Dawn light seeped through the cracks in the warehouse roof, painting golden streaks across the dusty floor. Hadia finished tying the final knot on Zain's fresh bandage, her fingers lingering longer than necessary on his bare chest.
Zain caught her wrist gently, his eyes—dark, intense, still carrying the weight of last night's revelations—locked onto hers. "You don't have to keep pretending you hate touching me."
Hadia's breath hitched. She had spent years hating the Khanzadas, hating him. But now, knowing the truth—knowing her father had trusted this man with his life—the hate felt like a fragile wall ready to crumble.
"I'm not pretending anything," she whispered, but she didn't pull her hand away.
Zain sat up slowly, wincing at the pull on his wound, and tugged her closer until she was straddling his lap on the old crate. Their faces were inches apart. Rainwater from last night still clung to her hair; he brushed a strand behind her ear, his thumb grazing her cheekbone.
"You saved my life on that rooftop," he murmured, voice low and rough. "And I've wanted to do this ever since you pointed that dagger at me months ago."
He didn't wait for permission.
His lips captured hers—bold, hungry, no more hesitation. The kiss was fire from the start: deep, demanding, tasting of relief and long-suppressed desire. Hadia gasped into his mouth, her hands instantly fisting in his hair, pulling him closer. She kissed him back just as fiercely, teeth grazing his lower lip, body pressing against his like she wanted to erase every lie that had ever stood between them.
Zain groaned, one hand sliding up her spine, fingers splaying across her back to hold her tight. The other hand slipped under the hem of her damp shirt—skin on skin, hot and deliberate—tracing the curve of her waist, then higher, brushing the edge of her bra. Every touch sent sparks through her.
"You feel this too," he rasped against her neck, lips trailing down to her pulse point. "Tell me you feel it."
Hadia arched into him, breath ragged. "I feel it… and I hate how much I want it."
He smiled against her skin—dark, teasing. "Good. Hate me all you want. Just don't stop."
She didn't.
Her hands roamed his chest, exploring every hard line and scar, memorizing him. She rocked against him slowly, deliberately, drawing a sharp hiss from his lips. His grip tightened on her hips, guiding the movement, the friction building fast and intense.
Clothes became obstacles. Her shirt came off first—pulled over her head in one swift motion. His followed. Skin met skin, heat against heat. Zain's mouth found her collarbone, then lower, kissing a path that made her moan his name—soft at first, then louder, unrestrained.
"You're beautiful when you let go," he whispered, voice thick with want. "My fierce warrior."
Hadia's fingers dug into his shoulders as she kissed him again—deeper, bolder, claiming. There was no nikah to complicate things here, no forced vows—just raw truth and fire finally set free.
They moved together on the crate, then to the makeshift bed of old blankets on the floor—urgent, passionate, giving and taking in equal measure. Every touch was a promise. Every kiss a confession.
Years of misplaced hate dissolved into something fierce and beautiful.
After, lying tangled and breathless in each other's arms, Hadia traced the Khanzada crest tattoo on his wrist—the one her father had given him.
"I was so wrong about you," she whispered.
Zain kissed her forehead, pulling her closer. "We both were. But now… we fix it together."
(Meanwhile – Underground Safe House)
Aroohi stirred in Ahil's arms as morning light filtered through a small vent. His fingers were drawing lazy circles on her bare back, his lips brushing her shoulder.
"Morning, wife," he murmured, voice husky with sleep and satisfaction.
She turned to face him, eyes narrowing playfully. "We're still enemies, remember?"
Ahil smirked, rolling her beneath him in one smooth move. "Then let's fight."
Their laughter turned into another slow, burning kiss—just as a distant explosion rocked the ground above.
Ibrahim had found one of the safe houses.
Both couples tensed at the same moment, miles apart but connected by the same danger.
The honeymoon was over.
War was calling.
To be continued…