#uzzi

The sun rose over Lyari, but inside the Haveli, the light felt filtered, muted by the heavy stone and the high, narrow windows.

Yusra sat before the same mirror where she had seen his shrine the night before. She was draped in a sunflower-yellow saree, the fabric light and airy, contrasting sharply with the blood-red glass bangles that encrusted her slender wrists. Every time she moved, the bangles clinked, a rhythmic, delicate sound that felt like a countdown.

She bit her lip, her hazel eyes tracing the purple-yellow bruises on her collarbone that the yellow silk couldn't quite hide. She hadn't slept. Every creak of the floorboards had sounded like his boots. Every shift of the wind had sounded like his voice.

But Uzair hadn't come.

His side of the room, if it was even his room, was untouched. The bed was a vast, cold expanse of expensive linen. He had claimed her with a signature and a death, and then he had vanished into the shadows of his war.

A soft knock sounded at the door. Not the heavy, demanding thud of a guard, but something measured.

"Bhabhi?"

It was a woman's voice, low, respectful, and entirely unfamiliar.

Yusra didn't answer. she couldn't. Her throat felt as though it were filled with the dust of the Lyari streets. The door opened slowly, and an older woman entered, carrying a silver tray of breakfast. Saffron parathas, fresh fruit, and a cup of steaming tea.

"Uzair Bhai said you would be awake," the woman said, her eyes averted. She didn't look at Yusra’s bruises. She didn't look at her tears. "He said to tell you the Haveli is yours to walk through. The garden is open. But the gates stay locked for your protection."

Yusra looked at the tea, the steam curling into the air. "Where is he?"

"He is with Rehman Bhai," the woman replied. "Business. He said he would return for dinner. He asked that you... try to eat. He doesn't like it when his things go to waste."

His things. Yusra stood up, the yellow saree rustling. She walked to the window. From this height, she could see the dust clouds of Lyari. Somewhere out there, Arshad was screaming for her blood. Somewhere out there, the world was on fire.

But here, in Uzair’s silence, there was only the suffocating respect of a man who was waiting for her to realize she had nowhere else to go. He wasn't rushing her. He was starving her of any other option until his presence was the only thing that felt like oxygen.

For three days, the Haveli was a tomb of high-end comforts.

Yusra wandered the halls like a vibrant, bird in a stone cage. Every morning, the same silent woman, Zeba, brought her breakfast. Every afternoon, the heavy oak doors to the garden were unlocked, allowing her to sit among the jasmine and bougainvillea. But the perimeter walls were twenty feet high, topped with glass shards and guarded by men who didn't even look at her when she passed.

Uzair was never there. Or rather, he was never seen.

But his presence was everywhere.

A new silk shawl left on the armchair, exactly the shade of her hazel eyes.

A jar of expensive, cooling ointment for her bruises placed on her vanity while she bathed.

The books in the library were suddenly all in Urdu and Persian, the languages she loved, as if the shelves had rearranged themselves for her.

He was respecting her space, but in doing so, he was colonizing her mind. Every gift felt like a reminder, I know what you like. I know what you need. I am the only one looking after you.

On the fourth evening, the heavy front doors groaned open.

Yusra was in the dining hall, staring at a plate of saffron rice she hadn't touched. She heard the rhythmic, methodical click of boots. Her heart did a frantic somersault against her ribs. She didn't turn around. She couldn't.

Uzair Baloch stepped into the light of the chandelier. He looked exhausted, the shadows under his eyes matching the dark charcoal of his waistcoat. He smelled of the dusty Lyari streets and expensive tobacco.

He didn't walk to her. He stopped at the sideboard, pouring himself a glass of water, his movements precise and calm.

"The yellow suits you," he said. His voice was a low, smooth rasp that seemed to vibrate in the pit of her stomach. "It’s the color of the sun. Something this house hasn't seen in a long time."

Yusra finally looked at him. He wasn't looking at her like a predator; he was looking at her with a weary, almost soft respect.

"Where have you been?" she whispered. The question slipped out before she could stop it. It sounded almost like she had missed him, the ultimate victory for his trap.

"Negotiating your safety," Uzair replied. He walked toward the table but stopped three feet away, the boundary he had set for himself. "Arshad burned a Baloch warehouse in the docks today. He’s screaming for his stolen property."

Yusra flinched at the word property.

"I told him," Uzair continued, his gaze dropping to the healing bruise on her wrist, "that property can be returned. but a Wife belongs to the house she signs for. He didn't like the distinction."

He sat down at the far end of the long table. He didn't demand she serve him. He didn't demand she speak. He simply ate in a companionable, terrifying silence.

"You haven't touched the ointment I left," he remarked after a moment.

"I don't want anything from you," Yusra breathed, though her voice lacked conviction.

Uzair leaned back, his dark eyes locking onto hers. "It isn't a gift, Yusra. It’s a necessity. Your skin is too fine to be marked by men like Arshad. If you won't apply it yourself..." He paused, his voice dropping an octave, becoming a silken threat disguised as an offer. "...I will have to do it for you. And I think we both know you aren't ready for my hands on your skin yet."

"I’m a patient man," he added, a thin, ghost of a smile touching his lips. "I can wait for the bruises to fade. I can wait for you to realize that in all of Lyari, this is the only room where no one is shouting at you."

He stood up, leaving his plate half-full. He bowed his head slightly, a gesture of respect that felt like a mockery of her imprisonment.

"Rest well, meri jaan. Tomorrow, Hamza is coming. He has some... news about your mother’s old belongings at the kothi. I thought you might want them."

He turned and walked out, leaving her alone in the massive, silent room. Yusra looked at the red bangles on her wrists. They felt heavier tonight.

The sun was setting, casting long, bleeding orange bars across the floor of the upper hallway. Yusra was trying to retreat to her room, her yellow saree rustling with her hurried footsteps, when a shadow detached itself from the doorway of the study.

"You're limping today, Yusra."

Uzair’s voice was like a low-frequency hum, stopping her mid-stride. He was leaning against the doorframe, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, revealing the corded muscle of his forearms. In his hand, he held the small, silver jar of ointment.

"I'm fine," she whispered, her hazel eyes darting toward her bedroom door.

"You aren't." He moved. It wasn't a run; it was that methodical, predatory glide. Before she could gasp, he had her.

He didn't grab her roughly. He simply stepped into her space, his large frame eclipsing the light, and pressed her back. Her spine hit the cold wood panelling of the hallway, right between two framed photos of her younger self.

"Uzair, let me go," she hissed, her hands coming up to push against his chest. It was like trying to move a mountain of warm granite.

"I gave you three days to do it yourself," Uzair said, his voice terrifyingly calm. He trapped her wrists against the wall with one hand, pinning them above her head. His touch was firm, but he didn't bruise her. He was too respectful of her existing pain for that. "The purple on your neck is turning green. That means the blood is stagnant. It needs to be worked out."

He opened the jar with his teeth, the metallic click of the lid echoing in the silent hall.

"No," she whimpered, twisting her head away. "Don't touch me. You're no better than Arshad."

Uzair froze. He leaned in, his face inches from hers, his dark eyes boring into her hazel ones. "Arshad gave you those marks to break you, Yusra. I am touching you to erase him. There is a difference."

He dipped two fingers into the cool, translucent cream. With a slow, deliberate motion, he reached for her neck.

Yusra shivered as the cold ointment met her heated skin. His thumb began to move in small, firm circles over the bruised column of her throat. It was an intimate, suffocating sensation. She tried to pull away, but he leaned his weight into her, his chest pinning her petite figure against the wall.

"Don't fight me," he murmured, his breath ghosting over her lips. "It only hurts because you're tense."

His hand migrated lower, sliding beneath the gold-bordered edge of her yellow saree to reach her collarbone. His touch was methodical, a soldier’s precision applied to a woman’s anatomy. He traced the delicate bone, his fingers lingering on the dip of her throat.

"The one on your waist," he whispered, his gaze dropping. "The one from the belt buckle. It’s inflamed."

"Uzair, please-"

He didn't ask. He tucked the silk of her saree aside, exposing the pale skin of her waist. The bruise there was the ugliest, a deep, angry crimson. As his cool fingers touched the sensitive skin of her side, Yusra let out a broken sob, her knees buckling.

Uzair caught her, his arm winding around her waist to hold her upright, pulling her flush against his body. For the first time, she felt the hard line of his holster against her hip and the steady, thumping beat of his heart.

He didn't move. He stayed there, his hand resting on the small of her back, his fingers still coated in the medicine.

"There," he said, his voice a low rasp near her ear. "The medicine is on. The marks will fade. And when they do..." He pulled back just enough to look her in the eye, his expression one of calm, terrifying possession. "...only my marks will remain. The ones I choose to leave."

Uzair didn't pull away immediately. He lingered, his thumb still resting on the sensitive skin of her waist, watching the way her hazel eyes darkened from terror to a sharp, jagged defiance.

"Finished?" Yusra spat. Her voice was a low, trembling rasp, but the edge of it was serrated. She didn't shrink back this time. She leaned forward, her petite frame vibrating with a sudden, reckless energy. "Or do you need to map out the rest of the bruises my brother gave me so you can add them to your collection on the wall?"

She jerked her arm, the red glass bangles shattering against the wood panelling with a sharp crack. A few shards fell to the floor, glittering like drops of blood.

"You think because you put some cream on me and killed a boy, I’m going to start pouring your tea?" She stepped into his space, her chest heaving against the charcoal silk of his waistcoat. "I’ve survived Arshad Pappu for nineteen years, Uzair Baloch. I’ve seen men like you come and go in the kothi since I was old enough to walk. You’re just a more expensive version of the same filth."

Uzair didn't flinch. He didn't even tighten his grip.

Instead, a slow, terrifyingly calm twitch started at the corner of his mouth. It wasn't a full grin, Uzair didn't do anything that loudly, but it was a ripple in his methodical mask.

"There she is," he whispered.

He leaned down, his eyes scanning her face with a hunger that had nothing to do with her body and everything to do with her spirit.

"I was starting to worry Arshad had finally beaten it out of you," he remarked, his voice a silken hum. "I remember a Tuesday, three years ago. You threw a hot cup of kahwa at a man twice your size because he touched your mother’s shoulder. You spent two days in a cellar for that. And yet, the next week, you did it again."

Yusra’s breath hitched. The fire in her eyes flickered with a sudden, cold realization. "You... you were there?"

"I am always there, Yusra," he said, his hand moving to trace the line of her jaw, ignoring the way she tried to bite his finger. "I’ve watched you burn for years. Why do you think I brought you to a fortress built of stone? Any other house would have turned to ash by now."

"Then let it burn!" she hissed, shoving his chest with both hands. This time, she caught him off guard, forcing him to take a half-step back. "I’d rather be a pile of soot than a trophy in your hallway. You want a wife? Go find someone who doesn't want to slit your throat while you sleep. Because the second I find a blade sharper than your medicine jar, Uzair, I’m going to see if your blood is as cold as your heart."

Uzair stared at her for a long beat. The silence in the hallway was absolute.

Then, he reached out and plucked a stray shard of the broken red bangle from her hair. He held it up to the light, then tucked it into his waistcoat pocket, right over his heart.

"I look forward to it, Jaan," he said, the ghost of that smile lingering. "But for now... go change your bangles. You're bleeding from the wrist. And I’d hate for you to stain that yellow saree before I’ve had the chance to see you in it at dinner."

"OI! UZAIR! Are you done playing doctor or should I come back when the romance is less... stabby?"

The voice boomed from the bottom of the stairs, accompanied by the heavy, rhythmic thud of boots. Hamza appeared at the landing, tossing a set of keys into the air and catching them with a flashy flourish.

He took one look at the broken glass on the floor, Yusra’s flushed, fiery face, and the uncharacteristic look of amusement on Uzair’s face.

"Oho," Hamza whistled, leaning against the banister. "The kitten has claws. Careful, Uzair, if she takes your eye out, Rehman bhai will have to lead the next raid himself."

He turned his grin toward Yusra, but there was a flicker of genuine curiosity in his eyes. "Bhabhi, you look like you’re ready to declare war. Good. Because your brother just sent a 'wedding gift' to the lower gate. And trust me... it’s not a toaster."

It was a heavy silver box, filigreed with delicate patterns of vines and thorns. It sat on the Persian runner, looking horribly out of place next to the shards of Yusra’s broken red bangles.

"Uzair, don't," Hamza muttered, his hand dropping to the hilt of his tucked-away pistol. His usual charismatic spark was gone, replaced by a dark, protective instinct. "It’s a Pathan message. You know what’s in there."

Uzair didn't move. He stood with his hands behind his back, his methodical gaze fixed on the silver box. "She wanted to know if I was any different from Arshad," he said, his voice a low, terrifyingly calm vibration. "Let her see what 'family' looks like in the house she left."

Yusra stepped forward, her yellow saree rustling like dry leaves. Her heart was a drum in her ears. "Open it," she whispered, her chin trembling but her hazel eyes still burning with that jagged fire.

Uzair reached down. With a slow, deliberate click, he flipped the latch.

The smell hit her first, not the copper of fresh blood, but the cloying, sweet scent of jasmine.

Inside, nestled on a bed of white blossoms, lay a small, wrinkled object. It was a human tongue, severed cleanly at the root. Beside it lay a gold ring, the one Yusra had given to Dai, the elderly servant who used to hide sweets in her pockets and whisper stories of the stars when Arshad’s beatings were too much to bear.

Yusra’s breath hitched, a jagged, broken sound that seemed to tear her throat. The world tilted. The yellow of her saree felt like a mockery; the healing ointment on her skin felt like acid.

"She talked too much, apparently," Uzair remarked, his voice devoid of emotion as he looked at the box. "She told Arshad’s men that you looked 'heavenly' when I took you. She said she hoped you’d finally find a man who didn't use a belt. This is her receipt."

Yusra staggered back, her hand flying to her mouth to stifle a scream that wouldn't come. Her hazel eyes flooded, the fire finally extinguished by a tidal wave of grief and guilt.

"She’s dead because of me," she choked out, her petite frame collapsing.

She didn't fall to the floor. Uzair was there.

He caught her, his large, calloused hands gripping her shoulders with that terrifying, methodical respect. He didn't pull her into a hug; he held her upright, forcing her to look at the silver box, forcing her to see the reality of her life.

"She’s dead because Arshad is a butcher," Uzair corrected her, his face inches from hers. "And because you are a prize that men kill for. Do you understand now, Yusra? This is why the gates are locked. This is why I watch you from the shadows. Every person you love is a target. Only I am the shield."

Yusra looked up at him through her tears, her face pale, her freckles stark against her milky skin. She reached out, her fingers digging into the charcoal silk of his waistcoat, right over the pocket where he had tucked the shard of her broken bangle.

"You knew," she hissed, her voice a broken, jagged thing. "You knew he would do this. You let it happen so I’d have no one else to turn to."

Uzair didn't blink. He didn't deny it. He simply reached up and wiped a tear from her cheek with his thumb, the same thumb that had just applied medicine to her bruises.

"I don't control the tiger's hunger, meri jaan," he whispered. "I only build the cage that keeps the tiger out. Now, go to your room. Hamza and I have a city to burn."

He turned to Hamza, his methodical mask snapping back into place. "Tell the boys at the docks. Every Pathan warehouse. No survivors. I want Arshad to hear the screaming from his own bedroom."

Hamza nodded, his jaw set. He looked at Yusra one last time, a look of genuine pity, before following Uzair down the stairs.

Yusra stood alone in the hallway, surrounded by her own photos and the severed tongue of the only woman who loved her. She looked at the silver box, then at her own hands.

The silver box on the floor blurred as the scent of jasmine fused with a phantom smell from a decade ago, the metallic tang of blood and the scorched-earth scent of old leather.

The floor of the Pathan Haveli had been cold, a jagged, unforgiving stone that pressed against Yusra’s seven-year-old cheek.

She lay there in a heap of tangled black hair and a torn cotton kameez, her petite frame convulsing with every ragged breath. Each inhalation felt like a blade scraping against her ribs. Behind her, the rhythmic crack-thwack of Arshad’s belt had finally stopped, replaced by the heavy, receding thud of his boots and the jingle of his brass buckle.

"Cry quieter," Arshad had spat before slamming the door. "Or I’ll give you something to actually weep about, you kothi-born brat."

Yusra didn’t cry louder. She couldn't. Her voice had died somewhere between the fourth and fifth strike. She just clawed at the stone floor, her tiny fingernails leaving faint white marks on the grey surface.

A pair of calloused, warm hands, smelling of turmeric and cheap rosewater, slid under her armpits. Dai Zeva didn't say a word at first. She simply lifted the trembling child into her lap, ignoring the way Yusra’s blood stained her own white dupatta.

"Shh, meri jaan. Shh," the old woman whispered, rocking her back and forth in the corner of the dark cellar.

Zeva’s hands were rough from years of scouring pots, but as she smoothed the hair away from Yusra’s sweaty, tear-streaked face, they felt like silk. She reached into her pocket and pulled out a small, crushed sugar cube, pressing it against Yusra’s trembling lips.

"Eat, child. Bitterness is for the men outside. We keep the sweetness in here," Zeva murmured, her voice a low, melodic shield against the world.

"It hurts, Dai," Yusra had whimpered, her hazel eyes glassy with a pain no seven-year-old should know. "I want to go to the stars. He says I’m a stain. He says I’m nothing."

Zeva had tightened her grip, pulling the girl’s head against her heart. "Listen to me, Yusra. You are the moon trapped in a well. One day, the bucket will come. One day, a man will realize that your fire is worth more than all the gold in Lyari. You will be free, my little princess. You will walk through gates that open for you, not close on you."

"When?" Yusra had sobbed into the old woman's chest.

"When the time is right," Zeva had whispered, kissing her forehead. "Until then, we survive. We hide our fire under the ash, but we never let it go out."

The memory shattered as the silver box clinked.

Yusra stood in the hallway of Uzair's Haveli, her hands shaking so violently that the red bangles, the ones that hadn't broken, rattled like a warning.

Dai had been wrong. The bucket hadn't come to save her from the well, it had just moved her to a deeper one. The gates hadn't opened for her, they had been seized by a man who had been watching her since she was that broken child on the floor.

She looked at Uzair. He was standing by the stairs, his methodical gaze fixed on her. He didn't offer a hug. He didn't offer a sugar cube. He offered a war.

"She told me you'd be free," Yusra whispered, her voice a jagged ghost of that seven-year-old's sob. She looked at the silver box, then back at him. "Is this what she meant, Uzair? Being a secret in a hallway of ghosts? Is this the 'freedom' you promised her when you were watching us?"

Uzair’s expression didn't change, but his jaw tightened, the only sign that her words had hit a nerve. He walked toward her, stepping over the broken glass, and stopped just outside her personal space.

"Freedom is a lie people tell children to keep them from jumping off roofs, Yusra," he said, his voice a low, cold rasp. "In Lyari, there is only ownership and being owned. I chose to own you so no one else could ever use a belt on you again."

He reached out, his thumb catching a stray tear.

"Now, the fire is out of the ash. Use it."

The fire that had flared in the hallway didn't just flicker out, it was drowned.

Yusra didn't scream. She didn't throw another shard of glass. She simply reached up, her milky-white fingers trembling as they wrapped around Uzair’s wrist. For a heartbeat, she held his hand there, feeling the heat of the skin that had just medicated her and the pulse of a man who dealt in death. Then, with a slow, agonizing finality, she pushed his hand away.

It was the quietest rejection he had ever faced, and for a man like Uzair, it was louder than a gunshot.

She didn't look at him. She didn't look at the silver box. She turned, her yellow saree heavy like lead, and walked toward her bedroom. Her footsteps made no sound on the Persian runner, but the rhythmic, hollow clink of her remaining red bangles sounded like a funeral march.

The bedroom door clicked shut, the bolt sliding home with a definitive thud.

Inside, the room was bathed in the bruised purple of the Pakistani twilight. Yusra didn't turn on the lights. She didn't go to the bed. She sank onto the floor, her back against the heavy mahogany door, and pulled her knees to her chest.

She wasn't a queen. She wasn't a trophy. She was just that seven-year-old girl in the cellar again, smelling the turmeric and rosewater of a woman who was now a silenced witness. The freedom Dai had promised had turned into a gilded cage of surveillance and blood-retribution.

"I'm sorry," she whispered into the silence of the room. "I'm so sorry, Dai."

Outside the door, Uzair stood motionless.

He didn't knock. He didn't demand she come out. He simply stared at the wood of the door as if he could see through it, his methodical mind already calculating the psychological cost of the night. He had expected her to be angry. He had expected her to fight. He hadn't expected her to simply... leave.

Hamza walked up behind him, his boots crunching on the shards of the broken bangles. He looked at the closed door, then at his brother’s rigid silhouette.

"You pushed too hard, Uzair," Hamza said, his voice unusually stripped of its bravado. "She’s not a territory you can just annex and expect the locals to cheer. She’s a girl whose only light just went out."

Uzair’s jaw tightened. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the shard of the red glass he had kept. He looked at it, a jagged, sharp reminder of her fire, and then tucked it back away.

"The light didn't go out, Hamza," Uzair replied, his voice a low, terrifyingly steady rasp. "It just went underground. And I’ve spent my whole life learning how to navigate the dark."

He turned away from the door, his eyes snapping back into the cold, tactical focus of the Baloch strategist.

"Let’s go. I want Arshad’s docks to be visible from the moon by midnight."

As the roar of the SUV’s engine faded into the distance, leaving the Strategic Haveli in a suffocating silence, Yusra stayed on the floor.

She reached into the folds of her saree and pulled out the small jar of ointment Uzair had used on her. She stared at it in the moonlight.

She unscrewed the lid, the scent of the medicine filling the small, dark space. With a shaking hand, she began to rub it into her own wrists, over the marks where the bangles had bitten into her skin during her escape attempt.

The dawn over Lyari was a sickly, bruised purple, the kind of light that usually signaled the end of a nightmare. For Yusra, it was just the beginning of a new, quieter terror.

She hadn't slept. She had spent the night sitting by the window, watching the distant orange glow of the docks, the fires Uzair had lit in her name. When the heavy hum of the SUV finally rumbled into the courtyard, she didn't hide. She stood up, her saree wrinkled, her red bangles silent.

Uzair didn't knock. He didn't even try the handle. He simply slumped against the door of her bedroom from the outside. She heard the heavy thud of his shoulder hitting the wood, followed by the jagged, uneven sound of his breathing.

Yusra pulled the bolt.

The door swung open, and Uzair Baloch almost fell into the room. He was a wreck of charcoal silk and soot. His methodical mask was cracked; a deep, jagged cut ran across his cheekbone, weeping blood onto his collar, and his knuckles were raw, the skin split from the violence of the night.

But in his hand, clutched with a terrifying tightness, was a small, grimy velvet pouch.

He looked up at her, his dark eyes bloodshot and unfocused. he simply reached out and dropped the pouch into her lap as she sank to her knees in front of him.

"He... he had it in his safe," Uzair rasped, his voice a broken vibration. "He took it from your mother's body before the funeral. I made him give it back."

Yusra opened the pouch. Inside was a heavy, silver pejab, her mother's anklet. the tiny bells tarnished with age but unmistakable. It was the only thing her mother had ever truly owned, the only thing Arshad had stolen to erase her memory.

The sight of the silver anklet snapped something inside Yusra. the grief didn't go away, but her no-tolerance fire flickered back to life, this time, directed at the man bleeding in front of her.

"You're a fool, Uzair Baloch," she whispered, her voice sharp despite the tears. "You burn a city for a piece of silver? You think this makes us even?"

She didn't wait for an answer. She stood up, grabbed the basin of water from the vanity, and the silver jar of ointment he had forced on her the night before.

"Sit," she commanded. It wasn't a request; it was the voice of a woman who had seen too much blood to be afraid of it anymore.

Uzair sat on the floor, his back against the bedframe, watching her with a dazed, almost submissive intensity. He had followed her for years from the shadows, but he had never been this close to her fire.

Yusra dipped a white cloth into the water. She reached out, her petite hand steady as she tilted his chin up.

"Don't move," she hissed as she pressed the cloth to the cut on his cheek.

Uzair flinched, his hand instinctively going to her wrist, the predator's reflex. But when he felt the softness of her skin, he let go immediately. He closed his eyes, leaning his face into her touch, a low, pained groan escaping his throat.

"You're a monster," she murmured, her fingers moving with a clinical, angry grace. She wiped the soot from his forehead, the blood from his jaw. "You're a stalker and a murderer. You build cages and call them homes."

She opened the silver jar. She dipped her fingers into the cool, translucent cream, the same medicine he had used to claim her collarbone. Now, she was using it to reclaim him.

As she applied the ointment to the cut on his face, her thumb brushed against his lips. Uzair’s eyes snapped open. The methodical strategist was gone; there was only a man who was drowning in the proximity of the woman he had deified.

"Why?" he whispered, his voice a raw thread. "Why heal the man who took everything from you?"

Yusra paused, her fingers lingering on his cheek, the scent of the medicine and the smoke of his war hanging between them. She looked at the silver pejab lying on the floor.

"Because Arshad leaves wounds to let them rot," she said, her hazel eyes locking onto his with a fierce, jagged clarity. "But I am a Pathan. We don't leave things half-finished. I’m healing you, Uzair, so that when I finally leave this house, I don't owe you a single drop of blood."

Uzair stared at her, a slow, dark shadow of a smile touching his lips despite the pain. He reached out, his hand hovering near her waist but not touching, respecting the boundary she hadn't yet lowered.

"You'll never owe me, Yusra," he whispered. "The debt was paid the moment you put that yellow saree on. Now, I am just the man who keeps the world from touching you."

He didn't pull away. He didn't even flinch at the sting of the ointment. Instead, his hand shot out, his fingers wrapping around her wrist with the speed of a coiled snake. He didn't squeeze to hurt, but he anchored her there, her palm pressed flat against his scarred, soot-stained cheek.

"You think you’re healing me to settle a debt?" Uzair’s voice was no longer a raspy thread; it was a low, terrifyingly resonant vibration that seemed to come from the very floorboards of the Haveli.

He leaned forward, forcing her to stay on her knees, his face inches from hers. The smell of smoke, expensive tobacco, and the clinical scent of the ointment swirled between them.

"Listen to me, Yusra," he whispered, his dark eyes locking onto her hazel ones with a predatory focus that made the air in the room feel thin. "You can wash the blood off my face. You can hate the walls I built. You can even try to slit my throat while I sleep."

He pulled her hand down, pressing her palm directly over his heart, which was thudding with a slow, heavy, and violent rhythm.

"But you are never leaving this house. Not as a Pathan. Not as a guest. And certainly not as a stranger. my wife."

Yusra tried to pull back, her defiance flaring in her eyes, but Uzair was a wall of charcoal silk and immovable intent. He leaned in until his forehead rested against hers, a gesture that was both a prayer and a threat.

"As long as there is breath in my lungs, you are mine," he breathed, the words hitting her skin like a brand. "And as long as I am standing between you and the world, I am yours. There is no 'freedom' coming, Jaan. There is only us. In this hallway. In this dark. Until they put us both in the ground."

The obsession he had nurtured for years, the thousands of hours spent watching her through lenses and cracked doors, finally boiled over. He wasn't the strategic Baloch in this moment, he was the man who had burned a harbour just to get her a silver anklet.

"You are the only thing I have ever wanted that wasn't for the gang," he confessed, his voice dropping to a jagged, intimate crawl. "And I don't give up territory. Especially not the territory that lives inside my soul."

Yusra felt the heat of him, the sheer weight of a man who had decided her fate years before she even knew his name. She looked at the silver pejab on the floor, the price of his "love."

"Then you’ve traded your soul for a prisoner," she spat, her voice trembling but her gaze never wavering. "Because you can own my name, Uzair. You can own my body. But you will never own the part of me that remembers what you are."

Uzair didn't look bothered. He reached up, his thumb tracing the line of her lower lip, his touch possessing and methodical once more.

"I have time, Yusra," he whispered, the ghost of that terrifying smile returning. "I’ve waited ten years to bring you home. I can wait another fifty for you to realize that the cage only feels tight because you’re trying to fly back to a fire that already burned you."

I really want him to kidnap me as well😔🖐