang, but to anyone who thinks the House of Rehman is unprotected. We cannot allow the Pashtun quarters to think they can breathe while your daughter still has bruises on her wrists."
Rehman straightened his back, looking at Iqbal as if he were the only savior left in a world of wolves. "Tell me what we do. My resources, my connections... use them all. I want a strike they will never forget."
"Come into the study..Rehman-Bhai," Iqbal suggested, gesturing toward the heavy oak doors. "We have much to discuss.."
The humid air of Karachi, usually thick with the scent of sea salt and diesel, days after the incidentm felt clotted with something far more poisonous than the horrors of th3 night of the attack; the talk of the town.
It had only been three days. Three days since the miracle of your rescue, yet the city’s elite circles had already begun to turn the miracle into a scandal. It started in the parlors of Clifton and the high-walled gardens of Defense.
At first, it was a whisper, a sympathetic clicking of tongues over tea. Then, it became a jagged, ugly roar.
The Pashtun gang, though decimated by Iqbal’s hand, had survivors in the shadows—witnesses who had seen you dragged, seen the state of your clothes, seen the hours you spent in that warehouse. The story they spread was a calculated assassination of character. They didn't need to kill you anymore; they were killing your your honor.
“Bechari..” the aunties whispered at the clubs. "Poor girl. But who knows what really happened in those dark hours? A girl’s honor is like glass—once cracked, it can never be whole, no matter how much gold the father has..”
The gossip had reached a fever pitch. It was an invisible fire, and Rehman was standing in the center of it, burning alive.
When Major Iqbal’s armored SUV pulled into the driveway that afternoon, he wasn't met with the usual formal greeting of the house staff. Instead, the front door swung open with a violent force. Rehman was standing there, his eyes bloodshot, his face gaunt. He looked like a man who hadn't slept since the night of the attack.
Before Iqbal could even step fully into the foyer, Rehman’s hand—shaking and cold—clamped onto the Major’s forearm.
"Iqbal.." Rehman gasped, his voice a jagged rasp. "In the study. Now. Abhi."
Iqbal didn't say a word. He didn't even adjust his posture. He simply nodded, his obsidian eyes scanning the upper balcony where you were sequestered, before allowing himself to be practically dragged into the heavy oak-paneled room.
Rehman slammed the door and turned the deadbolt. He didn't sit. He began to pace, his hands flying to his head, his fingers digging into his thinning hair.
"They are destroying her, Iqbal." Rehman wailed, the sound coming from the very bottom of his soul. "Woh usay zinda darghor kar rahay hain."
Iqbal stood by the window, his silhouette cutting a sharp, lethal line against the afternoon sun. He remained silent, a pillar of granite in the storm of Rehman’s grief.
"I heard it today at the Chamber of Commerce." Rehman continued, his voice rising in a frantic, hysterical pitch. "Men I’ve known for thirty years... men I’ve done business with... they looked at me with pity. Not respect. One of them had the audacity to ask if I had 'found a way to settle the matter quietly.' As if my daughter is a bad debt! As if she is a shipment of spoiled grain!"
He turned to Iqbal, his face contorted. "The rumors... they that she was 'spoiled' by those animals. They are saying the rescue was too late. They are saying I am trying to hide her shame under your military shadow..!"
Iqbal’s jaw tightened, the only sign that he was even listening. He watched Rehman crumble. This was the man who controlled Lyari, the Sher-e-Baloch..in pieces.
"I will kill them all..!" Rehman hissed, his grief turning into a blind rage. "Tell me who to kill, Iqbal! Tell me which house to burn! Give me a name! Is it the Pashtun elders? Is it the journalists? Main sab ko mita doonga!"
Iqbal finally spoke, his voice low, steady, and devastatingly calm. "Ghusay se maslay hal nahi hotay, Rehman-Bhai.." he shaked his head, clicked his tongue.
"Then what?!" Rehman screamed, slamming his fist onto the mahogany desk. "If I kill them, they say I’m hiding the truth. If I stay silent, they say I’m accepting the shame. My daughter... she won't even come out of her room. She sits by the window staring at nothing. Uski aankhon mein ab koi umeed nahi rahi..!"
Rehman slumped into his chair, his head falling into his hands. The silence that followed was heavy, pressurized.
Iqbal moved then. He walked slowly across the room, his boots silent on the Persian rug. He didn't offer a platitude. He didn't offer a hug. He stood behind Rehman’s chair, a guardian shadow.
"Rehman-Bhai.." Iqbal began, his voice like velvet over steel. "You are looking at the fire. You are not looking at the shield."
"What shield?" Rehman looked up, his eyes wet and pleading. "This city is a shithol4 of people that destroy a life for some gossip and tea-" he hissed
"The people of this city are like rats.." Iqbal said, his gaze fixed on the distance. "They follow the strongest scent. Right now, the scent is scandal. But scandal can be drowned out by something much more powerful."
"What?" Rehman asked, his voice full of despair.
Iqbal didn't talk ..He simply listened as Rehman poured out his soul—the fear for your future, the agony of seeing your spirit broken, the utter devastation of a father who realized his wealth couldn't buy back the 'purity' the world was stripping from you with every whispered word.
"I would give it all away." Rehman groaned out. "Sab kuch qurban kar doonga.. just to see her smile again without the weight of this dirt on her name. To see her respected. To see people lower their eyes in honor when she passes, rather than whispering behind her back."
Iqbal let the silence hang for a long time. He watched the sunlight crawl across the floor, a hunter waiting for the exact moment the prey realized there was only one way out of the thicket. He saw Rehman’s desperation reach its peak—the moment where a man would trade his soul for a solution.
Iqbal stepped around the desk, leaning down so his face was level with Rehman’s. The Major’s expression was one of absolute, terrifying certainty. He looked like a man who had already decided the fate of the city.
"Log sirf wahi dekhtay hain jo hum unhein dikhatay hain," Iqbal said softly. "The noise will stop, Rehman-Bhai. I will make sure of it. I will make the world forget those hours in the warehouse. I will make them fear the very thought of mentioning her name with anything less than reverence."
Rehman looked up at him, a flicker of hope—dangerous, blinding hope—igniting in his chest. He saw in Iqbal not just a soldier, but a force of nature. A man who could rewrite reality.
"How?" Rehman whispered. "How can you stop the whole city?"
Iqbal didn't answer with a plan. He didn't offer details. He simply reached out and placed a heavy, reassuring hand on Rehman’s shoulder. The grip was firm, possessive, and final.
The Major leaned in closer, his voice dropping to a low, intimate hum that seemed to vibrate in the very marrow of Rehman’s bones.
"...Rehman-Bhai..do you trust me?"
The study felt like a pressurized chamber. Outside, the world was filled with the poisonous chirping of the elite, but inside, the air was dominated by the low, vibration-like resonance of Major Iqbal’s voice.
He didn't move as Rehman nodded. He stood like a monument to cold, unyielding power. When he spoke, the words didn’t just flow; it cut through the room with the precision of a bayonet.
"Rehman-Bhai, maine hamesha aapki izzat ki hai.." Iqbal began, his voice dropping into a register that made even Rehman feel..uncomfortable. "Aapki beti... woh masoom hai. Woh ek neik parveen larki hai jise yeh dunya bura samajh rahi hai."
He took a step closer, his shadow falling across Rehman’s desk like an eclipse. "Yeh dekh kar mera khoon khaulta hai. Mujhse yeh bardasht nahi hota."
Rehman looked up, startled by the raw, controlled fury in the Major’s eyes. He had seen Iqbal as a savior, but never as a man possessed by such personal, jagged anger.
"Mujhe dunya ki parwah nahi hai. Bilkul nahi," Iqbal continued, his words sharp and authoritative. "Lekin mujhe is baat ki parwah hai. Poora Pakistan Major Iqbal ke naam se kaanpta hai. Log mere saaye se darrtay hain."
He leaned forward, his gloved hands resting on the edge of the mahogany table. "Main is khauf ko uski hifazat ke liye istemal karoon ga. Agar kisi ne dobara uski taraf ungli uthai, toh main unki zubaanein khinch loon ga aur sar qalam kar doon ga."
Rehman tilted his head. The violence in the words was literal. Iqbal wasn't speaking in metaphors; he was describing a military operation of social cleansing- and he liked that.
"Kaun jurrat kare ga aapki beti ki taraf dekhne ki... agar woh meri honay wali biwi ho?"
The silence that followed was deafening. The word wife hung in the air like a physical weight.
Rehman’s breath hitched. He looked at the man before him—a man of war, a man significantly older, a man whose hands were stained with the very blood that had saved his family.
"Iqbal..." Rehman stammered, his voice weak. "Woh... woh abhi bachi hai. Aur uski umar... aur aap..." He trailed off, his mind racing. "Usne dinon se baat nahi ki. Woh toot chuki hai, Iqbal.. Woh shayad is rishtey ke liye tayyar na ho."
Iqbal didn't flinch at the mention of the age gap or your silence. Instead, his expression softened into something even more dangerous: a calculated, intense sincerity.
"Rehman-Bhai, meri niyat saaf hai." Iqbal said, his voice turning into a silken, persuasive hum. "Mere dil mein uske liye ek makhsoos jagah hai. Main usay apne ghar ki ronaq banaoon ga. Usay woh izzat aur mohabbat doon ga jiski woh haqdaar hai."
He walked around the desk, placing a hand on Rehman’s trembling shoulder. It was the grip of a captor disguised as a friend.
"Woh parhay gi. Main usay kabhi nahi rokoon ga. Uska har khwab mera khwab hoga," he promised, the words rolling off his tongue with the weight of a blood-oath. "Main usay is dunya ke har dukh se chupa kar rakhun ga. Meri biwi ban kar, woh is sadmay se bahar nikal aaye gi. Main usay shifa doon ga."
Rehman looked into Iqbal’s eyes and saw a fortress. He saw a world where the gossip stopped instantly. He saw the "stain" on your name being bleached white by the sheer terror of the Major’s rank. If you were the wife of Major Iqbal, no one would whisper. They would bow. They would offer Salaam with trembling hands.
"Kya aap chahtay hain ke woh saari zindagi in tanz-o-mazah ke teeron ka nishana banti rahay?" Iqbal asked, his voice a chilling whisper. "Ya aap chahtay hain ke woh us maqam par ho jahan koi uski taraf aankh utha kar dekhne ki jurrat na kar sakay?"
Rehman’s resistance crumbled. He thought of your silent, hollow eyes. He thought of the aunties’ sharp tongues. He looked at the man who had the power to kill the monsters and silence the city.
"...Theek hai, Iqbal," Rehman finally whispered, his head still tilted, there was uncertainty in his gaze, but this uncertainty was drowned by the possibilities. Rehman Dakaits daughter, the wife of Major Iqbal? Politics would never dare to cross him again. He could help himself, his familys rank by using he name. He could perhaps even get involved into the ISI's buisness..helping the community he took 4 bullets for with a simple marriage. He agreed.
Iqbal’s face didn't break into a smile. Instead, a deep, dark satisfaction settled into his features. He didn't ask what you wanted. He didn't ask if your heart could bear the weight of a soldier's possession. To him, you were already his.
"Aap ne sahi faisla kiya hai, Rehman-Bhai." Iqbal said, his voice dropping to a final, authoritative tone. "Ab se, uski hifazat meri zimmedari hai. Aur dunya dekhay gi ke Major Iqbal apni cheezon ki hifazat kaise karta hai."
Upstairs, you sat by the window, unaware that your life had just been traded for a shield of fear. The silence in the room was absolute, but the trap below had just clicked shut with the finality of a prison cell.
Rehman felt a weight lift off his chest, believing he had saved you and himself.
Iqbal felt the weight of victory, knowing he had finally claimed the only prize that mattered.
And in the streets of Karachi, the gossip was about to die a sudden, violent death, replaced by a suffocating, terrified respect. Because the Butcher of the North had claimed a bride, and no one—absolutely no one—wanted to be the first to speak her name in the dark...
Pairing: Stalker! Major Iqbal x Rehmans Daughter! Reader.
NOTE: MINORS AND AGELESS BLOGS DO NOT INTERACT! This content is intended for audiences 18+ only!
Disclaimer: The themes explored in this story—including stalking, violence, perversion and extreme possessiveness—are purely for fictional and narrative purposes. These behaviors are dangerous and inexcusable in real-life relationships! I do not condone or romanticize these actions outside the realm of the "Dark Romance" genre.
A/N: I sat in my room watching Aetbaar a few days ago, a movie that scared me as a kid and kind of excited me as a teen, Aryan, being a possessive psycho but absolutely sexy and hot just scratched someting in my brain- and couldn't help but feel inspired. I like dark romance and the thrill of an evil sexy man stalking a girl, as long as its fictional, and especially if its Arjun Rampal. So without further explanation, enjoy this!<3
Warnings: age gap, power dynamics, possessive, obsessive behaviour, smoking, alcohol consumption, intimidation, perverted thoughts, violent thoughts, mention of stalking and violence, foul language, religious/cultural taboos.
Part 1 of.. ?
"Ishq par zor nahi, hai ye woh aatish 'Ghalib', jo lagaye na lage, aur bujhaye na bane, jo lagaye na lage, aur bujhaye na bane...Ishq par zor nahi, hai ye woh aatish 'Ghalib'." -Dil Se.
The dust of Lyari never truly settled; it simply hovered, a permanent shroud over the concrete labyrinth of Karachi’s most defiant neighborhood. On the night of Hamza’s wedding, the grit of the streets was momentarily masked by the garish glow of fairy lights strung across the rooftops like tangled jewels. The sound of the dhol thrummed through the soles of everyone present—a rhythmic, violent heartbeat that announced to the world that even in a place governed by the gun, there was room for the excess of a celebration.
It was a sea of colors, silk, and the sharp tang of gunpowder that lingered from the celebratory firing earlier in the evening. Men in crisp kurtas stood in clusters, their eyes scanning the perimeter by habit, while the women’s laughter rose in melodic bursts from the inner courtyards. It was loud, it was vibrant, and it was deceptively joyous. But beneath the surface of the music and the clinking of glasses lay the rigid hierarchy of power. Everyone was waiting for the gravity to shift.
Then, the shift happened.
The heavy iron gates of the venue didn't just open; they seemed to yield. The music didn't stop, but it lost its bravado, dipping into a respectful hum as the atmosphere in the room curdled into something colder, sharper, and infinitely more dangerous.
Major Iqbal arrived not as a guest, but as an inevitability.
He moved through the entrance with a predator’s economy of motion, his presence broad enough to swallow the light. Standing well over six feet, his frame was a testament to decades of disciplined violence and the kind of rugged, muscular density that only comes from a life lived in the shadows of the state. He was in his early forties, an age where most men began to soften, yet Iqbal had only hardened into a more lethal version of his younger self. His face was a map of calculated indifference, his jawline like a ledge of granite, and his eyes—dark, bottomless pools of obsidian—carried the weight of a thousand secrets he had buried in the salt flats.
He was dressed in a dark blue shirwani, the fabric so deep it bordered on black, embroidered with subtle, midnight-toned silk that shimmered only when the light hit it at a certain angle. The traditional attire, which usually lent men an air of celebratory grace, served only to make him look more like a dark god of war. The blue against his olive skin was striking, a regal contrast that demanded attention without ever having to ask for it.
Beside him, Mir walked half a step behind—a loyal shadow, a silent enforcer, but even Mir seemed to pale in the radiation of the Major’s authority.
As Iqbal walked through the crowd, the sea of people parted instinctively. It wasn't just respect; it was survival. The elders dipped their heads, and the younger men, usually full of Lyari’s characteristic fire, found their gazes dropping to the floor. Iqbal didn't ignore them; he acknowledged them with a terrifying brand of adab. He offered slight, courtly nods, a ghost of a charming smile touching his lips—a smile that never reached his eyes. It was the charm of a wolf bowing to the sheep before the cull. He looked like a man who knew the exact price of every soul in that room.
To the onlookers, he was the embodiment of authority they both craved and feared—the ultimate protector who was also the ultimate threat. His gaze swept the room, not with the curiosity of a wedding guest, but with the cold, analytical precision of a man surveying a battlefield he already owned. He didn't care for the marigolds or the sugar-coated almonds; he was here to calibrate the scales of power.
He finally spotted his target near the center of the main canopy.
Rehman Dakait stood there, the king of this concrete jungle, looking slightly frayed at the edges as he managed the chaos of his son Hamza’s nuptials. Rehman was a man of blood and steel, but in the presence of the Major, even his shadow seemed to shrink.
Iqbal’s pace didn't falter. He approached Rehman with the easy, predatory grace of an old friend. There was no hesitation, no formal distance. When he reached the man, Iqbal opened his arms, his dark blue sleeves catching the light.
"Rehman-Bhai!" Iqbal’s voice carried over the music—deep, resonant, and smoothed over with a layer of velvet that hid the jagged edges underneath.
The hug was firm, a display of brotherhood that sent a ripple of murmurs through the crowd. To any outsider, it was a beautiful moment between two titans. To those who knew the Major, it was a marking of territory. Iqbal squeezed Rehman’s shoulder, his hand lingering a second too long, a subtle reminder of who held the leash in this city.
"Major Saab!" Rehman smiled "You honored us. I wasn't sure if your duties would allow it."
"For Hamza's big night? I would have burned a trail through the desert to be here," Iqbal replied, his tone light, almost playful, yet his eyes remained terrifyingly still.
The two men stepped back, maintaining that peculiar, hyper-masculine space where business and friendship blurred into a singular, dangerous entity. Rehman’s eyes began to wander, searching the groom, wanting to bring him over.
"Hamza is around here somewhere... probably hiding from the bride" Rehman muttered, his eyes darting toward the decorated stage and the clusters of cousins.
Iqbal followed Rehman’s gaze, his posture relaxed, one hand resting on his side.
He, too, began to scan the periphery. He wasn't looking for the groom. He wasn't looking for the politics of the night or the hidden gunmen in the rafters. He was looking for something he couldn't quite define yet—a scent on the wind, a shift in the pattern.
His eyes bypassed the men, bypassed the elders, and bypassed the bright, shimmering decorations of the stage. He was looking for the one thing in this den of lions that didn't belong to the dirt.
And then, his gaze snagged on something in the distance. Not Hamza. Not the business.
Something else entirely.
The dark curls didn't just move; they defied the very gravity of Lyari’s heavy, humid night. They swung in a rhythmic, intoxicating arc, snapping back against the slope of a delicate neck before leaping away again as the music surged. There was a wildness to them, a defiance that matched the beating of the dhol and the shrill, joyful cry of the pipes. Amidst the sea of structured silk and the rigid postures of men playing at war, there was a sudden, violent burst of life—and it was centered entirely on a pair of graceful lips that were parted in a breathless, genuine laugh.
You were the heart of that circle, a shimmering blur of emerald and gold. The wedding of Hamza had transformed you from the sheltered daughter of the neighborhood’s most feared man into something elemental.
You weren't just dancing; you were exhaling the very essence of youth. The weight of your heavy, embroidered lehenga seemed like nothing as you spun, your bangles clashing in a melodic silver discord that cut through the deeper thrum of the celebration. You loved this—the heat of the lights, the scent of crushed rose petals underfoot, the way the vibration of the drums felt like it was syncing with your own pulse. For this one night, the shadows of Lyari were held at bay by the sheer force of your joy. You felt untouchable, wrapped in the protective cocoon of your father’s territory, free to let the music carry you wherever it pleased.
But from the edge of the light, the atmosphere had changed. The air hadn't cooled, yet it felt sharper, thinner, as if a vacuum had been created by a single, focused presence.
Major Iqbal had stopped mid-sentence. His hand, which had been resting with casual lethargy on his hip, tightened. The polite, mask-like charm he had been wearing for Rehman dissolved in a heartbeat, replaced by a stillness so profound it was predatory.
From his perspective, the rest of the wedding—the lights, the guests, the Groom himself—simply ceased to exist.
The world had bled into grayscale, leaving only you in high-definition color. He watched the way your sweat made your skin glisten like polished marble under the canopy. He tracked the rise and fall of your chest as you gasped for air between the fast-paced steps of the Luddi. To him, you weren't just a girl dancing at a wedding; you were an anomaly. You were a sudden, sharp ache of something he hadn't felt in twenty years of state-sanctioned bloodshed: a visceral, sickeningly sweet hunger.
He observed the curve of your waist as you leaned back, the way your eyes sparkled with a light that had never been dimmed by the horrors of the streets he policed.
You were soft where he was hard; you were vibrant where he was hollowed out. His gaze was no longer that of a guest or a military official; it was the gaze of a man who had spent his life seizing assets and was now looking at the only prize that mattered. He felt a dark, possessive heat coil in his gut, a fixation that took root before he even knew your name. He wanted to reach out and stop your spinning, to catch those curls in his hand and still your laughter until the only sound you made was his name. He wanted to fold you into the dark blue silk of his shirwani and carry you out of this garish light into a place where only he could see you.
The intensity of his stare was a physical weight, a cold needle pressing against the back of your neck, though you were too lost in the rhythm to feel it yet.
Rehman, sensing the shift in the man beside him, followed Iqbal’s frozen gaze. A flash of fatherly pride, mixed with a sudden, instinctive prickle of unease, crossed the Baloch's face. He saw you—his only girl, his jewel, the only thing untainted in his world of crime. He saw how the most powerful man in the room was looking at you, and he moved to bridge the gap, to reclaim the narrative before it could spiral into something he couldn't control.
"Beti!" Rehman called out, his voice booming over the music with a command that was softened by genuine affection. "Come here!"
The music didn't stop, but the circle around you widened as you slowed your pace. You were flushed, your hair a glorious mess of dark silk, your chest heaving as you tried to catch your breath. You wiped a stray curl from your forehead, your lips still tilted up in a lingering smile from the joke your cousin had whispered. You looked toward your father, and for a moment, you were the very picture of innocence.
"Ji, Baba?" you called back, your voice light and musical, carrying the effortless confidence of a girl who knew she was loved.
You began to walk toward him, weaving through the clusters of seated aunties and standing gunmen. With every step you took toward your father, you were walking closer to the shadow standing beside him. You didn't see the way Major Iqbal’s pupils dilated as you approached. You didn't see the way his fingers twitched, or the way his jaw set into a hard, hungry line. You only saw your father and the tall, intimidating stranger in the dark blue traditional clothes standing at his shoulder—a man who looked like he had been carved out of the very night itself.
Iqbal didn't move. He didn't blink. He waited for you to enter his orbit, his dark romance already written in the silent, violent oath he made to himself the moment your eyes met his.
You were the daughter of Rehman Dakait, a girl half his age, a child of the very streets he was meant to tame—and in that moment, he decided you were the only thing in Lyari worth owning.
As you reached them, the scent of your perfume—jasmine and something sweet, like rain on warm earth—hit him, and the Major felt the last of his professional restraint snap. He looked down at you, his height looming over you like a mountain, his dark charm returning in a way that was far more dangerous than his silence.
"Iqbal," Rehman said, his voice slightly strained as he placed a protective arm around your shoulders, "this is my Daughter, My heart."
The Major took a step forward, invading your personal space just enough to make the air feel heavy. He didn't offer a casual wave or a distant nod. He bowed his head slightly, his dark eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that felt like a brand.
"Salaam.." he murmured, the word vibrating in the air between you. "Rehman-Bhai... you didn't tell me you were hiding the moon in Lyari.."
The compliment wasn't kind. It was a claim. And as you looked up into the face of Major Iqbal, the laughter died in your throat, replaced by a sudden, frantic thrumming in your heart that had nothing to do with the dance..
The music of the wedding continued to roar, as the two men spoke, a tempest of tablas and laughter that felt like a distant memory the moment your father stepped away. He had spotted Hamza near the flower-laden stage and, with a quick squeeze of your shoulder and a respectful nod to the Major, he excused himself to fetch the groom, asking you to speak to the guest until he is back.
Suddenly, the air in the small radius between you and Major Iqbal grew heavy, thick with the scent of expensive sandalwood and the sharp, metallic edge of the authority he carried like a second skin. You stood there, your breath still slightly labored from the dance, the emerald silk of your dupatta slipping slightly from your shoulder.
Iqbal didn’t look away. His gaze was a slow, deliberate crawl over your features, memorizing the flush on your cheeks and the way a single bead of sweat tracked a path down the column of your throat. To him, you were a revelation—a creature of soft curves and fierce, untamed spirit. He felt a surge of something dark and ancient, a possessive thrum in his veins that demanded he reach out and bruise the perfection of your skin just to see if you would bleed gold.
"You look breathless.." he remarked. His voice was a low, gravelly vibration that seemed to bypass your ears and settle directly in your chest. "The dance... it suits you. You have the fire of Lyari in your blood, but the grace of something far more refined."
"Thank you, Major Saab.." you replied, your voice small. You kept your eyes lowered in a show of respect, the traditional modesty you had been raised with. It was an instinctive move, a submissive tilt of the head that only fueled the fire in his gut.
He took a step closer, encroaching on the boundary of your personal space until you could feel the heat radiating from his broad chest. The dark blue of his shirwani loomed over you like a midnight sky.
"Tell me," he began, his tone conversational yet laced with an underlying steel. "How many years has the world been blessed with this fire? You look like a spring rose, but your eyes... they have a depth."
"I am nineteen, Major," you whispered, feeling a strange shiver climb your spine. Nineteen. To him, that number was a delicacy. You were at the precipice of womanhood, ripe and untouched, a blank page that he felt a sudden, violent urge to write his name across.
"Nineteen.." he repeated, the word rolling off his tongue like a prayer or a threat. "A dangerous age. The age where dreams start to take root. What are yours? Do you plan to waste your beauty behind the walls of this house, or do you seek the world?"
"I... I hope to finish my studies, Saab," you said, glancing up for a fleeting second before his intense stare forced your gaze back down. "I want to teach.. To help the children in the neighborhood."
Iqbal let out a soft, humored sound that wasn't quite a laugh. The thought of you in a classroom, surrounded by the grime of the city, felt like a sacrilege. In his mind, he saw you in a very different setting—locked away in a room of his choosing, where the only thing you taught was how quickly a heart could break under the weight of an obsession.
"Education is a noble pursuit," he said, his voice dropping an octave, becoming more intimate, more intrusive. "But a girl like you... a girl with lips that know how to smile like that... surely there are more 'personal' ambitions? Tell me, beti... has your father already started looking? Has he promised those lips to some boy who doesn't understand the worth of what he's holding?"
The question hit you like a physical blow. Your head snapped up, your eyes wide with shock. It was a question so bold, so wildly inappropriate for a first meeting, that the air seemed to vanish from your lungs. To ask about your marriage prospects, about your lips—it was a violation of every social boundary.
"Major Saab, I... I don't think..."
"You don't think it's my business?" he interrupted, his dark eyes flashing with a predatory hunger. He didn't apologize. He didn't back down. Instead, he leaned in closer, his shadow swallowing you whole. "Everything in this city is my business. Especially something as precious as you. I find myself wondering... do you even know what a man’s touch feels like? Or are you as untouched as you look, shivering at a few simple questions?"
The sheer audacity of it left you paralyzed. You felt a wave of heat wash over your face—not from the dance, but from a terrifying mix of shame and a strange, confusing jolt of adrenaline. You should have walked away. You should have called for your father. But there was something about the way he held himself—the sheer, mountain-like gravity of his presence—that kept you rooted to the spot.
He watched your discomfort with a sick kind of satisfaction. He loved the way your pulse fluttered in the hollow of your neck. He loved that he was the one causing this tremor in you. He wanted to peel back the emerald silk, to see if the rest of you reacted the same way to his voice. He imagined the sound of your laughter turning into a plea, and the thought made his blood boil with a dark, unpure heat.
"You’re trembling.." he whispered, his hand twitching as if he were fighting the urge to reach out and catch your chin. "Is it fear, or is it something else? Do I frighten you?"
Before you could find the words to defend yourself, the heavy tread of your father’s boots sounded behind you. The spell didn't break; it was simply pushed into the shadows.
"Iqbal! I found him~" Rehman announced, arriving with a grinning, sweating Hamza in tow.
The Major straightened instantly, the terrifying predator masking himself once more behind the facade of the honored guest. But as he looked at your father, his hand briefly brushed against your arm—a touch that was accidental to everyone else, but felt like a brand of fire to you.
"Your daughter is a fascinating conversationalist, Rehman-Bhai.." Iqbal said, his voice returning to its smooth, authoritative silk. "We were just discussing her... future."
He looked back at you one last time, a smirk playing on his lips that promised this was only the beginning.
The air around Major Iqbal had become so heavy it felt like breathing silt. His last question—about your lips, about the touch of a man—hadn't just been inappropriate; it had been a psychological violation. Your heart, which had been drumming a joyful rhythm moments ago, was now thrashing against your ribs like a trapped bird.
"I... I should find the girls," you stammered, your voice barely a thread. You didn't wait for your father to give his blessing or for the Major to grant you leave. You couldn't. The way Iqbal’s dark eyes tracked the movement of your throat made you feel as though you were already caught in a snare.
With a frantic, respectful dip of your head that felt more like a flinch, you turned on your heel. You moved through the crowd with an urgency that bordered on flight, the emerald silk of your lehenga hissing against the floor. You didn't look back, but you could feel his gaze—a cold, physical weight between your shoulder blades, following the sway of your hips until you disappeared behind the floral partitions of the women’s section.
Only when the heavy scent of marigolds and the high-pitched chatter of your aunts swallowed you did you allow yourself to gasp for air.
"Rukhsaar!" you hissed, spotting your cousin near the dessert table.
Rukhsaar, the daughter of your Mothers sister, a year older and infinitely more observant, turned with a laugh that died the moment she saw your face. Your cheeks weren't just flushed from the dance anymore; they were burning with a feverish, agitated heat.
"Oye, what happened? You look like you’ve seen a Jinn!" Rukhsaar teased, though she reached out to steady your trembling hands.
"Not a jinn.." you whispered, glancing nervously toward the partition as if the Major could walk through the wood and silk. "That man... the one with Baba. The Major."
Rukhsaar’s eyebrows shot up. "Major Iqbal? Everyone’s talking about him..He’s powerful didi, And handsome, in a terrifying sort of way, no?"
"He's... he's insane-!" you breathed, trying to shake off the memory of his voice. "He asked me things, Rukhsaar. Questions no stranger—no sane man—asks a girl he’s just met! He talked about my dreams, my marriage... he was so close I could smell the tobacco on him..!"
Rukhsaar squeezed your arm, her expression softening into a mix of concern and typical Lyari bravado. "He’s a man of the state, they think they own the world. Don't let him ruin Hamza's night. He’s probably just trying to intimidate Baba by bothering you. Forget him. The dhol is starting again for the final dance. Come, let’s go before the aunties start dragging us to the stage.."
You took a deep breath, trying to force the image of those obsidian eyes out of your mind. You were the daughter of Rehman Dakait. This was your home. No matter how high his rank or how broad his shoulders, he was a guest, and you were protected.
"You're right.." you said, adjusting your dupatta and lifting your chin. "I won't let him ruin it..!"
You let Rukhsaar lead you back toward the center of the courtyard, determined to reclaim the night.
The music surged, a frantic, celebratory beat that demanded movement. You threw yourself back into the fray, joining the circle of girls as they clapped and spun. You laughed louder than before, moved faster, trying to drown out the lingering vibration of Iqbal’s voice in the soles of your feet.
You felt alive. You felt free. For a few beautiful minutes, the fear receded, replaced by the sheer adrenaline of the wedding. You were spinning, your dark curls whipping around your face once more, a blur of emerald and gold under the fairy lights.
But then, as you completed a turn, your eyes drifted toward the edge of the shadows—near the pillars where the men stood smoking.
He hadn't moved.
Major Iqbal was leaning against a concrete pillar, a cigarette forgotten between his fingers, his dark blue silhouette cutting a hole in the vibrancy of the party. He wasn't talking to your father. He wasn't watching the groom.
He was watching you.
Across the distance, through the smoke and the dozens of dancing bodies, his gaze locked onto yours with the precision of a sniper. He didn't smile. He didn't nod. He simply watched you with a terrifying, quiet hunger, his eyes tracking every shimmy of your shoulders, every breath you took.
The smoke from Iqbal’s cigarette curled into the humid Karachi night, a grey ghost that vanished against the dark blue of his shoulder. He was disturbed soon after by your father, following the men to sit down.
Around him, the air was thick with the boisterous, gravelly laughter of men—Rehman, Hamza, and a dozen other lieutenants of the Lyari underworld—but the sound was nothing more than white noise to him. He sat in a low, ornate chair, his long legs stretched out with a deceptive casualness, his large, calloused hands resting on the arms of the seat like a king on a throne of grit.
To anyone watching, Major Iqbal was merely being himself: the grim, silent pillar of the state, a man whose presence was a heavy blanket of intimidation. But inside, his mind was a goddamn riot.
He wasn't listening to Rehman’s stories, He didn’t care about Hamza’s grinning face or the celebration of this wedding. All he could see, burned into the back of his eyelids, was the emerald flash of your lehenga and the way your throat had jumped when he’d mentioned his touch.
Nineteen.
The word was a fucking mantra. It was a sin and a delicacy all at once. He felt a low, guttural groan vibrate in his chest—a sound he masked by shifting his weight, his jaw tightening until the bone felt like it might snap. He was a man of forty-three, a man who had seen bodies stacked like cordwood in the interior, a man who had forgotten the meaning of "soft." And yet, watching you spin until your hair went wild had stirred a primal, desperate hunger in him that made his blood feel like boiling lead.
He imagined that emerald silk shredded under his hands. He imagined the terrified, melodic sound of your breath hitching not because of a dance, but because his weight was pinning you into a mattress. He wanted to ruin that innocence. He wanted to see if those graceful lips would still laugh once he had systematically stripped away every protective layer your father had built around you.
I could break her, he thought, his gaze fixated on a flickering candle on the table, though he was seeing the curve of your waist. I could snap that little neck with one hand, or I could keep her until she forgets what the sun looks like.
The possessiveness hit him with a violence that was almost physical.
He hated the way the other men looked at you. He hated that the dhol players got to see the rhythm of your body. You were a prize he hadn't known he wanted until ten minutes ago, and now, the idea of anyone else even breathing the same jasmine-scented air as you felt like a personal insult to his authority.
He didn't just want you; he wanted to own the very air in your lungs. He wanted to be the reason you woke up screaming and the reason you fell asleep weeping. It was a dark, obsessive fuckery that he didn't bother to suppress. Why should he? In this city, in this country, he was the law, the judge, and the goddamn executioner.
"Major Saab? Another drink?" Rehman asked, leaning in with a smile that Iqbal suddenly wanted to carve off his face.
Iqbal didn't look at him. He stood up abruptly, the chair scraping against the floor with a harsh, jarring screech that silenced the immediate circle. The charm was gone, replaced by a cold, sharp-edged finality.
"I’ve had my fill of the festivities, Rehman-Bhai..~" Iqbal said, his voice a low, dangerous rumble. With a few last words of goodbye and congratulations to Hamza, He turned to leave.
Mir was at his side in a heartbeat, falling into step as they navigated the thinning crowd toward the heavy iron gates. The moment they stepped into the shadows of the street, away from the prying eyes of the Baloch's men, Iqbal stopped.
He didn't turn to look at Mir. He kept his eyes on the black horizon of the city.
"Mir." he said, the name sounding like a death sentence.
"Ji, Saab?"
"The girl...Rehman’s Daughter.." Iqbal’s voice was tight, vibrating with a suppressed, foul energy. "I want everything. I want her school records, her friends' names, the route she takes to the market, and the color of the fucking sheets she sleeps on. I want to know what she fears and what she prays for."
Mir didn't blink. He knew that tone. He knew the look in the Major's eyes—the look of a man who had found a target and wouldn't stop until there was nothing left but smoke..but usually these targets where men he had to crush..not a delicate young woman.
"I want it all on my desk at the house in two hours." Iqbal barked, turning his head just enough to show the terrifying, hungry glint in his obsidian eyes. "And from this second forward... put two of our best on her. If a stray dog so much as barks at her, I want to know about it. She doesn't take a breath that I don't account for. Do you understand?"
"Understood, Major."
Iqbal climbed into the back of his black SUV, the door closing with a heavy, final thud. As the vehicle pulled away into the dust of Lyari, he leaned his head back against the leather, his hand tracing the spot on his arm where your skin had briefly, accidentally brushed against him.
The hunt had begun.
Hours later, the chaos of the wedding had finally bled into a heavy, ringing silence. The last of the dhol beats had faded into the humidity of the Lyari night, replaced by the distant, rhythmic barking of street dogs and the low hum of the haveli’s generators.
Inside the sanctuary of your bedroom, the air was cooler, scented with the fading jasmine from your discarded garlands. You had stripped away the heavy, emerald-encrusted lehenga that now lay like a shed skin on a chair. Now, you were dressed in a simple, soft cotton—a sleeping dress that felt far too thin for the way your skin still prickled with the memory of Major Iqbal’s presence.
You were sitting cross-legged on the center of your bed, your dark curls damp from a hurried wash, clinging to your neck. Rukhsaar sat opposite you, her own hair braided loosely, leaning against the headboard as she peeled an orange, the sharp citrus scent cutting through the lingering floral heavy air.
"You're still thinking about him.." Rukhsaar said, not as a question, but as an observation. She tossed a piece of peel onto a tray and looked at you. "Your eyes are still wide.. The wedding is over...hes long gone, Relax."
"I can't..!" you whispered, pulling your knees closer to your chest. The softness of the bed felt vulnerable rather than comforting. "Rukhsaar, you weren't there for the whole thing. You didn't hear how he said it. He asked if I knew what a man’s touch felt like..!"
You shuddered, the movement causing the bangles you’d forgotten to take off to chime softly. "It wasn't just a question. It was like he was... tasting the words. He was..intimidating.."
Rukhsaar sighed, popping a slice of orange into her mouth and chewing thoughtfully. She reached out, patting your knee with a grounding hand.
"Look at me.." she said firmly. "He is a Major. He spends his days in the company of killers, spies, and men who only understand power. He’s in his forties—he probably looks at everyone like they’re a subordinate or a target, he must have long forgotten all of his manners"
"It felt more deliberate than that...!" you argued, your voice trembling. "He..He looked... hungry."
"He’s too old for you, for one," Rukhsaar reasoned, trying to inject some logic into the fear. "And he’s Major Iqbal. Do you know how many eyes are on a man like that? He can’t just go around bothering the daughter of Rehman Dakait. H4would have his head, You aren't used to military men, that’s all. They have this... this bluntness that feels like a threat because they are trained to be dangerous."
She leaned forward, her expression softening. "He was just trying to show off his authority. Men like him thrive on making people feel small. If you let him stay in your head, he wins. He’s probably back at his big, cold house right now, sleeping and forgetting all about the wedding. You should do the same."
You wanted to believe her. You desperately wanted to believe that the intensity you had felt was just a byproduct of his profession—a "military bluntness" that you had misread. You tried to picture him as Rukhsaar described: a tired officer sleeping in a dark room, his mind occupied by maps and dossiers, not the memory of a girl in emerald silk.
"Maybe you're right.." you said, forcing a small, weary smile. "I'm just tired. The music, the lights... it makes everything feel more dramatic than it is."
"Exactly!" Rukhsaar grinned, throwing a pillow at you. "Now, take those bangles off before you scratch yourself in your sleep. Tomorrow, we’ll wake up, the wedding mess will be cleared, and that Major will be a ghost of last night."
You untied the silk thread of your bangles, letting them slide onto the nightstand. You lay down, pulling the light quilt up to your chin. Rukhsaar turned off the lamp, plunging the room into a soft, blue-tinged darkness.
But as you closed your eyes, you didn't see the safety of your room. You saw the dark blue of a shirwani. You felt the weight of a gaze that didn't feel like a memory at all—it felt like a shadow that had crawled into the room with you, waiting for the silence to grow deep enough to strike.
Rukhsaar thought he was too old, too professional, too busy. But she hadn't felt the way the air had curdled when he spoke. She hadn't seen the obsidian stillness in his eyes.
Somewhere across the city, you knew—with a soul-deep instinct that made your skin crawl—that Major Iqbal was not sleeping.
The house was silent, but it wasn’t the silence of peace; it was the pressurized hush of a command center before a strike. In his private study, the only light came from a single brass lamp that threw long, distorted shadows across the mahogany desk. Major Iqbal sat deep in his leather chair, the dark blue shirwani discarded, his white undershirt clinging to the hard, corded muscles of his shoulders.
In front of him lay the documents about you, copies of your birth certificate, pictures of you in school, anything Mir got his hands on.
Mir had been efficient. The folder was thick, stuffed with the digital and physical debris of your nineteen years. Iqbal’s large hand, scarred across the knuckles from a life of "enforcement," traced the edge of your high school diploma. He didn't just read the words; he savored them.
"Hmm..her birthdate.." he whispered to the empty room, his voice a low, gravelly rasp. "Makes a lot of sense, thats why she's so..very interesting.."
He looked at your birthdate, calculating the gap. Twenty-three years. To a normal man, it was a chasm. To Iqbal, it was an advantage. He liked the idea that he had been shedding blood in the mountains while you were still learning to walk. He liked that he possessed decades of bitterness and power to drown your innocence in.
He flipped the page. A photocopy of your National ID card. Your face looked back at him—stark, unsmiling, caught in the sterile flash of a government camera. Even in a low-quality black-and-white print, your beauty was a provocation. He traced the curve of your jaw with his thumb, his eyes narrowing.
"You like the arts, don't you?" He murmured, looking at a list of your extracurriculars. "Painting..Poetry.. You want to teach the children of Lyari how to see color in this shithole..how noble~"
He let out a sharp, jagged exhale that was almost a laugh. His thoughts took a sudden, violent turn into the gutter. He didn't see a teacher. He saw a captive. He imagined those hands, stained with paint, pressed against the cold glass of a window in a house he would buy just for her. He imagined her trying to scream for her father, only to realize that even Rehman Dakait’s reach stopped at the Major’s doorstep.
His gaze moved to the surveillance notes. Subject leaves for the college Annex at 8:30 AM. Alone. Usually stops at the corner stall for roasted corn.
"Eight-thirty.." he noted, the smirk finally pulling at the corner of his mouth. It wasn't a smile of joy; it was the expression of a man who had found the weak point in a fortification. "So predictable..she wants to be on time.."
He leaned back, picking up a glass of neat whiskey. The amber liquid caught the lamplight, glowing like the eyes of a predator in the brush. His thoughts were a foul, intoxicating brew of possessiveness. He thought about the way you had looked in that emerald silk—the way your body moved with a freedom that you didn't realize was about to be revoked.
He wanted to be the one to teach you about the world, but not through books. He wanted to teach you about the weight of his shadow. He wanted to see how long it would take for that fire in your eyes to turn into a flickering candle, held only by his grace.
I’ll let you keep your dreams for a few more days, he thought, his eyes darkening until they were indistinguishable from the shadows in the room. I’ll let you walk to your classes and laugh with your cousins. Enjoy the sun.. Because soon, the only world you’ll know is the one I define for you.
He felt a tightening in his gut, a hot, restless ache. The unpure nature of his desire was a physical weight. He wasn't interested in a wedding contract or a polite courtship. He wanted the total, systematic dismantling of your will. He wanted to hear your voice crack when you realized that every person you turned to for help already worked for him.
"You have no idea.." he whispered, his smirk widening into something truly terrifying. "You think the gates of the haveli keep you safe? I am the gate. I am the air you’re breathing."
He closed the folder with a slow, deliberate snap. He didn't need to read any more tonight. He had the map of your life etched into his mind. He reached for his phone, dialing Mir's private line.
"The 8:30 AM route," Iqbal said, his voice cold as a winter morning in the north. "Change the detail. I don't want them just watching. I want her to feel them. Not enough to run... just enough to look over her shoulder."
He hung up without waiting for a reply. He stood up and walked to the window, looking out over the flickering lights of Karachi. Somewhere out there, in a room scented with jasmine, you were sleeping, thinking you were safe.
Iqbal took a slow sip of his drink, thinking aboout your youthful, scared features, his reflection in the glass looking like a specter.
"Old enough to know exactly how to break you..." he breathed against the glass, a last promise to the night, your last night without his shadow looming over you.
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A/N: Hiya~ a little surprise for you my loves before we get all dark and crazy in Aetbaar-e-Zulm and all smutty and sexy in Sultan ka Moti, heres some fluffy wholsome, maybe a bit sad little stories for you guys<3 enjoyyyy
1. Hamza:
Hamza stumbled through the door at 2:00 AM, his hand pressed firmly against a jagged tear in his side that had soaked his white shirt in a deep, terrifying crimson. His usual tall, impressive aura was shattered; his hair was flat and messy, and his breath hitched with every step. When he saw you standing in the hallway, your eyes wide and already brimming with tears, his first instinct wasn't to ask for help—it was to apologize for the pain he was causing you just by existing in this state.
You had waited for him so long, walking up and down the halls of your shared home worried. He didn't pick up calls before, he didn't call and tell you it might be late today like usual.. you had a horrible feeling- and upon seeing him, your worst imaginations became reality.
As you rushed to him, your small hands trembling as you tried to help him to the sofa, a sob broke from your throat. Your frame looked so fragile next to his buff, bloodied form. He hissed as he sat, but his eyes never left your face.
"Meri jaan, rona band karo, please..." He reached out with his clean hand, cupping your cheek. His thumb wiped away a stray tear, even as his own face paled from blood loss. "Mujhe maaf kar do.. Tumhe is haal mein nahi dekhna chahiye tha.."
As you knelt between his knees to tend to the wound, your hands shaking so hard you could barely hold the antiseptic, he leaned his forehead against yours. He felt like a mountain crumbling onto you. "Shukriya meri jaan... Tumhare bina main kuch nahi hoon." He let out a ragged breath, his voice dropping to a whisper. "Tumhara gham mere zakhm se zyada dard deta hai. Bas thoda muskura do, mere liye?" He spent the rest of the night thanking you for every stitch, every bandage, his heart breaking because he knew his dangerous life was the reason of your tears.
Your vision was blurred by constant, hot tears, and your hands were shaking so violently that the needle dipped dangerously close to his skin.
A choked, jagged sob escaped you, and you started to talk in anger with tears falling from your cheeks
"I’ll kill them.." you hissed, your voice cracking. "I’ll kill Rehman and that entire damn gang one day.. It’s all their fault...! letting you get hurt like this.. They were supposed to watch your back!"
Hamza, who had been gritting his teeth against the pain, let out a soft, huffed breath that was almost a laugh. He looked down at you—this tiny, trembling creature threatening the most dangerous men in the city—and felt a wave of possessive adoration so strong it rivaled the sting of his wound.
He reached out, his large, warm hand cupping the back of your head, his fingers tangling in your hair to pull you gently forward until your forehead rested against his collarbone.
"Meri jaan, thoda sukoon rakho..." He murmured, his voice a low, honeyed rumble that vibrated against your skin. "Rehman aur un bado ko main sambhal loonga. Wo mera kaam hai.."
He used his other hand to lift your chin, forcing you to look into his dark, hooded eyes. He wasn't looking at you like a victim; he was looking at you like you were his entire world. A slow, devastating smirk played on his lips despite the blood loss.
"Tumhe ye sab karne ki zaroorat nahi hai. Tumhe sirf mere paas rehna hai taake main sukoon se saans le sakoon..hmm?"
He leaned down, his nose brushing yours. "Jab main ghar aata hoon aur tumhe dekhta hoon, toh sara dard khatam ho jata hai. Bas mere liye yahan raho. Baaki dunya se main nipat loonga."
2. Rehman:
Rehman didn’t make a sound when he entered. He was stoic, his jaw set in a hard line, a deep bruise forming on his cheekbone and a heavy limp in his walk, his leg bleeding from a wound that seemed to be a hole in his leg. He found you in the kitchen, cooking while your youngest was watching, and the moment you saw him, you came rushed to him, panicked, scared. You asked a million questions, tears forming in your eyes as you told your Son to leave the kitchen in a hurry.
He didn't panic. He didn't rush. He walked over with the steady, heavy presence of a man who had survived a thousand storms. He didn't say a word at first; he simply placed his large, calloused hand on the back of your neck and pulled you into his chest.
"Sshh... Khamosh. Main yahan hoon.." he rumbled, his voice a low, grounding vibration that seemed to settle the frantic beating of your heart. He forced you to look at him, his thumb hooking under your chin. "Meri taraf dekho. Zinda hoon na? Phir ye aansu kyun?"
You let out another deep breath, the tears did not stop, not yet. No matter how often you had already seen this- with worse and less concerning injuries- it hurt you deeply. To know your Husband, the man you loved most, was in constant danger.
He sat you on the counter, his hands resting heavily on your thighs to keep you still. He was authoritative. He needed you to be as steady as he was. "Rone se masla hal nahi hota.. Gehra saans lo." As you cleaned the cut on his face, he watched you with a dark, intense devotion. "Tum meri taqat ho, kamzori nahi. Sambhalo apne aap ko." Even in pain, he was your anchor, refusing to let your emotions drown you.
You sat there, washing off the blood from his wounds with a deep frown on your face.
"Why..?" you whispered, your voice thick with worry. "Rehman... why are you still enduring all of this? The blood, the gang...you did so much for our community already.." you sobbed, tired from seeing your love coming home hurt for years, tired from expecting the worst-case scenario every day, that he would not return home one day, killed by another gang, the S.P, or some u grateful bastard you had cared for and given food at your Table, a Traitor you accepted in the family that might ruin your entire life, and the life of your children.
Rehman didn’t answer immediately. He reached out, his large, heavy hand settling on your waist, his fingers almost meeting around the small of your back. He pulled you flush against him. He let out a long, weary sigh that seemed to rattle his entire ribcage.
He took the cloth from your hand and set it aside, then took both of your small hands in his, rubbing his calloused thumbs over your knuckles. He looked at your hands—so clean, so soft—and then at his own, which were built for violence.
"Ye dunya.. bohot zalim hai," he muttered, his gaze dropping to the floor. "Agar main ye bohot.. bohot mushkil kaam nahi karoonga, toh tum jaise masoom logon ka kya hoga?"
He looked back up at you, his thumb catching a tear before it could fall. There was no apology in his eyes, only a terrifyingly deep sense of purpose.
"Main ye sab isliye bardasht karta hoon taake tum chain se so sako. Taake tumhe kabhi ye sab na dekhna pade jo main dekhta hoon."
He pulled you closer, burying his face in the crook of your neck, his scruff grazing your sensitive skin. You felt the sheer mass of him, the protector who stood between you and the dark.
"Tum mera sukoon ho, meri Humsafar. Jab tak tum mere paas ho, main har zakhm seh loonga.."
He stayed there for a long time, his heavy arms acting like a fortress around your frame, grounding both of you in the only truth he had left: that he would bleed a thousand times over just to keep your world quiet.
3. Uzair:
Uzair came home with a grin that didn't match the heavy bandage wrapped around his forearm or the split lip that was still sluggishly bleeding. He saw you ,sitting on the bed, clutching a pillow, your face red and puffy from hours of worrying.. he had left early, like so often, but it was different this time, your gut feeling told you something happened, so the moment you saw the blood on his sleeve, you let out a fresh wail of despair.
"Oho! Itna bura lag raha hoon kya?" He joked, throwing his keys on the dresser and walking toward you with a swagger that hid his pain. He dropped to his knees in front of you, looking up at your small, tear-streaked face. "Pyari, itna mat ro. Meri sari 'hero' wali feeling khatam ho rahi hai."
You were sobbing, annoyed by this, angrily hitting his chest, making him chuckle and scoff a little "Outsch" but you didnt care.
"How dare you laugh at me?! You've been gone all day and now you return home with these wounds and you are laughing?! You are such an idiot Uzair! Stop joking!"
He grabbed your small hands and kissed your palms, his eyes dancing with mischief despite the exhaustion behind them. "Sirf ek kharash hai, Pari. Dekho, main abhi bhi tumhara wahi purana Uzair hoon." When you tried to keep scolding him through your hiccups, he just laughed, pulling you into a lopsided hug.
"Tumhare aansu dekh kar toh mera zakhm aur gehra ho jayega~" he teased, nipping at your earlobe to make you jump. "Chalo, ab rona band karo aur mujhe ek chuma do.. Doctor ne kaha hai wahi asli ilaaj hai..~"
You turned and balled your small fists, hitting him right in the center of his buff chest. Thump. It was like hitting a brick wall.
"I hate you!" you cried, your voice cracking as a fresh wave of tears blurred your vision. "I hate you so much, Uzair! You’re bleeding, you almost didn't come back, and you’re sitting here being... this. Why are you so unserious? This isn't a joke! You could have died tonight!"
You hit him again, but this time he caught your wrists. His hands were massive, his fingers easily circling your thin bones, but his grip was as light as a feather. He didn't stop smiling, though the playfulness in his eyes softened into something more liquid, more focused.
"Bas, bas... itna ghussa?" He chuckled, pulling you closer until you were standing between his knees.
You pouted, trying to pull your hands away. "You're a reckless idiot."
Uzair let out a theatrical sigh, leaning his head back so he could look up at your face. "Acha, maan liya. Main idiot hoon. Lekin itna pyaara idiot toh koi aur nahi milega na?" He pulled your hands to his lips, kissing your knuckles one by one, his eyes never leaving yours.
"Lekin sach bataoon? Agar tum mujhe ye 'ilaaj' nahi dogi, toh main waqai mar jaoonga. Khoon se nahi... tumhare is gham se."
He tugged on your wrists, pulling you onto his lap. You felt tiny against his frame, like a doll being gathered into a giant's embrace. He wrapped his uninjured arm around your waist, pulling you flush against his chest so you could feel the steady, rhythmic thud of his heart.
You tried to keep your face stern, but as he started making "sad puppy" faces and gently tickling your side, you couldn't help the small, watery laugh that escaped you.
"Wahi toh! Wahi muskurahat chahiye thi~" he beamed, leaning in until his lips were a breath away from yours. "Ab jaldi karo... maut kareeb hai!~"
4. Iqbal:
Iqbal’s wounds were deep. He walked in like a ghost, his face a mask of cold stone, his shirt torn and his knuckles raw and bloody, worst was the huge shot wound. He didn't look at you at first, he hoped you were long asleep. He went straight to the liquor cabinet, poured a drink, and downed it in one go. You stood by the door, you heard him return but when he didnt come to see you , you knew something was wrong. You stood there, trembling, the height difference between you making him look like an untouchable, terrifying giant.
When the first sob escaped you, he stiffened. He hated tears. To him, they were a sign of a world out of control. He turned toward you, his eyes tired. "Bas karo. Ye rona dhona mujhe pasand nahi.." he said, his voice clipped and cold.
But as you approached him, reaching out to touch the blood on his wound with a terrified, "Jaan, please...", his expression flickered. The coldness didn't leave his eyes, but his touch became unexpectedly gentle. He caught your wrists, his large hands dwarfing yours. He led you to the chair and sat you down, his movements precise and clinical.
"Maine kaha tha na? Is zindagi mein khatra hai.." he muttered, his voice dropping to a low, rough rasp. He knelt before you—a rare sight for a man of his stature—and rested his head in your lap for a brief, fleeting second. "Tumhara rona mujhe kamzor karta hai, aur main kamzor nahi ho sakta."
He looked up at you, his thumb tracing your lower lip. "Meri Begum ko bahadur hona chahiye. Apne aansu poncho.." He let you clean his knuckles, remaining silent and stoic, but he didn't pull away. "Jab tak main zinda laut raha hoon, tumhe rone ki ijazat nahi hai.."
You nodded...it got silent inside the room. Now you stood before him, your frame looking painfully small in the vastness of the room. You weren’t sobbing like you had wanted to, Instead, your jaw was clamped shut, your small hands balled into white-knuckled fists at your sides whenever your hands weren't tending to his wounds. Your eyes were swimming, huge and glassy, but you refused to let a single drop fall. You were trying to be "brave" for him.
But the sight of you—trembling, silent, and physically vibrating with the effort of holding back your grief—did what no enemy had ever managed to do. It shattered him.
Iqbal’s cold, stony expression didn’t just crack; it dissolved. He reached out, his large, scarred hand trembling slightly as he cupped your face. His thumb traced the line of your lower lip, which was bleeding where you had bitten it to stay quiet.
"Mat ro... meri Begum, khuda ke liye mat ro.." he rasped, his voice breaking in a way you had never heard before.
"..Im trying-" you said, you really did, it took all your strength, especially since this was not the first time you had to endure this situation- but this time..this time you simply couldn't.
A whine escaped your throat, tears streaming down your face as you cursed. You couldn't hold up that brave facade, it shattered into a million pieces infront of him for the first time.
As he looked into your eyes, a single, tear escaped his own—a rare, devastating sight, the first and last time you had seen it.
He took your small hands in his and kissed them with a ferocity that made your heart skip. The protector was no longer just guarding you; he was declaring war for you.
"Suno meri baat.." he growled, his voice dropping to a low, lethal frequency. "Aaj ke baad... agar mujhe dobara is haal mein ghar aana pada, agar meri wajah se tumhari aankh mein ek bhi aansu aaya... toh main wapas nahi aaoonga."
He gripped your waist, his fingers digging in just enough to anchor you. "Main apne saare dushmano ka khoon baha doonga. Main unhe mitti mein mila doonga taake tumhe kabhi darna na pade."
He leaned in, his presence suddenly overwhelming. He wrapped his arms around you, tucking your head under his chin, his buff chest a solid wall against your face, it felt like you could breathe again finally.
"Jab tak main zinda hoon, tumhe rone ki ijazat nahi hai. Kyunki ab se, jo bhi tumhe rulayega... wo kal ka sooraj nahi dekhega. Ye mera waada hai."
He held you there in the silence, a man who had finally decided that the world could burn, as long as your eyes stayed dry. Instead of asking you to not be weak, he decided he had to become even more lethal to protect whats most important to him..your peace and happiness.
Pairing: Stalker! Major Iqbal x Rehmans Daughter! Reader.
NOTE: MINORS AND AGELESS BLOGS DO NOT INTERACT! This content is intended for audiences 18+ only!
Disclaimer: The themes explored in this story—including stalking, violence, perversion and extreme possessiveness—are purely for fictional and narrative purposes. These behaviors are dangerous and inexcusable in real-life relationships! I do not condone or romanticize these actions outside the realm of the "Dark Romance" genre.
Warnings: age gap, power dynamics, possessive, obsessive behaviour, deception, stalking, mastrubation.
Part 3 of ?
The darkness was not empty; it had a texture, like wet velvet pressing against your open eyes.
You are standing in the center of an infinite, black plain. There is no haveli, no Lyari, no University library. There is only the rain. It doesn't fall in droplets; it descends in heavy, punishing sheets that feel like leaded glass, cold enough to ache. The wind is a living thing, a howling beast that tears at your white sleeping dress, molding the thin fabric to your skin until you feel exposed, shivering, and small.
You are barefoot. The ground beneath you isn’t earth or pavement; it’s a mirror-slick surface that reflects nothing but the void.
Then, you see him.
At first, he is nothing more than a smudge of charcoal against a slightly lighter shade of black. He is miles away—a distant, motionless silhouette standing at the edge of the world. You don't need to see the silver insignias or the curve of his jaw to know who it is. The air in your lungs suddenly feels thick, tasting of sandalwood and spent gunpowder.
Run.
The thought isn't yours; it’s an instinctual scream from the very marrow of your bones. You turn, your feet splashing against the invisible water on the ground. You sprint, your lungs burning, your hair whipping into your mouth. You run until your legs feel like they are melting into lead, pushing yourself toward a horizon that never nears.
You stop, gasping for air, clutching your chest as you look back to see how much distance you’ve gained.
He is closer.
He hasn't moved. He hasn't taken a single step. He is simply there, standing with his arms crossed over his broad chest, his presence having jumped a mile closer while your back was turned. The distance has shrunk from a league to a city block. You can see the dark blue of his uniform now, soaked black by the rain, clinging to the terrifying mass of his shoulders.
Panic, cold and sharp as a needle, pierces your heart. You turn again. You don't just run this time; you flee. You push yourself until your vision blurs, until the sound of the punishing wind is drowned out by the roar of your own blood in your ears. You cover leagues. You run until you are certain you have reached the other side of existence.
You stop. You turn.
He is ten feet away.
The rain seems to move around him, as if even the elements are afraid to touch him. He is a pillar of absolute, immovable gravity. You can see the obsidian shine of his boots, the raw, red scrape across his knuckles, and the way his eyes—those inhumane, predatory voids—are fixed on you with a hunger that feels like it’s swallowing the very space between you.
You try to scream, but the wind catches the sound and chokes it back down your throat. You try to move your legs, but the ground has turned from mirror to silk, then to stone. You are rooted.
Suddenly, the world flinches. In a heartbeat that feels like a glitch in reality, the ten feet vanish.
He is right there.
He is so close that the punishing wind finally stops, blocked by the sheer wall of his body. The scent of him—smoke, leather, and that metallic, coppery tang of fresh blood—overwhelms the smell of the rain. You have to crane your neck back to look at him, your head barely reaching the center of his chest.
His hands rise. They are slow, deliberate, and covered in the black rubber gloves from the warehouse, still glistening with a wet, dark sheen. He doesn't grab you. He doesn't strike. Instead, he cups your face, the cold, sterile texture of the rubber a horrifying contrast to the heat of his skin beneath.
He leans down. The movement is agonizingly slow, a predator savoring the final seconds before the kill. You want to flinch away, but your body is a traitor; it leans into him, drawn by the terrifying magnetism of his power.
His face enters your personal space, blurring your vision until all you see is the obsidian of his eyes. You feel the ghost of his smirk—that dark, twisted promise—against your own lips.
"Where are you going?" his voice rasps, not through your ears, but directly into your brain, vibrating through your skull. "The world is empty. There is nowhere to run that isn't already mine."
Then, you feel it. His breath.
It is hot, smelling of tobacco and a deep, ancient rot. It brushes against your lips, a humid, heavy caress that feels like a brand. It’s the breath of a man who has just finished a slaughter, the breath of a man who has decided that your innocence is the only thing left worth consuming.
His lips are a fraction of an inch from yours, the tension so high it feels like the dark sky above is about to shatter into a thousand pieces.
"Mine," he whispers.
The word is a physical blow. You feel his teeth graze your lower lip, a sharp, sudden sting of pain—
You bolted upright in bed, a strangled gasp tearing from your throat.
The room was silent. The blue light of the pre-dawn moon filtered through the sheer curtains of the haveli, casting long, still shadows across your silk duvet. There was no rain. There was no wind. There was only the steady, rhythmic ticking of the clock on your nightstand.
You were drenched in a cold sweat, your heart hammering so hard against your ribs it felt like it might bruise. You reached up, your fingers trembling as they touched your lower lip.
It was throbbing.
You scrambled out of bed, your legs weak as water, and hurried to the vanity mirror. In the dim, ghostly light, you leaned in, staring at your reflection.
There, on the soft curve of your bottom lip, was a tiny, pinpoint bead of crimson. A break in the skin. A mark.
A chill that had nothing to do with the dream washed over you. You looked toward the window, toward the courtyard where you knew, with a soul-deep certainty, that his men were standing guard.
The Major hadn't just been in your head. He had found a way into the one place you thought was private. He had colonized your sleep.
You sat back on the floor, clutching your knees to your chest, watching the shadows of the trees dance against the wall..
You forced yourself up, making your way to your private Bathroom.
You stood before the mirror, the silence of the haveli ringing in your ears. The dream—the rain, the dark, the crushing proximity of Major Iqbal—clung to you like a fever.
You could still feel the phantom weight of his hands, the way the air had vanished when he leaned in, and most of all, the ghost of his breath against your lips. It was a lingering, humid heat that felt like a brand..
With a trembling hand, you turned the brass taps. The water came out in a searing rush, hitting the marble basin with a violent splash. You stripped away your silk nightdress, letting it fall in a heap of discarded innocence on the cold floor.
You stepped into the shower, the heat of the water hitting your skin with a sharp, stinging intensity. You wanted it to hurt. You wanted the temperature to burn away the memory of the cold, rubber-gloved touch from your nightmare. You took the loofah, lathering it with a thick, sandalwood-scented soap, and began to scrub.
You started at your collarbones, moving down your arms, scrubbing until the skin turned a frantic, angry rose. You moved the sponge over your shoulders—the places where you imagined his shadow had lingered—pressing down until your muscles ached. You weren't just washing; you were trying to decolonize your own body. You wanted to erase every square inch of skin that his gaze had traveled over during the wedding, every part of you that had shivered in the car.
But as the steam thickened, the bathroom felt smaller. The air became heavy, humid, and cloying.
You closed your eyes, leaning your forehead against the wet marble tiles. The sound of the rushing water began to mimic the roar of the rain from your dream. Suddenly, you weren't in the safety of your father's house. You were back on that infinite, black plain.
You felt a phantom prickle against your lower lip—the spot where his teeth had grazed you in the void. Your breath hitched. Your fingers, slick with soap, involuntarily rose to touch your mouth. You traced the curve of your lip, and for a terrifying, electrified second, the sensation wasn't your own touch. It was his.
The memory was visceral—the scent of leather and tobacco, the predatory hum of his voice. A traitorous spark of heat bloomed in the pit of your stomach, a sharp, unbidden ache that made your knees weaken. It was a forbidden, dark magnetism that you loathed even as it vibrated through your nerves. You weren't just afraid of him; you were afraid of the way your body reacted to the shadow he cast.
"No.." you whispered, the word lost in the spray of the water.
You turned the dial, forcing the water to turn ice-cold. The shock was a physical blow. You gasped as the freezing needles bit into your sensitized skin, forcing the fog in your mind to clear. You stood there until your skin was pebbled with gooseflesh, until your teeth began to chatter, desperate to kill the heat he had planted within you.
Stepping out of the shower, you wrapped yourself in a thick, white towel, but the chill didn't reach the core of you. You sat on the marble bench, your chest heaving.
On the vanity sat an array of small, crystal vials—perfumed oils brought from the markets of Isfahan and Dubai. Usually, they were a source of joy. Today, they were weapons of war.
You reached for the heaviest scent: It was a dark, woody oil, thick and golden. You uncorked the bottle and poured a generous amount into your palm. You began to massage it into your skin, starting at your ankles and working upward.
You moved the oil over your thighs, your stomach, your breasts, the scent rising in a suffocating, opulent cloud. You wanted to drown yourself in it. You wanted to layer so much perfume over your body that even if he stood an inch away, he would never be able to smell you—only the armor of the wood and the spice.
You picked up a smaller vial of jasmine and rose water, dabbing it behind your ears and into the hollow of your throat. You worked with a frantic, systematic focus, oiling your limbs until you glistened like a statue in the dim light.
But as you reached your face, your movements slowed.
You looked at your reflection in the steamed-up mirror. You reached out, wiping a clear circle in the glass. Your eyes were wide, dark, and rimmed with a haunting exhaustion. You looked at your lips. They were flushed from the scrubbing, the tiny mark from the dream still visible—a minute, crimson betrayal.
You took a drop of the thickest oil and pressed it directly onto that mark. You wanted to seal it. You wanted to bury the sensation of his breath under a mountain of scent.
As you sat there, enveloped in the heavy, floral musk, the silence of the bathroom felt heavy. You realized then that you could scrub until your skin bled, you could drown yourself in the rarest oils in the world, but you couldn't wash away the Nazar. He wasn't on your skin. He was in the way you breathed. He was in the way you looked at your own reflection and saw a stranger.
You leaned back against the cool marble, your damp hair trailing down your back, the scent of the oils making your head swim. You stayed there for a long time, the steam slowly dissipating, the room growing colder. You weren't ready to leave. You weren't ready to put on the silk suits and the smiles.
In this room, behind the locked door, amidst the scents of rose and wood, you could pretend you were still yours. You could pretend the dream was just a dream, and the Major was just a man, and the world was still a place where a girl could walk in the sun without being followed by a butcher.
But as the first light of the sun hit the frosted glass, you knew the reprieve was over.
You stood up, the heavy scents of your "armor" trailing behind you like a royal shroud. You reached for your robe, your movements slow and deliberate. You were ready to face the house, but as you touched the handle of the bathroom door, you felt that same, phantom heat on your lips one last time.
The bathroom door groaned on its hinges as you stepped back into the sanctuary of your bedroom. The air here was thinner, cooler, lacking the suffocating humidity of the steam. The scent of the perfume trailed after you, a thick, regal wake that announced your presence before you even moved.
"Finally! I thought you’d drowned in the tub or decided to become a mermaid!" Rukhsaar’s voice rang out, sharp and playful.
She was sprawled across your unmade bed, her legs kicking back and forth, a fashion magazine discarded beside her. She looked up, her eyes widening as the scent hit her. She sat up, her nose wrinkling in a mix of surprise and admiration.
"Ya Allah, you smell like a bride on her third day of festivities-" she teased, hopping off the bed and circling you like a hawk. "What was that for? A two-hour shower and half a bottle of the expensive stuff? If I didn't know any better, I’d say you were trying to drown out the world."
"I just wanted to feel clean, Rukhsaar.." you said, your voice steadier than you expected. You walked to your wardrobe, pulling out a light, breezy lawn suit in a soft mint green. It was a simple outfit, devoid of the heavy gold work or the "treasures" the Major seemed to favor. You wanted to be light. You wanted to be invisible.
"Well, you look like a dream, even if you are being a bit moody.." Rukhsaar said, grabbing your hand and pulling you toward the door. "Come on. Baba and Ammi are already halfway through breakfast. If we’re late, Baba will start lecturing us on the virtues of early rising again."
As you descended the stairs, the haveli felt different. The morning sun was pouring in through the stained-glass windows, painting vibrant patterns of ruby and emerald across the marble floor. There was no shadow in the corner. No heavy, leather-scented presence looming in the foyer. The house felt like it belonged to your family again.
In the dining room, your father, Rehman, was buried behind the morning newspaper, a half-eaten paratha on his plate. Your mother, Ulfat, was serene at the other end, her hands moving gracefully as she poured tea into delicate china cups.
"Good morning, my light~" Ulfat said, her eyes softening as they landed on you. She paused for a moment, her nose twitching. "Is that the Oud from Dubai? It’s lovely, though perhaps a bit heavy for a Saturday morning..?"
"I felt like wearing it, Ammi." you said, sliding into your seat.
For the first time in days, the conversation was mundane. Your father complained about the rising price of sugar; your mother talked about the embroidery on a new set of cushions; Rukhsaar debated which sandals would match her new outfit. There was no mention of the City being restless, No mention of "security." The name Iqbal did not cross anyone’s lips. It was as if the last few days had been a fever dream that had finally broken.
The weight in your chest began to lift, piece by piece. You actually felt hungry. You reached for a piece of fruit, the sweetness of the melon a sharp, bright contrast to the bitter metallic taste that had been in your mouth since the wedding.
"We are going to the mosque for the midday prayer..!" Ulfat announced, patting her lips with a napkin. "The ladies' wing is having a small gathering afterward. I want both of you to come with me. It’s been too long since we’ve given thanks together."
"Can we stop for kulfi on the way back?" Rukhsaar asked, leaning her chin on her hand.
"If you behave during the khutbah.." Rehman grumbled from behind his paper, though the corner of his mouth was turned up in a smile.
An hour later, you were draped in a soft, white cotton chador, sitting in the back of the family car with your mother and cousin. The windows were down, and the chaotic, vibrant life of the city rushed in. The sound of rickshaw horns, the shouting of street vendors, the scent of diesel and frying pakoras—it was all so beautifully, wonderfully ordinary.
The mosque was a sanctuary of cool marble and ancient silence. As you followed your mother into the women’s section, the world outside seemed to dissolve. You performed your ablutions, the cold water on your wrists and face feeling like a final cleansing of the dream’s residue.
Standing on the soft carpet, shoulder to shoulder with other women, you bowed and prostrated. You let the rhythmic Arabic verses wash over you, a shield of faith that felt stronger than any armor the Major could provide. In the quiet of the prayer, you felt a sense of ownership over your own soul again. You weren't a "target" or a "treasure." You were just a girl, a servant of God, standing in a house where no soldier’s rank mattered.
After the prayer, you sat in the shaded courtyard of the mosque while your mother chatted with her friends. Rukhsaar was busy giggling with a girl her age, discussing a wedding that was happening next week.
You leaned your head against a cool stone pillar, watching a sparrow hop across the marble floor. The sun was warm on your face, but it didn't burn. The wind was light, but it didn't whisper threats.
"You look better Jaan" Ulfat said, appearing by your side and placing a gentle hand on your cheek. "There is a bit of color in your face again. I was worried you were falling ill."
"I’m okay, Ammi..!" you said, and for the first time, you almost believed it. "I just needed a normal morning."
"Life is full of storms, beti..what happened to you must have scared you.." she said softly, her eyes holding a depth of wisdom you rarely acknowledged.
As you walked back to the car, your heart felt lighter than the white chador you wore. The morning had been yours. The air had been yours. You had reclaimed the hours from the shadow of the Major, and as the car began the journey home, you allowed yourself to close your eyes and truly, deeply breathe.
The drive back from the mosque felt like the first true breath of spring after a decade of winter. The air rushing through the car windows didn't carry the scent of old leather or stagnant rain; it smelled of gasoline, street-side jasmine, and the salt of the Arabian Sea. You leaned your head against the cool glass, a small, genuine smile playing on your lips.
For the first time since the wedding, the static in your brain had silenced. You felt light—almost buoyant—as if the white cotton of your chador had absorbed the darkness of the last few days and left you cleansed. Rukhsaar was beside you, humming a popular film song and scrolling through her phone, occasionally leaning over to show you a pair of shoes or a ridiculous video. You actually laughed. A real, bell-like sound that made your mother, Ulfat, turn from the front seat with a look of profound relief.
"It is good to hear that voice again, beti~" Ulfat murmured, her hand resting briefly on your knee.
When the car pulled into the courtyard of the haveli, the sun was at its zenith, turning the white stone of the house into a brilliant, blinding crown. You stepped out, the heat of the pavement warming the soles of your feet through your sandals. You felt grounded. You felt safe. The guards at the gate were the usual family retainers—men you had known since childhood, men who gave you respectful nods and called you Bibi. There was no sign of the black-clad shadows or the clinical, terrifying efficiency of the Major’s detail.
Lunch was a sprawling, sun-drenched affair on the veranda. The table was laden with cold cucumber raita, spicy chickpea salad, and a steaming pot of yellow lentils. Your father, Rehman, had discarded his waistcoat and was sitting in his shirtsleeves, his face relaxed and jovial.
"The prayer has done you wonders.." Rehman noted, spooning a generous portion of salad onto your plate. "You look like yourself again. No more 'headaches,' I hope?"
"No, Baba," you said, reaching for a piece of warm naan. "I feel wonderful. It was exactly what I needed."
"Good!" Rehman said, his tone shifting slightly—not into the dark, conspiratorial register of the last few days, but into one of fatherly pride. He took a long sip of chilled water and set the glass down with a satisfied clack. "Because tonight, we have a very important engagement. It’s a charity gala at the hosted by politics..High-profile, very exclusive. The crème de la crème of the city will be there."
Rukhsaar’s eyes went wide, her fork pausing halfway to her mouth. "Baba, that’s the event of the season! I heard the Governor might even make an appearance.."
"It’s more than just a gala," Rehman continued, glancing at you with a smile that didn't quite reach the same level of ease as before. "It’s a special evening for the military council. Major Iqbal is the guest of honor—he’s being recognized for his 'exceptional service' He called me this morning while you were at the mosque. He personally requested that our family be his primary guests. He’s even sent over a car and an escort to ensure we arrive with the status we deserve."
The naan in your hand suddenly felt like dry cardboard. The sunlight on the veranda seemed to dim, the vibrant yellow of the lentils on your plate turning into a dull, sickly ochre. The wall you had built around your peace—the prayers, the oils, the laughter with Rukhsaar—cracked down the middle.
"He... he called?" you whispered, your voice losing its newfound strength.
"He did," Rehman said, leaning back and lighting a cigar, the blue smoke curling into the afternoon air. "He was very insistent. He said the evening wouldn't be complete without 'the family that has shown him such grace.' It’s a great honor, beti. To be seen at his side at an event like this... it cements our position. It shows everyone that the Major and the House of Rehman are one.."
"Oh my God!" Rukhsaar was already out of her chair, her lunch forgotten. "A gala! I have to wear the deep violet silk! Or maybe the emerald? Ammi, you have to help me with my jewelry!"
Ulfat stood up, her expression a mix of excitement for her niece and a lingering, quiet observation of you. "Come, girls. We only have a few hours to get ready. The Major mentioned he would be sending the car at seven sharp. He doesn't like to be kept waiting."
You remained seated, your hands resting on the edge of the table. Your father reached over, patting your hand with a heavy, affectionate palm.
You nodded numbly, the ghost of the dream—the heat of his breath, the weight of his gaze—rushing back to fill the empty spaces of your mind. The reprieve was over. The morning had been a beautiful lie, a final meal before the return to the cage.
As you walked up the stairs, your legs felt like lead. Rukhsaar was already in her room, the sound of wardrobe doors slamming and excited chatter echoing down the hall. You entered your own room and stood in the center of the rug. The scent of the perfume was still there, but now it didn't feel like armor. It felt like a scent meant to attract a predator..
You walked to your closet, your fingers brushing against the silk and chiffon. You needed to find something that would hide you, but you knew there was no fabric thick enough to shield you from the Major’s eyes.
Seven o'clock.
The time was a ticking clock in your skull. You looked at the vanity mirror, at the tiny mark on your lip that had almost faded in the sunlight of the mosque. You reached for your makeup bag, your hands beginning to tremble once more.
You were going to his world. You were going to the place where he was a god, where men in uniform bowed to his whim, and where you would be presented as the prize he had "saved" from the gutters of Lyari.
You sat down and began to paint your face, layer by layer, preparing for the battle of the evening. The peace of the morning was a distant memory, a sparrow that had flown away and left you alone with the shadow of the hawk.
The sanctuary of the morning was gone, replaced by the frantic, golden-hour rush of a haveli preparing for a storm.
Your mother, Ulfat, had taken charge with a quiet, unwavering intensity. She had bypassed your usual racks of lawn and simple silks, reaching instead for a heavy, polished sandalwood box at the back of the cedar wardrobe. From it, she pulled a saree that looked as though it had been woven from a sunset. It was a blush-toned masterpiece, shifting between a deep, dusty orange and a shimmering pink, shot through with real gold thread that caught every stray beam of light.
"This one..its beautiful.." Ulfat whispered, laying the heavy silk across your bed. "It is not just a dress, beti. It is a statement of who you are.."
She left you with the instruction to begin your transformation, leaving the room to attend to Rukhsaar’s chaos. You were alone with the mirror again.
You sat at the vanity, the cold marble top biting into your wrists. You began with your face, moving with a clinical, detached precision. You didn't want to look like a girl; you wanted to look like a masterpiece—something beautiful, yes, but also hard and untouchable.
You applied a base that made your skin look like flawless porcelain, buffing it until every trace of the morning’s vulnerability was hidden. With a thin, tapered brush, you drew a sharp, feline wing of kohl across your lids—blacker than the Major’s heart, steadier than your own. For your cheeks, you chose a blush that mimicked the hibiscus tint of the saree, a dusty rose that suggested a flush of health you didn't actually feel.
Then came the lips. You leaned in close, staring at that tiny, microscopic mark on your lower lip. You took a matte, rosewood-colored liner and carefully traced the perimeter, slightly over-lining to create a perfect, symmetrical pout. You filled it in with a deep, velvety hibiscus stain, blotting it until it looked less like makeup and more like a natural, defiant bloom. The mark was gone, buried under layers of pigment and pride.
Next, you turned your attention to your hair. It was still damp from your second shower of the day—a quick, desperate rinse to cool your rising panic. You took the blow-dryer, the roar of the machine drowning out the sound of the guards’ boots in the courtyard below. You dried it until it was a voluminous, dark mane, then began the painstaking process of curling it.
You took small sections, wrapping them around the heated iron, holding each until the heat seeped into the core of the strand. You didn't want soft, romantic waves. You wanted structured, glossy coils that looked like polished onyx. Once finished, you brushed them out gently, allowing them to cascade over one shoulder in a heavy, shimmering curtain. To finish, you tucked a single, fresh-cut tea rose—pale pink with a deep orange heart—behind your right ear, pinning it so securely it felt like a part of your skull.
The accessories were the final layer of your armor. You reached for the gold jhumkas your mother had left—heavy, bell-shaped earrings that brushed against your jawline with every movement. You slid a dozen thin, gold bangles onto each wrist, the rhythmic clink-clink-clink sounding like a countdown.
Finally, you stood to drape the saree. You handled the silk with reverence, the gold-threaded borders scratching slightly against your skin. As you pleated the fabric and tucked it into your waistband, the weight of the garment felt like a shield. You tossed the pallu over your left shoulder, the golden embroidery reflecting in the mirror like a suit of chainmail.
You looked at your reflection and didn't recognize the girl staring back. Gone was the university student who forgot her pens; gone was the girl who laughed at videos with her cousin. In her place stood a woman of the haveli, draped in the colors of a dying sun, eyes sharpened by kohl and a mouth painted in the hue of a bruised rose.
The scent of the perfume from the morning still clung to you, but now it mingled with the fresh, floral scent of the rose in your hair and the metallic tang of the gold jewelry. You smelled of old money, deep history, and silent, seething defiance.
A sharp knock at the door broke the silence.
"Beti? It’s time!" your father’s voice came from the hallway. "The escort is here. Major Iqbal’s car is waiting in the courtyard."
You took a deep breath, the silk of the saree tightening around your ribs. You reached for your small, beaded clutch, your fingers steady. You had spent the last two hours building a fortress out of makeup and silk. Now, you had to see if it was strong enough to survive the night.
As you walked toward the door, the gold bangles on your wrists sang a soft, metallic warning. You weren't going to a gala. You were going to a parade where you were the prize, and as you stepped into the hallway to join your family, you resolved one thing: if the Major wanted to look at you tonight, you would give him something so bright it would burn his eyes.
The Sindh Club sat like a grand, colonial fortress amidst the manicured lawns of central Karachi, its white pillars illuminated by soaring floodlights. This was the inner sanctum of the city’s elite—a place where the air was thick with the scent of expensive cigars, French perfume, and the heavy, invisible weight of power.
As you stepped out of the vehicle, the sheer scale of the event hit you. Black sedans with flag-bearing fenders lined the drive, and the red carpet was flanked by a gauntlet of photographers and security detail. Your father, Rehman, adjusted his lapels, his stature seemingly increasing with every step toward the entrance. He wasn't just a guest; he was a man who had successfully navigated the treacherous waters from the streets of Lyari to the marble halls of the high command.
"Stay close, beti," he murmured, offering his arm. "Tonight, we are not just guests. We are a part of the history they are writing."
Entering the grand ballroom was like walking into a theater of gold and shadow. The ceiling was a masterpiece of Victorian plasterwork, reflecting the glitter of a thousand crystals in the massive chandeliers. Below, a sea of white dress uniforms, dark tuxedos, and shimmering sarees moved in a choreographed dance of networking and nods. Generals with chests full of medals stood in tight circles with ministers in traditional sherwanis, their low murmurs deciding the fate of districts over glasses of sparkling juice.
You moved through the crowd at your father’s side, a silent, shimmering vision in your sunset-blush saree. You played your role to perfection—the dutiful, elegant daughter. You kept your gaze demure but your posture regal, offering polite, shallow smiles to the wives of dignitaries and the ambitious young attaches who tried to catch your eye. You were a part of the "respectable" facade, the final proof of your father’s ascent into the ruling class.
"Ah, Rehman! A word, if you please," a voice boomed—the Minister of the Interior, a man whose face was a permanent fixture on the evening news.
Your father stopped, engaging in the rapid-fire, high-stakes pleasantries that defined these circles. You stood a half-step behind him, the gold jhumkas brushing against your jaw, your hands clasped over your beaded clutch. You felt like an ornament, beautiful and silent, until the air in your immediate vicinity suddenly shifted.
The crowd behind you seemed to part without a word being spoken. The low hum of conversation didn't stop, but it changed frequency—dropping into a respectful, wary hush.
"Major Iqbal." the Minister smiled, extending a hand over your father’s shoulder. "The man of the hour."
You didn't turn around immediately. You didn't have to. The scent of him—that cool, metallic leather and the faint, haunting smoke—reached you first. It cut through the floral perfumes of the ballroom like a blade.
"Minister. Rehman-Bhai.." Iqbal’s voice was a rich, low baritone that seemed to vibrate through the very silk of your saree.
Finally, you turned, offering the same respectful, lowered-eyes greeting you had given him the very first time you met. You were the picture of a well-bred daughter of the haveli. You didn't flinch. You didn't show the ghost of the dream that still haunted the back of your mind.
Iqbal was in full ceremonial dress. The dark olive of his uniform was crisp, the silver insignias on his shoulders gleaming under the chandeliers. He looked every bit the hero the city claimed him to be—authoritative, disciplined, and dangerously capable.
"You look... exceptional tonight." Iqbal said. His voice was directed at you, but his eyes remained on your father for a beat too long before settling on yours. He didn't look at your dress or your jewelry. He looked at the rose tucked behind your ear, his gaze lingering on the delicate petals as if he were memorizing their count. "The color of the evening suits the House of Rehman."
"Thank you, Major Saab.." you whispered, your voice a model of soft-spoken decorum.
"Actually, Rehman-Bhai..!" the Minister interrupted, checking his watch. "The Cabinet members are gathering in the private lounge before the speeches. They were quite anxious to hear your thoughts on the port expansion. It’s a closed-door session, I’m afraid."
Rehman looked torn for a moment, his gaze flickering to you. "I shouldn't leave her all-"
Iqbal stepped forward, a fraction of an inch closer to you—not enough to be improper, but enough that you could feel the heat radiating from his chest. "Go..Rehman-Bhai. Politics waits for no one. I have a few minutes before I am called to the dais. I will stay with her. No one in this room would dare disturb her while she is under my care."
Your father beamed, his trust in the man absolute. "I suppose there is no safer place in Karachi than by your side, Iqbal. Beti, stay with the Major. I’ll be back before the first toast."
With a final nod, your father and the Minister vanished into the shifting sea of white uniforms and black silk.
You were left standing in the center of the ballroom, the shimmering sunset of your saree contrasting with the cold, military olive of the man beside you. You remained silent, your eyes fixed on a point just past his shoulder, maintained the respect that was expected of you.
"You haven't touched your drink.." Iqbal noted softly. He signaled to a passing waiter, taking two glasses of chilled sharbat and offering one to you. His fingers brushed against yours as you took the glass—a brief, searing contact that felt like a spark of static electricity.
"I’m not thirsty, Major Saab," you replied, though you took the glass to keep your hands from shaking.
"It is a heavy crown to wear, isn't it?" he asked. He wasn't looking at the crowd. He was looking at the way the light caught the gold thread in your pallu. "The expectations of a daughter. The silence. The perfect smile.."
"It is my duty to my father." you said, your voice a cool, practiced marble.
"Duty is a fine thing." Iqbal murmured. He took a slow sip of his drink, his eyes never leaving your face. He wasn't stalking you; he was simply there, an immovable pillar of protection that felt like a wall closing in. "But even the most dutiful bird occasionally looks at the sky and wonders if the cage door was left unlatched by accident... or by design."
He didn't wait for you to answer. He turned slightly, shifting his body to block you from the view of a group of young officers who had been glancing your way. He created a small, private island for the two of you in the middle of the crowded room.
"Tell me.." he said, his voice dropping to a register that felt far too intimate for a public gala. "The rose in your hair. Did you choose it, or did the garden choose you?"
You looked up then, meeting those obsidian eyes. For a second, the ballroom vanished. The music, the politics, the clinking of glasses—it all fell away. There was only the Major, the scent of the rose, and the terrifying realization that while everyone else saw a hero guarding a treasure, you were the only one who felt the heat of the fire.
"I chose it, Major Saab." you said, your voice regaining a sliver of its edge. "Because even a flower knows how to hide its thorns until they are needed."
A ghost of a smirk touched his lips—so faint it might have been a trick of the light. "I look forward to seeing them." he whispered.
Before you could respond, the master of ceremonies approached the microphone. "Ladies and Gentlemen, please take your seats. The evening’s honors are about to begin."
"That is my cue." Iqbal said, his tone returning to its formal, distant professionalim. He stepped back, giving you space, but the air he left behind felt cold. "Stay exactly where you are. I will be watching from the stage."
As he walked away, his cape-like shoulders cutting a path through the elite of the country, you clutched your glass so hard the silver rim bit into your palm.
The gala was a sea of dark suits and rigid uniforms, a world built by men, for men. While the speeches droned on about infrastructure, national security, and the "new era of cooperation," you and Rukhsaar were relegated to the periphery. You were the embroidery on the edge of a heavy tapestry—present only to lend grace and legitimacy to the men who stood at the center.
Rukhsaar, usually so bubbly, had succumbed to the sheer boredom of the political rhetoric. She spent most of the hour picking at a plate of hors d'oeuvres and whispering critiques of the other women’s jewelry. You, however, felt a growing sense of claustrophobia. The thick scent of expensive colognes and the heat of a thousand bodies under the chandeliers began to make the "sunset" silk of your saree feel like a leaden weight.
"I need air, Rukhsaar.." you whispered, adjusting the heavy gold jhumka that had begun to ache against your ear.
"Now? But the Chief of Staff is about to speak!" she hissed, though her eyes betrayed that she, too, wanted to flee.
"I’ll be on the terrace. Just for a moment."
You slipped away, moving through the crowd like a ghost in orange and gold. You found a set of heavy French doors that led to a secluded stone balcony overlooking the Sindh Club’s sprawling, light-drenched gardens. The moment you stepped outside, the humid Karachi night swallowed the sound of the clinking glasses and the monotonous drone of the microphones.
The air was cooler here, smelling of freshly cut grass and the salt of the distant sea. You leaned against the stone balustrade, closing your eyes and letting the wind play with the loose dark curls of your hair. For the first time all evening, the mask of the "dutiful daughter" slipped, and you let out a long, shuddering breath.
"The silence is much more honest than the speeches, isn't it?"
The voice didn't startle you this time. It was as if you had been expecting it—a low, resonant frequency that vibrated in the air before the words even reached you.
You opened your eyes to find Major Iqbal standing a few feet away, leaning against a pillar. He had discarded his ceremonial cap, and the harsh moonlight caught the sharp, aristocratic angles of his face. He looked less like a soldier in this light and more like a man weary of the very theater he was the star of.
"Major Saab.." you said, your voice regaining its polite, distant edge. "I didn't realize anyone else was out here."
"I find that I can only tolerate my own praises for so long," he said, stepping out of the shadows. He didn't approach you with the predatory intent of the previous nights. Instead, he kept a respectful distance, his hands clasped loosely behind his back. "It’s a performance. All of it. The medals, the toasts... it’s a hollow way to spend a Saturday."
You looked at him, surprised by the candor in his tone. This wasn't the butcher of the warehouse or the silent watcher from the car. He sounded... human.
He turned his gaze toward the garden, his expression softening into something that looked almost like regret. "I wanted to speak with you. Away from the noise. Away from your father’s watchful eyes."
You tightened your grip on your clutch, your heart skipping a beat. "About what?"
"About the night in Lyari," he said softly. He turned to face you, and for the first time, you saw a flicker of something that looked like guilt in those obsidian depths. "I realized later that the way I handled that situation... the violence you witnessed... it must have been horrifying for a girl who has known nothing but the peace of a haveli."
You stared at him, stunned. The Major was... apologizing?
"I am a man of the borders.." Iqbal continued, his voice dropping to an intimate, low register. "I have spent my life in places where mercy is a luxury we cannot afford. I forgot, for a moment, that I was in the presence of someone who still believes in the goodness of the world. I am sorry if I scared you. That was never my intent."
He took a step closer—not to trap you, but as if drawn by a genuine need for understanding. "My only goal was your safety. But the methods... they were those of a soldier, not a gentleman. I hope you can forgive the rough edges of a man who has forgotten how to be soft."
You felt a strange, confusing warmth bloom in your chest. The logic that had branded him a monster began to waver. You looked at his scarred knuckles, then back at his face. He looked sincere. He looked like a man who was genuinely pained by the thought that you feared him. Maybe you had been wrong. Maybe the "butcher" was just a role he had to play for the world, and this—this quiet, reflective man in the moonlight—was the truth.
"I... I appreciate you saying that, Major Saab.." you whispered, your defenses lowering just a fraction. "It was... a lot to take in."
"I can imagine." he murmured, a small, weary smile touching his lips. "Perhaps, in time, I can show you that there is more to me than just the uniform and the shadows."
For a moment, you felt a dangerous pull. The attention didn't feel like a curse in this moment; it felt like being seen. Truly seen.
But inside the ballroom, behind the glass doors, the Major had already won.
He didn't need to threaten you tonight. He knew that the most effective way to capture a bird wasn't to chase it, but to make the cage feel like a sanctuary. He had calculated this apology the moment he saw you in the mosque; he had waited for the moonlight to play his part. He was playing a longer game than you could ever imagine—the game of making you want to be caught.
"We should go back inside.." you said, though your voice lacked its previous coldness. "My father will be looking for me."
"Of course." Iqbal said, stepping back and gesturing for you to lead the way. "Duty calls us both."
As you walked past him, your shoulder brushed against his arm. You didn't flinch. Instead, you felt a lingering heat that stayed with you long after you re-entered the crowded room. You looked back once, seeing him still standing in the moonlight, a solitary, noble figure.
You told yourself you were being smart. You told yourself he was a good man. And in the dark corners of his mind, Major Iqbal watched your back and smiled, knowing that the first seed of doubt had been planted in the fertile soil of your heart..
The gala had reached its crescendo, the air vibrating with the success of the evening. When Rehman returned from the private lounge, he didn't just walk; he glided. His chest was puffed out, his eyes gleaming with the intoxicating high of validation. In the upper echelons of Karachi society, a man’s worth was measured by the company he kept, and tonight, Rehman was the shadow of a giant.
"Major! My apologies for the delay," Rehman said, his voice ringing with a newfound authority. "The Minister is a difficult man to escape when he has the scent of a new project."
"A man of your insight is a rare commodity in these rooms, Rehman-Bhai." Iqbal replied, his voice smoothing over your father like a velvet cloak. "I was just telling your daughter that the House of Rehman carries its own gravity tonight. You have much to be proud of."
The praise was a masterstroke. You watched as your father’s face flushed with a mixture of pride. In that moment, Iqbal wasn't just a military officer or a protector; he was the key that had unlocked the final door to your father’s ambitions.
But it was your reaction that Iqbal was truly watching.
The confusion from the balcony—that strange, misplaced warmth—still pulsed in your veins. You looked at your father’s happiness, then at the Major’s composed, noble expression. The fear that had been your constant companion for days felt suddenly... childish. Had you made him a monster in your head because you didn't understand his world? Had you mistaken the steel of a soldier for the cruelty of a villain?
As you prepared to leave, the transition was seamless. Rukhsaar joined you, her eyes wide as she took in the scene of the three of you standing together—the rising politician, the hero of the hour, and the girl in the sunset saree.
"We should be going..Baba." you said softly. But this time, when you looked at Iqbal, you didn't lower your eyes in fear. You looked at him with a tentative, searching curiosity. "Major Saab... thank you. For looking after me tonight. And for... what you said outside."
The "thank you" felt heavy in the air, a bridge built of silk over a canyon of secrets.
Iqbal’s expression didn't change, but his eyes darkened with a quiet, triumphant satisfaction. "It was my honor. Truly."
He escorted your family through the grand foyer, his presence acting as a silent command for the crowd to part. He walked beside you, his pace perfectly matched to yours, the silver insignias on his shoulders catching the light of the chandeliers one last time. He didn't touch you, but the way he shielded you from the lingering gazes of other men was different now. It didn't feel like a cage; it felt like a sanctuary.
Outside, the night had grown cooler, the salt of the sea more pronounced. The military motorcade was waiting, the engines idling in a low, powerful hum. Mir was standing by the door of the lead SUV, his face a granite mask, but he straightened his posture the moment you approached.
Iqbal stepped forward to open the door for you himself, a gesture of respect that silenced the surrounding guards. As you stepped onto the running board of the car, your hand briefly brushed against his sleeve—the heavy, rough wool of his uniform a stark contrast to the delicate silk of your saree.
"Goodnight, Rehman-Bhai. We will speak tomorrow." Iqbal said, his voice carrying the weight of a promise.
Then, he turned to you. He stood so close that the scent of his cologne—that blend of leather and ancient smoke—was the only thing you could breathe.
"Sleep well." he whispered, his voice intended only for your ears. "The city is quiet tonight. My men are on every corner between here and the haveli. You are... cherished."
He didn't say guarded. He didn't say mine. He used a word that felt like a caress, a word that fit perfectly into the "gentleman" persona he had crafted in the moonlight.
"Goodnight, Major Saab. " you replied, your voice steady.
As the car pulled away, you looked back through the rear window. Iqbal remained standing under the brilliant floodlights of the Sindh Club, a solitary figure of power and poise. He watched the car until its taillights disappeared into the Karachi night, his hand raised in a slow, dignified salute.
Inside the car, the atmosphere was electric.
Your father was leaning back, a satisfied cigar unlit in his hand. "He is a good man, Iqbal. A man of honor. I’ve never seen him so... attentive. It’s a good sign for us. A very good sign."
You leaned your head against the cool leather of the seat, watching the city blur past. The black SUVs of the escort flanked you like silent, dark angels. For the first time, you didn't feel like a prisoner.
But in the dark corners of your heart, a small, quiet voice—the one that remembered the twitch in his hand —was screaming. It was the voice of the prey that has finally stopped running because it thinks the predator has become a friend..
The drive back home was a journey through a hollow, pressurized vacuum. Inside the armored SUV, the air was stagnant, tasting of ozone and filtered oxygen. Major Iqbal sat in the rear, a statue carved from dark olive wool and cold intent. His spine never once touched the leather backrest; he remained poised, a coiled spring held back by the sheer force of military discipline. His hands rested motionless on his thighs, the drumming of his palms silent against the fabric.
To the outside world—to the Ministers he had charmed with tales of border security and the Generals who saw him as the future of the high command—he was the paragon of stoic virtue. He was the hero of the hour, the man who had neutralized a threat and returned the daughter of the House of Rehman to her father’s arms.
But inside the cockpit of his skull, the engine of his obsession was roaring at a jagged, white-hot redline. The "gentleman" was a suit of skin he was beginning to find increasingly tight.
The moment he entered his study—the mask didn't just slip; it disintegrated.
He didn't turn on the lights. He didn't need them. He moved through the ink-black hallways with the fluid, terrifying grace of a predator that had mapped every inch of its kill-zone.
He entered his study, a room that smelled of gun oil, expensive scotch, and the faint, lingering scent of the rosewater you had worn days ago—a scent he had chemically reconstructed and atomized into the ventilation. The walls were not lined with books or trophies of war, but with a grid of glowing, high-definition monitors that hummed with a low-frequency vibration, a digital heartbeat.
He sat in his heavy, high-backed leather chair, the silver insignias on his shoulders catching the cold, flickering blue light of the standby screens. His breath hitched, a sharp, predatory sound in the absolute silence.
"Show me.." he whispered.
The voice was gone. The velvet rasp he had used to apologize to you on the balcony was vanished, replaced by a jagged, hungry growl that sounded less like a man and more like the grinding of tectonic plates.
With a flick of a calloused finger, the center monitors flared to life, bathing the room in an ethereal, sickly glow.
It was the footage from the morning. He had been waiting all day, through every handshake and every glass of champagne, for this moment. The hidden pinhole lens, embedded with surgical precision behind the silver leaf of the bathroom mirror in the haveli, had captured every second of your morning ritual..
He watched.
The resolution was so high he could see the individual beads of sweat on your forehead. He watched you step out of your nightdress, the silk falling like a discarded shadow. He watched the way the steam from the hot water curled around your damp skin, clinging to the curves of your body like a lover’s ghost. On the screen, you were scrubbing yourself with a loofah—moving with a frantic, desperate intensity that bordered on self-mutilation.
Iqbal leaned forward, his face inches from the glass. His pupils dilated until the amber of his irises was a mere sliver of fire around a black void.
"Aur zor se ragro, jaan.." he murmured, his hand moving to the heavy brass buckle of his uniform belt. "Try to wash me off. Try to find the place where I end and you begin. You won’t find it. I’m under the skin now.."
He watched you oil yourself, the gold of the perfume oil slicking your limbs until you glistened like a bronze statue in the dim bathroom light. He watched your fingers—trembling, though you thought you were alone—trace the curve of your own lips. The lips he had claimed in the humid dark of your dream. He saw the stutter in your breath, the way your chest heaved as you tried to suppress the traitorous heat blooming in your nerves. He saw the terror in your eyes, and beneath it, the confusion he had planted there, and found it so arousing that he had to free his rock hard cock from his pants.
The sound system in the room, tuned to a fidelity that could pick up a heartbeat, filled the study. He heard the wet, rhythmic slap of the water against the marble. He heard the ragged, shallow gasps of your breathing. He closed his eyes for a moment, letting the sound wash over him, his head lolling back. It wasn't just audio; it was a psychological map. He could hear the exact moment your resolve broke- and he used the rhythm of your shallow breaths to stroke his cock to the image of you, in the same frantic pace of your gasps.
His movements up and down his length became rhythmic and heavy, his gaze locked with a terrifying, unblinking focus on the image of your hand tracing the mark he had left. Every time you shivered on the screen—every time the cold water hit your skin and made you gasp—his own body jolted in a sympathetic, parasitic response. It was a symphony of voyeurism; the butcher feeding on the bird’s fear, and the bird’s burgeoning, horrified desire.
"You thanked me tonight.." he hissed, his breath hitching as he hit a command to loop the footage of you in the saree. "You smiled at me. You felt the heat of my arm through the wool and you didn't pull away. You’re beginning to like the weight of the chain, aren't you?"
He reached out with one hand, his scarred knuckles—rough and darkened by years of violence—stroking the cold glass of the monitor. He traced the curve of your throat on the screen, his touch lingering over the pulse point he knew was thrumming with fear.
Suddenly, he hit another switch, and the atmosphere in the room shifted from a singular focus to a total, suffocating immersion.
The room was flooded with the recordings from the entire day. He had turned your life into a panopticon. The directional microphones in the mosque, the bugs hidden in the car’s upholstery, the tiny transmitters embedded in his uniform, into your cars and phones- he was everywhere.
"I want to feel clean, Rukhsaar..." your voice echoed from the left speaker, high and brittle.
"I’m okay, Ammi. I just needed a normal morning..." it whispered from the right, a lie that made him chuckle.
"Thank you, Major Saab... for what you said outside..." it pleaded from the speakers behind him, sounding like a prayer offered to a demon.
The room became a dissonant, terrifying cacophony of you. A thousand versions of your voice, layered over each other in a ghostly choir. He sat in the center of the digital storm, his head thrown back, his chest heaving as if he were running a race. He was drowning in the sound of you. He had colonized your home, your bathroom, your prayers, and your conversations. Your very voice was now the background music to his madness.
He looked at the wall-to-wall displays. One screen showed you laughing at lunch, the image frozen on the exact micro-expression of a fake smile. Another showed you being draped in the sunset-pink saree, the fabric looking like spilled blood in the low light. Another showed the precise moment your pupils dilated on the balcony when he had apologized.
He smirks—a jagged, terrifying expression that revealed the predator beneath the officer. The apology had been his masterpiece. A soldier’s improvisation. He had watched the exact moment your psychological defenses crumbled, the moment you traded your healthy fear for a far more dangerous, fatal curiosity.
"So easy.." he groaned, his hand tightening until his knuckles turned white. "So beautiful. So fragile. You think you’re walking toward the light, but you’re just walking deeper into the cave."
He watched the footage of you returning to the haveli after the gala. He saw you enter your bedroom, the secret camera in the ceiling fan capturing you as you sat on the edge of the bed. He watched you touch your lip in the dark, staring at the door. You weren't looking with terror anymore; you were looking with a lingering, confused anticipation. You were waiting for the shadow to return.
His strokes up and down his cock became more frantic, fast and intense, a gutteral, animalistic sound escaping his throat as your recorded voice whispered his name in a playback loop from the car ride.
Iqbal... Iqbal... Iqbal...
Again.
Iqbal... Iqbal... Iqbal...
It drove him insane, sending him over the edge of his dark, wicked ritual, cumning with an inhumane sound of total obsession and arousal. His hand, that had rested on the monitor, was twitching in the same desperate way his cock was still throbbing, unsatisfied, unfinished even after his orgasm.
The room fell into a heavy, post-coital silence, the only sound being the soft hum of the cooling monitors and the frantic ticking of a clock on the wall. Iqbal sat there, depleted of energy but glowing with a dark, malevolence. He reached for a glass of ice water on his desk, his hands now perfectly steady, his mind already three steps ahead, moving pieces on a board you didn't even know existed.
He leaned forward and pressed a button, freezing the main screen on a close-up of your face from the balcony. You were looking at him with that tentative, searching expression—the look of a prey animal that had finally stopped running and was sniffing the hand of the hunter.
He leaned in until his lips were inches from the frozen pixels of your eyes. His hot breath fogged the glass, obscuring your vision with his own vapor.
"You’re not wrong about me, jaan..." he whispered, a chilling, final promise that seemed to vibrate the very air of the room. "I am everything you fear.. I am the nightmare in the alley and the blood on the floor.. But I am also everything you want. I am the hand that guides you and the voice that tells you you’re safe. And by the time we reach the mountains, you won't be able to tell the difference between my love and my cage.."
He reached out and turned off the monitors one by one. The blue light faded, the images of your life vanishing into blackness, until the room was plunged into an absolute, suffocating void.
Dhurandhar Headcanons: Size Difference / Short S/O
Note: MINORS AND AGELESS BLOGS DO NOT INTERACT. This content is intended for audiences 18+ only.
A/N: Hi my lovlies~ here's the second part of my Headcanon series! This time it's about a short s/o, so short is a range right- so I wrote this having in mind that their s/o's height varies between 150cm-160m. It would make a size difference of 15cm at very least to Rehman. So everyone between this height feels tiny~ enjoy!
real heights of the characters/actors: shortest to tallest: Rehman, Hamza, Iqbal, Uzair = 175cm, 177cm, 181cm, 188cm. (I have no idea about feet I'm sorry)
1. Hamza:
The Reaction: Hamza finds the size difference incredibly endearing and soo fucking cute- but in a way that feels a bit patronizing (and hot). He loves the way your hand completely disappears inside his. He’ll often use his height to tease you, holding things just out of your reach just to watch you have to climb him, calling you "Tiny" and "Pocket sized" to tease you.
Cute Moments: He has a habit of "tucking" you under his arm while walking. If you’re standing in a crowd, he’ll stand directly behind you, acting like a literal human shield, resting his chin on the top of your head because it’s the perfect height. You often pout about it when he does it, which only makes him wanna do it even more just to see your cute faces.
Spicy: In the bedroom, he is obsessed with how easily he can manipulate your body. He loves picking you up mid-kiss—your legs wrapped around his waist, your feet not even coming close to the floor. Because he’s buff and you’re small, he’ll carry you to the bed without breaking a sweat, this man is BEEFY and so muscular-making you feel completely weightless and at his mercy, and oh girl he's gonna make it a whole damn forplay istg-
"Yeah you hold onto my arms nice and tight, I got you, I'll make sure you take every inch pretty girl, but I'll have to put your on your tip toes for it, you can do that for me? Good girl~"
2. Rehman:
The Reaction: Rehman is the most "gentle" about it, but also the most hyper-aware. He’s the shortest of the men but- he's so full of self confidence and sheer authority hes still fucking towering you. He’s constantly aware of you being small and treats you like a Queen. He finds your small hands against his broad, scarred chest to be the most beautiful sight in the world, and can't get enough of seeing you touch him.
Cute Moments: When you are out in a crowded, bustling area (like a busy market or a loud event), Rehman doesn't hold your hand like a boyfriend—he grips your shoulder or the nape of your neck with a firm, steadying hand, telling you to stay close. Because you are so much shorter, he creates space for you. He’ll walk slightly ahead or beside you, using his authority to make people go out of your way without saying a word. If he feels you're getting overwhelmed by the crowd, he’ll simply tuck you against his side, his arm acting like a solid iron bar across your shoulders, keeping you tethered to him —it’s possessive, but it's protective. It’s him silently signaling to everyone else that you are under his protection.
Spicy: During his "Pinned Missionary" sessions, his size is overwhelming. He can pin both of your wrists above your head with just one of his hands. He loves the visual of your small frame being "swallowed up" by his. He’ll use his weight to ground you, murmuring about how "delicate" you look under him before showing you exactly how much strength he’s holding back.-
"Does that feel heavy? Good. I want you to feel every pound of me Jaan, take it nicely like that.. Don't move. You’re not going anywhere until I’ve had every bit of you.."
3. Iqbal:
The Reaction: Iqbal treats the size difference as a mark of ownership. He loves that you have to look so far up to meet his eyes. It reinforces the power dynamic he craves. To him, your smallness isn't "cute"—it’s a reason for him to be your absolute protector, and hunter at the same damn time- it makes him go primal.
Cute Moments: He doesn't ask you to move; he just moves you. If you’re in his way, he’ll put his hands on your waist and literally lift you to the side like you weigh nothing. You cant reach your book on the shelf? Hes gonna lift you up so you can get it. He also loves to make you sit on his lap during quiet evenings, his large arms acting like a cage around your small frame that keeps you warm.
Spicy: He is a Hard Dom, and the size gap fuels his Bondage kink. He likes how little rope or leather it takes to secure you. He’ll often put you in positions that emphasize how tiny you are compared to him— having you kneeling between his legs where you feel dwarfed by his buff thighs and towering height and mouth wide open.-
"You're so fucking pretty like this... I could break you without trying. But I won't. I'm going to keep you. I’m going to make sure everyone knows that this little thing on her knees belongs to me, Do you understand? Tell me who you’re serving and open your pretty mouth for me"
4. Uzair:
The Reaction: Uzair is the tallest, and he uses every centimeter of it to intimidate and flirt. He loves the "looming" effect. He thinks it’s hilarious when you get mad, looking down at your "tiny, angry face" with a smirk that says he isn't taking your threats seriously at all girl~ But- He's used to being taller than most people so while he still thinks that its super cute he isn't that aware of it as the other bunch.
Cute Moments: He’ll use your head as an armrest. It drives you insane. but he loves the physical proximity. He also likes to "kidnap" you—picking you up over his shoulder (fireman's carry) and walking out of a room when he decides he’s done sharing your attention with others, not caring at all who's in the room with you two. He would also love to tease you all the time, with the littlest things like when you are busy on your phone, he would take it from you and challenge you to jump and reach for it, just to see you bounce a bit~
Spicy: Damn girl.. Mirror position is lethal with this size gap. Standing behind you, he can see your entire body in the reflection absolutely unable to take his eyes of your exposed body for a second,nearly hidden by his own. He’ll make you look at the mirror to see how small your hands look pressed against his buff forearms. The visual of the height gap in the mirror, while he’s whispering dark things in your ear, having to lean down to reach it, is his ultimate turn-on and has you shaking.
"Watch that.. fuck...I want you to watch you take every inch of me..slowly yes..You’re so tight, so tiny... dont look away, Watch every inch slide into your greedy pussy.. you can take it perfectly Doll~"
