The cold, damp air of the old sewers clung to their skin as Aroohi and Ahil stumbled through the narrow back exit into the hidden underground chamber. Ahil's arm was slung over her shoulder, his weight heavier with every step, but he refused to lean fully—stubborn as always.
The moment the heavy iron door clicked shut behind them, sealing out the echoes of Ibrahim's men, Ahil flicked on the single lantern. Dim golden light flooded the small Khanzada safe house: a forgotten room with stone walls, a worn mattress in the corner, a dusty table, and shelves stocked with emergency supplies.
Ahil slid down the wall, finally letting exhaustion show. Blood had soaked through the makeshift bandage on his shoulder. "We're safe… for tonight."
Aroohi dropped to her knees in front of him, hands already reaching for the medical kit on the shelf. "Sit still. You're still bleeding."
Her voice was sharp, but her fingers trembled as she cut away the ruined fabric of his shirt. Bare skin revealed—strong, scarred, marked by years of violence. She tried not to stare. Failed.
Ahil watched her every move, eyes dark and unreadable. "You don't have to do this, Malika."
"Shut up," she muttered, cleaning the wound with antiseptic. He hissed in pain, but didn't flinch away. When her fingers brushed his chest accidentally, electricity shot through them both.
His hand caught hers, stopping her. "Look at me."
She did. And regretted it instantly.
His gaze was fire—raw, intense, stripping away every layer of hate she'd built over years. "You're shaking."
"I'm angry," she lied.
"No." His thumb stroked her wrist, right over the faint scar he'd stitched himself as a boy. "You're feeling exactly what I've felt for years."
The air thickened. Silence stretched, broken only by their breathing and the distant drip of water.
Aroohi tried to pull her hand back. He didn't let go.
"You're my wife," he said, voice low, dangerous. "Nikah done. Signed. Sealed. You ran from it. From me. But Allah knows. I know. And deep down… you know."
Her heart slammed against her ribs. The forced nikah—arranged by their fathers before the betrayal, meant to unite the families—had always been her cage. She'd hated him for it. Blamed him for it.
But now, with his blood on her hands and his eyes burning into her soul, it felt like something else entirely.
"I never accepted you," she whispered, but her body betrayed her—leaning closer.
Ahil's free hand rose, slow and deliberate, cupping her jaw. "Then why are you on your knees for me right now?"
The challenge hung between them.
She surged forward.
Their lips crashed—no hesitation, no gentleness. This wasn't a soft confession. This was war turning into surrender. Aroohi kissed him like she wanted to punish him, teeth grazing his lip, hands fisting in his hair. Ahil growled low in his throat, pulling her fully into his lap, careful of his wound but relentless in every other way.
She straddled him, wet clothes clinging, bodies pressed so close no space remained for hate.
His hands slid under her shirt—bold, claiming—palms hot against her cold skin, tracing the curve of her waist, her spine, pulling her tighter. She gasped into his mouth, arching when his fingers dug into her hips.
"You've always been mine," he rasped against her neck, lips trailing fire down her throat. "Nikah or no nikah. From the day you pointed that dagger at me… I was yours."
Aroohi's head fell back, breath ragged. "I still hate you."
"Liar," he murmured, nipping her collarbone. One hand slipped higher, brushing the edge of her bra, teasing but not crossing—yet. "Your body doesn't lie. Your pulse doesn't lie."
She rocked against him instinctively, drawing a sharp groan from him. The friction was maddening—clothes too much, air too thick, desire too long denied.
"Say it," he demanded, voice rough with restraint. "Say you want this. Want me. Your husband."
The word sent a jolt through her—husband. Forbidden. True.
"I…" She gripped his face, forcing him to meet her eyes. Tears mixed with rain on her lashes. "I want you. Even if I shouldn't. Even if it destroys me."
That was all he needed.
He flipped them—gently, mindful of his injury—pinning her beneath him on the mattress. His mouth claimed hers again, deeper, slower, worshipping. Clothes came off piece by piece—hers, his—until skin met skin, heat against heat.
Every touch was electric. Every kiss a confession.
He whispered her name like dua against her skin. She moaned his like a curse and a prayer.
In that underground sanctuary, enemies dissolved. The nikah wasn't a chain anymore—it was a thread pulling them together, binding them in fire and truth.
They moved together—bold, passionate, unrestrained—years of tension exploding into something beautiful and dangerous.
After, tangled in each other's arms, sweat-slick and breathless, Aroohi traced lazy patterns on his chest.
"If Ibrahim finds us now…" she whispered.
Ahil kissed her temple. "Let him come. I have something worth fighting for now."
She smiled against his skin—small, real. "We're still enemies in the morning."
He chuckled darkly. "Good. I like it when you fight me."
(Meanwhile – Hadia & Zain)
In a crumbling warehouse across the city, Hadia pressed Zain against a crate, re-bandaging his wound with shaking hands.
"You're reckless," she scolded, but her voice cracked.
Zain pulled her close, kissing her slow and deep. "Only for you."
No nikah bound them—only promises and newfound trust. But the fire between them burned just as bright.
As dawn approached, both couples—wounded, wanted, and finally honest—prepared for the war ahead.
But now, they wouldn't fight alone.
To be continued…