A/N: And it's summer again and Meerab has returned! Thank you to all of you for all your love and the hilarious comments on the last chapter, I am glad you all enjoyed Murtasimbakri Khan's POV! But back to our favourite humans now!

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The golden hues of the summer sun painted the village in warm colors. Birds chirped, children laughed, and life seemed to be moving in its rhythmic cycle. But for Murtasim, life had come to an agonizing stillness. He sat on his desk by the window of his study, overlooking the vast fields, lost in thought.

He should have known.

The moment he had agreed to let Meerab spend the summer in the village, a part of him had known it wasn't a good idea. But he had pushed that intuition away. Those tears from last year, those desperate, silent drops that told tales of pain, had etched themselves into his memory. He couldn't see her suffer within the grand walls of the Khan Haveli in Hyderabad, not when the village promised her the company of their pet goat, and an atmosphere that made her happy.

In the labyrinth of his feelings, Murtasim had convinced himself of a theory. Her absence over the months had fanned the flames of his emotions. Perhaps if she was constantly within sight, he would grow used to her presence, just as he had with everyone else. The constant pang in his heart would diminish, and he could regain some semblance of normalcy. After all, that's how desensitization worked, right?

With that notion, the summer had commenced. Meerab had relocated to the village. The early days were awkward. Meerab had attempted multiple conversations, seeking closure or perhaps a new beginning. But Murtasim, tangled in his web of confusion and denial, evaded her every time.

She would without fail approach him and utter, "Murtasim... can we talk?" Meerab's voice, once sweet and melodic, now sent a chill down his spine. Not because it had changed, but because of the unwanted emotions it evoked in him, and how weak it made him feel.

He'd reply tersely with a "I'm busy," even if he was just wandering aimlessly. Every single time, he'd offer the same excuse. Her attempts grew less frequent, but the weight of unsaid words between them only grew heavier.

He couldn't fathom what she wanted to discuss. Was it their past, or a possible future? Did she want to clear the air or fill it with more emotions? The unknown terrified him, and avoidance seemed easier than confrontation.

But as the days turned into nights and nights back into days, Murtasim realized that avoiding Meerab was harder than confronting his feelings. He was trapped, not by the walls of the haveli or the boundaries of the village, but by his own heart. And he didn't know how to break free.

Meerab's sudden entrance into the study disrupted Murtasim's train of thought. The familiar trot of Murtasimbakri followed close behind. He couldn't help but note the cheerfulness in the goat's step, a stark contrast to the tense atmosphere between him and Meerab. Murtasimbakri had seemed to instantly switch loyalties upon seeing Meerab again, much to Murtasim's chagrin, she rarely visited him anymore, and when she did, she just tried to bite him as if he had offended her in some way.

"I need to talk to you," Meerab's voice, firm and insistent, pulled him back from his wandering thoughts. Murtasimbakri, perhaps sensing the tension, found solace in chewing on Murtasim's discarded shawl by the armchair, her eyes moving back and forth between the two of them.

"I am busy," Murtasim retorted, his voice calm but internally cursing how his heartbeat seemed to betray his composed exterior every time she was near.

Meerab's presence was like a fragrant storm. He couldn't put a finger on what she wore, but her scent was a paradox - both overpowering in its intensity yet subtly lingering in the backdrop, making him yearn for more. The aroma teased his senses, inviting him closer, and he had to physically anchor himself. He dug his heels into the plush carpet beneath his feet, resisting the overwhelming urge to close the distance between them.

"How are you always busy?" Her voice dripped with frustration. The repeated refrain had become almost like a broken record between them, and Murtasim could see the hurt and exasperation in her eyes. Yet, he remained rooted, torn between the desire to open up and the fear of what that meant.

Murtasim's gaze was steely, as he tried to hide the maelstrom of emotions within. "I manage more land and people than you can imagine. Stop bothering me, Meerab."

She took a step forward, her voice trembling slightly with emotion. "I have something to tell you—"

"And I don't care, leave." Murtasim's voice was low, but the finality in it was clear.

"It's important," she persisted, desperation evident in her tone.

"Leave, Meerab," he repeated more firmly, refusing to meet her gaze.

She stood there for a moment, frustration apparent on her face. Finally, she huffed and snapped, "Fine, don't be surprised when you find out then."

He felt a twinge of regret, a nagging voice telling him to ask her, to know what she meant. But as he raised his head and his eyes met hers, something in their shared gaze stole his breath away. He was reminded of why he had been avoiding her, of the vulnerability she evoked in him. He knew in that moment that she needed to leave. "I won't be," he replied, his voice a mere whisper.

"You're so annoying," she muttered, exasperation lacing every word.

Murtasim gritted his teeth. "I am trying to work, and you're the one annoying me here."

Without another word, she spun around and stormed out of the room, leaving behind a thick tension that seemed almost tangible. Murtasim sank back into his chair, trying to collect his scattered thoughts. Murtasimbakri got up, and made an angry sounding bleat which was accompanied by what he guessed was a glare before she too followed Meerab out.

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The moonlight cast long, eerie shadows in the courtyard, the chirping of crickets the only sign of life in the otherwise silent village. Murtasim walked with purpose, every step echoing his mounting hunger and exhaustion. Every part of him was resisting the decision to go home, but his body was at its limit, pleading for sustenance.

He stepped into the house, praying that he wouldn't cross Meerab's path so late at night. Every corner of his village home now reminded him of her, pulling at his heartstrings. His every effort had been dedicated to avoiding those deep brown eyes that seemed to read him like an open book.

Murtasim thought he had become a master of self-control since her arrival, someone who had learnt to govern his emotions with an iron fist. Yet, if he let himself look at her, he felt that same pull, a magnetic force that seemed to erode the walls he had meticulously built. He had intentionally avoided letting himself look at her properly, a conscious effort to thwart the surge of emotions she elicited in him.

Every time his gaze lingered on her, a warning bell would sound in his mind. He couldn't afford distractions, especially not in the shape of a woman who wasn't of Khaani material. She was unlike the women who occupied that role, her spirit untamed, her demeanor defiant. It was evident she would never want the life of a Khaani, it would never work. His logical mind insisted it was merely an infatuation, a fleeting emotion that would soon fade. She was his cousin, their family trusted him with her alone, as her guardian, letting himself fall for her would be a betrayal. Yet, there was a nagging feeling deep down, a whisper that refused to be silenced.

He would be lying if he said he was always successful in avoiding her, that he hadn't looked at her properly since her arrival. He had looked. And that was what made things harder for him. In the span of a year, Meerab had changed. Her features seemed to have matured slightly, her beauty deepened, leaving an indelible mark on anyone who dared to look. The very thought that she had evolved into someone even more beautiful, a notion he hadn't imagined possible, left him both awestruck and frustrated. The battle within him was relentless. Why did she have to be so utterly captivating? A beauty that made it impossible to look away once he permitted himself to truly see.

That morning, when the sun's rays had bathed the village in a golden hue, her appearance in that striking red suit had been nothing short of ethereal. The color seemed to be made for her, accentuating her flawless complexion, making her look like a vision straight out of his most vivid dreams. Her hair, meticulously braided, added an innocence that juxtaposed her fierce spirit. His heart, usually so stoic, had fluttered uncontrollably. For a fleeting moment, all his defenses had crumbled, his resolve threatened. He had found himself gasping for breath, battling the overwhelming urge to approach her. The struggle had been palpable, but he had torn his gaze away, reminding himself of the risks, of the boundaries that must never be crossed. The stakes were simply too high.

It was easier to lose himself in village affairs than to confront his feelings. Avoidance was the armor he wore to protect himself from the emotional onslaught Meerab's presence elicited. He hadn't come home for meals, dreading the thought of her sitting across from him, the palpable tension like a thick fog around them.

He had only returned because the moonlight streamed through the windows, telling him it was much too late for anyone to be in the kitchen. But to his surprise, he found Meerab sitting on the counter, a cup cradled in her hand, steam wafting upwards. She seemed deep in thought, her gaze distant.

Murtasim paused, his back to the door, torn between his desires and fears. Just as he contemplated a quiet retreat, his stomach growled audibly, betraying his hunger. Meerab visibly jumped, her grip loosening on the cup. It slipped from her grasp, crashing onto the floor and shattering into a myriad of shards.

Her eyes, widened with surprise, darted up to meet his as she stood up. Murtasim's breath caught, those familiar eyes always seemed to pull him in. Time appeared to stand still as they stared at each other, unspoken emotions swirling between them. His heart raced, every beat screaming out his longing for her.

But then, a sharp hiss from Meerab broke the trance. Murtasim's gaze dropped to see tiny droplets of blood forming at the sole of her foot, a shard from the broken cup being the culprit. Panic replaced his earlier hesitation. "Meerab!" he exclaimed, his voice thick with worry.

Her intention to tiptoe around the debris sent alarm bells ringing in his mind. "Stop!" he commanded, his voice echoing with an urgency he hadn't intended.

In a few long strides, he was by her side, his hands acting on pure instinct. Slipping one arm behind her back and the other under her knees, he lifted her effortlessly off the ground. The sudden movement caught her off guard, her face reflecting her surprise. "Put me down!" she exclaimed, her voice tinged with indignation.

But Murtasim wasn't listening. His focus was solely on the red smears forming on her soft feet. "You're bleeding," he stated, his voice edged with worry.

She glanced down, dismissing his concern with a wave of her hand. "It's just a little scratch. Let me go."

His protective instincts were in full swing now, ones she always managed to elicit. Her attempts to wriggle out of his grasp only made him hold her tighter. The warmth of her body seeped through his clothes, reminding him of how close she was. A wave of emotions, which he had been desperately trying to suppress, threatened to engulf him.

"You're being childish," he sighed, trying to keep his voice even as her every movement to get out of his hold reminded him of their proximity.

She shot him a glare, her expressive brown eyes now flashing with anger. "You're not busy now?" she snapped, her voice dripping with sarcasm.

He sighed, the weight of their unspoken emotions pressing heavily on his chest. How could he explain to her the battle raging within him? The clash between duty and desire, responsibility and longing. Without answering, he navigated the familiar path to his bathroom, her continued squirming and pleas to be let go serving as a stark reminder of the distance he had placed between them. Last year when he had held her, she had melted into his touch, but today she was stiff and trying to get away.

His bathroom, with its muted lighting and the soft hum of the overhead fan, suddenly felt more intimate than he remembered. As he gently placed her on the counter beside the sink, the cool marble beneath her seemed in stark contrast to the tension that hung between them.

The moment he released her, she attempted to push herself off the counter, but he was quicker. His hand swiftly enclosed around her ankle, holding her foot up for inspection. The cool air entering the bathroom from the window he had left open earlier that day was the only thing grounding him, preventing him from getting completely lost in the moment.

"There's a piece of glass in your foot, stop moving, Meerab," he said, his voice betraying the hint of panic he felt.

To his surprise, she did. She remained still, but her breathing grew shallow, and her grip tightened on the edge of the counter.

The scene before him was eerily reminiscent of another time, not so long ago, when he had found himself caring for her wounded feet. The memory of the previous summer, when they had crashed and her heels had ravaged her feet, rushed back to him. It felt like a lifetime ago, yet the vividness of that day remained etched in his memory.

Reaching for a pair of tweezers from a drawer, he dipped them into an antiseptic solution. The familiar scent wafted between them, momentarily distracting him from the heaviness of the situation.

The gentle touch of the tweezers on her skin made her hiss in pain. An involuntary reflex made him look up at her face, only to find her eyes – those deep pools of emotion – filled with tears, yet fixed intently on him.

His heart ached at the sight. The intensity in her gaze was more than he could bear, and he quickly turned his attention back to her foot, pulling out the glass fragment and ensuring he hadn't missed any others.

The silence in the room was deafening, punctuated only by their synchronized breathing and the rhythmic drip of a faucet. It was a silence that spoke volumes, a reminder of the chasm that had grown between them and the suppressed emotions that threatened to spill over.

Murtasim gently washed and dried her foot before he applied ointment to her wound, feeling the warmth of her skin under his touch. He methodically wrapped a bandage around it, ensuring it wasn't too tight. As he worked, his fingers brushed against the smooth arch of her foot, sending an involuntary shiver up her spine.

"Think before you act, would you?" His words were tinged with a mix of exasperation and genuine concern, why would she get up when she was barefoot? In the dim light of the bathroom, his fingers lingered on her bandaged foot a moment longer than necessary. The stark contrast of the white bandage against her skin was a painful reminder of his undeniable urge to care for her, regardless of how much he tried to suppress it.

She hesitated, her gaze averted. "I would have had to get up anyways," she mumbled, her tone hinting at an underlying bitterness.

His brow furrowed. "You could have asked for help."

She met his gaze, and the pain in her eyes was unmistakable, as was the hint of defiance. The tears pooled again, shimmering in the dim light. "From who? You?" Her voice was barely above a whisper, but each word landed heavily. "I am surprised you didn't turn away as soon as you saw me."

The weight of her words hung in the air. He couldn't look away, trapped by the intensity of her gaze. So she had noticed. Every avoidance, every deliberate distance he had put between them hadn't gone unnoticed. The silence was palpable, his mouth felt dry, and he was lost for words. He wanted to explain, to make her understand, but how could he when he barely understood himself?

He opened his mouth, searching for a rebuttal, an explanation, but words failed him. The silence was broken only by the steady hum of the wind and the muffled sounds from outside.

With a soft sigh, Meerab slid off the counter, gingerly placing her weight on the bandaged foot. Every fiber of his being screamed for him to hold her back, to bridge the widening gap between them with words of explanation and comfort. But years of conditioning, of responsibilities, and the weight of expectations kept him rooted in place. His heart raced, his mind a whirlwind of emotions. The louder, more pragmatic voice in his head told him to let her go. To maintain the distance. Nothing good would come from crossing the boundaries they'd set.

As she turned to leave, there was a palpable tension, a silent battle of wills. But neither broke the silence, and she walked away, leaving Murtasim grappling with the tumultuous storm of emotions inside him.

When his thoughts finally settled, the hollowness in his stomach became unbearable, and he realized that he had gone to the kitchen to eat in the first place. With slow, measured steps, he approached the kitchen, mentally preparing himself for the task of cooking or looking for leftovers. But as he drew closer, he noticed the soft glow of a light seeping out from under the door. Hesitant, he nudged the door open, the warm scent of spices instantly greeting him.

On the counter, illuminated by the single light source, was a covered plate. It radiated a gentle warmth. Murtasim hesitated for a moment, his fingers brushing over the cool metal lid before lifting it to reveal the dish beneath. The fragrant aroma of biryani wafted up, a rich tapestry of spices and perfectly cooked rice, mingled with tender pieces of meat. Beside it was a bowl of yogurt, creamy and cool, meant to balance out the spices of the biryani.

It didn't take long for Murtasim to piece it together. He knew, deep down, that it was Meerab who had done this for him. For the help would have knocked on his door and delivered the meal to him if it was them. Despite the likely pain in her foot, she had gone to lengths to ensure he wouldn't go to bed hungry. The realization sent a pang through his heart.

With every bite he took, he couldn't help but imagine her, limping around the kitchen, carefully preparing the dish. He thought of her injured foot, her determination, and the undeniable warmth that drove her actions. Tears threatened to spill from his eyes, a mixture of gratitude and something deeper, something he had been pushing away for a long time.

The biryani, as delicious as it was, wasn't just a meal. It was a testament to Meerab's character, her strength, and her care. Murtasim felt a surge of emotion that he couldn't place, something that wasn't just gratitude.

He knew she represented everything he thought he couldn't have—freedom, passion, dreams beyond the confines of the village and the Khan Haveli. He admired her desire to practice law, to travel and see the world, to carve out her own path. They were the very things that made acknowledging his feelings for her even more complex.

Murtasim's mind raced, painting vivid pictures of a future with Meerab. A future where he could share laughter, joy, and quiet moments. But as quickly as these images appeared, they were replaced by darker visions. Visions of Meerab trapped within the stone walls of the Khan haveli, burdened by the weight of traditions that stifled her spirit, suffocated by expectations she never asked for.

The spacious rooms that had housed generations of his family, to him, were a symbol of their legacy. But to Meerab, they were cells, enclosing her in an existence she had always said felt like imprisonment. He remembered the times she expressed her disdain for the very foundations of the life he had been brought up to cherish. Her voice echoed in his mind, recounting how the traditions felt like shackles, how the people, including his own family, made her feel like an outsider, unloved and unwanted.

Murtasim's heart raced, the weight of his feelings pressing down on him.

The realization was crystal clear: he liked her.

No, it wasn't mere infatuation.

It wasn't the fleeting attraction he had convinced himself it was.

It ran deep, reaching parts of his heart he hadn't known were vulnerable.

This was not something he could simply wish away.

This wasn't the passing admiration for her beauty; it was a profound connection that tugged at his very soul.

The pain was sharp, a blend of longing and the haunting knowledge of the impossibilities that lay ahead. He imagined waking up next to her, but then watching her spirit diminish day by day, seeing the light in her eyes fade because of the life he had inadvertently given her. A life she never wanted. The very idea was suffocating.

His thoughts took a darker turn, thinking of her in moments of sheer despair, her expressing the desire to escape it all, even if it meant taking her own life. The raw emotion of such a thought made him feel physically sick. Everything that constituted his existence - his responsibilities, his legacy, the weight of being the Khaani - were the very things that repelled her, things she might never come to accept or understand.

In trying to make her happy, he knew he would lose himself. He would be torn between the woman he loved and the responsibilities that bound him. The village and its traditions would be neglected, the people and land that depended on his leadership would suffer. And all for what? For a love that seemed destined to bring more pain than joy.

It hurt even more when he thought of his mother, the matriarch of their family. She had dreams and hopes for her son, dreams that included a daughter-in-law who would embrace their traditions and way of life with open arms. That woman was not Meerab. Meerab was a force of nature, not one to be tamed or molded. And he knew, deep down, that his mother would never accept her.

Murtasim looked at the empty plate, realizing that his appetite had vanished despite the remaining food. Setting it aside, he took a moment to lean against the counter, his heart heavy. The warmth of Meerab's gesture was a sharp contrast to the cold reality he faced. The thought of a future where he could cherish these simple acts of kindness without the weight of societal expectations seemed like a distant dream.

The room seemed colder, the weight of his thoughts pressing down on him. With a heavy heart, Murtasim leaned against the cabinets, slowly sliding down to sit on the floor, the haunting visions of the future playing before his eyes.

How had he allowed himself to feel so deeply?

And how was he ever going to find a way out of the maze of emotions that now ensnared him?

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Murtasim's tall and imposing frame stood amidst the gold-tinted fields, overseeing the work on the fields where he spent most of his days now, when he spotted Areeb, sprinting towards him. Dust trailed behind Areeb's feet, his normally composed face now twisted with anxiety.

Murtasim's brow furrowed; Areeb's distress was palpable, even from a distance.

"What happened?" Murtasim called out, taking deliberate steps towards him.

Areeb was nearly out of breath when he finally reached Murtasim, gulping air as he tried to calm his frantic heartbeat. "Why aren't you picking up your phone?" he panted, wiping away the beads of sweat forming on his forehead.

Murtasim felt the sides of his pants, then the chest pocket of his vest, only to realize he'd left his phone in the car. "It's in the car," he muttered, feeling a growing unease. "What happened?"

Areeb hesitated for a split second, gulping audibly. "Malik Zubair and his men, they... they showed up at Ibrahim's house. He threatened to burn down all the crops on what he claims is his land," Areeb's eyes darted nervously, clearly fearing Murtasim's reaction.

Murtasim's face tightened, his eyes darkening, anger coursing through him. The audacity of the Maliks, trying to stake a claim on land that wasn't his, after having been told that on numerous occasions. "And?" he pressed, trying to keep his voice steady but the rage was evident.

Areeb swallowed hard, "He... He said he'd kidnap Ibrahim's daughter," he hesitated again.

The atmosphere around Murtasim turned palpable with fury. His clenched fists trembled slightly. The idea of anyone bringing innocent women and children into their feud was unacceptable.

But it seemed that Areeb wasn't done.

"And..." Areeb trailed off, looking truly fearful now.

"What?" Murtasim's voice came out as a harsh growl.

Areeb took a deep breath, "Just... remember to stay calm?"

"Areeb," Murtasim's tone was dangerously low, warning.

In one quick, nervous breath, Areeb blurted out, "ZubairsaidhewouldtakeMeerabtoo."

The moment the words left Areeb's lips, a fierce storm of emotions erupted within Murtasim. His entire body tensed, every fiber rigid with white-hot anger. The ambient noise, the conversations, and even Areeb's nervous panting seemed to dissolve, swallowed by the overwhelming rage that clouded Murtasim's senses. His heartbeat echoed loudly in his ears, each thump reinforcing the audacity of Zubair's threat.

His hands clenched into tight fists, the nails digging painfully into his palms, a physical manifestation of the tempestuous fury roiling within him. The very thought of anyone threatening harm to Meerab, even in a mere boast, of Meerab, was a direct challenge to him, to his authority, and to the unspoken protective instincts he harbored for her.

Meerab wasn't just someone he knew; she was a beacon of resilience, a woman who stood tall amidst trials, and to Murtasim, she represented the very essence of what was sacred and untouchable. She was under his protection, and this wasn't just about duty or honor. It was personal. The mere thought of her being in the presence of someone as vile as Zubair was enough to make his blood boil.

Images flashed in his mind—of Meerab, vulnerable and alone, facing him. He saw her defiant eyes, the way she would stand up to any challenge, but this was different. This was Zubair, a man known for his cruelty and ruthlessness. Murtasim felt a cold, creeping dread imagining the harm Zubair could inflict, and it fueled his anger even more.

His jaw clenched, teeth grinding against each other as he tried to reign in the overwhelming urge to act on his violent instincts. Every protective fiber in his being screamed for retribution. Zubair had not just threatened Meerab; he had crossed an unspoken line, challenging the very core of Murtasim's principles.

His breathing grew ragged, each exhale a testament to the battle he was fighting within. The need to protect Meerab, to ensure her safety, intertwined with a rising, primal anger towards Zubair. It was an anger born from deep-seated care, from a place where feelings he had long denied had taken root.

His voice, trembling with fury, was almost a whisper, "What did he say exactly?"

The wind rustled through the fields, but for Murtasim, it was as if the entire world had fallen silent, waiting for Areeb's next words.

Areeb gulped, gathering his courage to relay the next part. "Meerab was there, with Amina...Zubair saw her," he hesitated, glancing at Murtasim's tense form. "He said that he understood why you were hiding her from him after seeing her."

Murtasim's gaze sharpened, waiting for Areeb to continue. "And?" he prompted, his voice cold and demanding.

Taking a steadying breath, Areeb continued, "One of Zubair's men tried to grab her. But Meerab... she slapped his hand away, told him and Zubair to leave before you arrived, if they wanted to still have all their limbs intact."

For a fleeting moment, surprise flickered in Murtasim's eyes. Meerab, with her disposition, threatening someone? It was out of character. But perhaps the tales of Zubair's cruelty had reached her ears in the village. His voice dripping with suppressed rage, Murtasim said, "Spit it out, Areeb. Tell me everything now or I swear—"

"Alright, alright!" Areeb interrupted hastily, sensing the danger in Murtasim's tone. "Zubair threatened to kidnap both Meerab and Amina, to..." Areeb gulped, "...teach you a lesson. He said it would be entertaining to see Meerab broken."

The disclosure hit Murtasim like a ton of bricks, each word driving a nail deeper into his already fragile restraint. His entire frame went rigid, the muscles in his neck standing out prominently. His gaze, previously sharp with anger, now became chilling, his eyes piercing through the dim surroundings. The sheer intensity of his glare pinned Areeb in place, making the younger man wish he could meld into the ground and disappear.

The ambient sounds of the surroundings seemed to muffle and fade, every chirp of a bird, every rustle of a leaf, every distant murmur, silenced in the face of Murtasim's towering rage. It felt as if the world itself held its breath, awaiting the tempest that was sure to erupt.

"Did he touch her?" Murtasim asked, the menace in his tone causing a shiver to run down Areeb's spine. It wasn't just a question, it was a demand, a warning, and a promise of violence all rolled into one. The words were simple, yet they carried the weight of impending doom.

Areeb quickly shook his head. "Just his thug grabbed her, but she pushed him off."

Zubair had saved his own life by not directly laying his hands on Meerab. He swore silently to himself that the thug who dared to lay a hand on Meerab would pay dearly for it.

"Call every man we have," Murtasim's order was swift and decisive as he climbed into his car, every fiber of his being filled with a single-minded determination.

Areeb, dialing on his phone, watched Murtasim with apprehension. "This is not going to be good," he murmured to himself, already predicting the storm that was about to unfold.

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Murtasim's anger was like a thunderstorm, dark and looming, demanding attention and respect. Every step he took towards the Malik mansion was filled with purpose, his eyes focused on one thing: the audacity of the Maliks, especially Zubair. The whispers of the villagers, the stories of their oppressive reign, none of it was lost on him. But threatening his land, his people, and his Meerab? That was the final straw.

As Murtasim and his men stormed the gates of the mansion, it was evident to all witnessing the spectacle that a storm was brewing. Murtasim didn't wait for his men to clear the way. With an assertive stride, he barged in, immediately becoming the epicenter of attention. Murtasim didn't break stride. With a forceful push, he led the charge, his commanding presence felt by all, allies and adversaries alike.

Inside, Malik Mukhtar sat lounging with his cronies, mid-conversation, animatedly discussing Murtasim, his tone mocking. But that atmosphere evaporated the moment Murtasim stepped in. As one of Mukhtar's lackeys lunged at him, Murtasim, with lightning speed, grasped his throat, squeezing just enough to make a point, before flinging him aside like a ragdoll. All while maintaining his unblinking stare at Malik Mukhtar, his message clear, that he was in-charge.

The audacity of Murtasim's entrance, and the swift neutralization of one of Mukhtar's men, sent ripples of shock throughout the room. The undercurrent of fear was unmistakable.

"Lo, aagaya saamne," he declared, as he leisurely took a seat, making himself at home amidst the palpable tension. "Lagalo meri hasiyat ka hisaab," he commanded, crossing a leg over the other, the picture of nonchalance. There was an ease in his posture, yet a tension in the room that made it clear who held the power, his confidence fueled by his anger.

The room was thick with fear. Malik Mukhtar, once the king of his domain, now seemed dwarfed by Murtasim's overwhelming presence. "Tum yahan kya karne aaye ho?" Mukhtar finally managed to stutter.

Murtasim scoffed, "Kamaal karte hai, Malik Saab. Abhi aap ki toh keh rahe thae aate nahi aate nahi. Ab aaye hai aapke bulane pe, lekin jaayenge apni marzi sai." Without breaking eye contact, he gestured to Bhaktu, who promptly handed over some documents, with Areeb trailing closely behind.

Without giving it a second thought, Murtasim flung the papers across the table, scattering their food and drinks. "Yeh zameen aapke bhai ne marne se pehle hamare naam ki thi." His tone left no room for argument.

Mukhtar's voice had the strain of one used to having his words obeyed, "Mein nahi manta isse."

The defiance was clear, but Murtasim, unimpressed and unbothered, responded immediately, "Parwa nahi hai mujhe." It was apparent to everyone in the room that the papers were a mere prop in the grander scheme of things.

Mukhtar's face reddened as he confronted the audacity of the man standing opposite him. "Tum jaante ho ki mein kya kar sakta hoon?" His entire frame vibrated with fury, an attempt to reclaim the authority he felt slipping.

Murtasim, in contrast, rose from his chair slowly and deliberately, as if he had all the time in the world. "Lekin aapko andaza nahi hai ki mein kya kya kar sakta hoon aapke saath." The dark promise in his voice was unmistakable. Looking straight into Mukhtar's eyes, Murtasim relished the flicker of dread that passed over them.

"Dekho - " Mukhtar tried to begin, perhaps to negotiate, but Murtasim cut him off, the finality in his voice impossible to argue with, "Bahut dekhliya." Extending his hand commandingly, he added, "Apne bete ko bulaye. Abhi." He needed to have a word with him.

The immediacy with which Mukhtar obliged was a testament to Murtasim's domineering stature. Everyone in the room knew of Malik Zubair's transgressions – he was the embodiment of the decadence and entitlement, exactly the type of man that Meerab thought of when she heard the words feudal lord.

As he descended the staircase, the disdain and anger in Murtasim's face was palpable. The audacity of this man, threatening not just his territory, but also his people, and the one person he held dear.

"Ibrahim." Murtasim's call brought forth another figure, pulling attention momentarily away from the tension building between the two powerhouses.

However, Zubair, his arrogance intact, demanded, "Tum kya kar rahe ho yahan?"

Murtasim kept his steely gaze on Zubair, not even granting him the satisfaction of acknowledgment as he spoke to Ibrahim. "Kya yahi hai woh jisne tumhari beti ko aur Meerab ko uthane ki dhamki di thi?" The gravity of the accusation echoed in the silence that followed.

The room seemed to contract, the weight of anticipation making the air dense. Everyone waited, holding their breath, for what was about to come.

"Jee, Khan ji," came Ibrahim's reply, his voice carrying the solemnity of the moment. The true battle of wills had just begun.

The atmosphere in the room seemed to freeze as Ibrahim's words reached Murtasim's ears. In a swift and decisive movement, Murtasim surged forward, closing the distance between him and Malik Zubair in an instant. The suddenness of his move left no time for anyone to react. Gripping Zubair's shirt collar in a vise-like grasp, Murtasim pressed the cold metal of his gun firmly against the man's temple, making sure he felt its threat. He was tempted to press the trigger, to punish him for looking at someone as pure as Meerab with his eyes.

Every syllable he spoke dripped with rage and intent. "Mard bun. Auraton aur bacho ko beech mein lekar aata hai. Agar aaj ke baad, meri zameen, ya mere kisi aadmi ke taraf aankh bhi uthaye toh, teri maa ki qasam kha kar kehta hoon ki ussi zameen mein gaad doonga teri yeh aankh." His anger only grew as he spoke. "Aur agar Meerab ki taraf dobara dekha bhi toh tere poore khaandaan ko tere saath hi gaad doonga." Murtasim's tone left no room for doubt; he would make good on his word.

Zubair's fear was palpable, but Murtasim wasn't done. Keeping his stare fixed on Zubair's terror-stricken face, he bellowed, "AREEB!" His voice cut through the thick tension in the room. "Meerab ko kisne haath lagaya tha?"

Areeb quickly responded, his voice firm, "Hari kameez wale nai."

Without even moving his gaze from Zubair, Murtasim registered the three men in the peripheral of his vision. Identifying the one in green – Zubair's ever-present lackey – he tightened his grip on Zubair's collar and shifted his gun in the blink of an eye. Two gunshots split the tense silence. The man in green collapsed, his screams of pain filling the room, a bullet lodged in each of his legs.

""Mere ghar ki kisi bhi aurat ki taraf dekhna bhi maat. Agar Meerab ke paas tumhari parchayi bhi dikhi toh ussi waqt goli maardoonga, yaad rakhna. Par marne se pehle aise ghutne tek kar maafi maangni pade gi, sabke samne, samjhe?" Murtasim's warning was clear as he shoved Zubair away.

The room was eerily quiet, the only sound being the painful moans of the injured man. Calmly, Murtasim pulled out his wallet, flinging a wad of cash toward the writhing figure. "Hospital ke bill ke liye. Meerab ko agar kabhi phir haath lagaya toh haathon ka bhi yehi haal kardoonga. Bhik mangne ke layak bhi nahi rahoge." He remarked coolly, heading to the exit.

At the door, he paused, casting a final, chilling glance over his shoulder. "Iss baar aise hi jaa raha hoon, agli baar maat aane dena, Malik. Warna bulane par beta nahi aah payega."

The echo of his boots faded, Bhaktu and Areeb following him.

Outside, Areeb let out a shaky laugh, "I wish I could have taken a picture of their faces."

And while they left, the silent haveli bore witness to Murtasim's might and dominance.

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As Murtasim stepped through the entrance to his Haveli that seemed more like his home than the Khan Haveli, his feet seemed to carry with them the weight of the day's events. Almost immediately, their pet goat, Murtasimbakri, bounded towards him, her little hooves making eager sounds as she rushed to wrap herself around his legs, nuzzling his calves in a display of affection.

But it wasn't the goat that caught his attention. It was Meerab. She rushed to him, her flowy blue kameez flying as she moved. Her brows were furrowed, the lines on her forehead deep with concern. "Are you okay?" she asked, her hands reaching out, touching his arm. As she scanned him for any visible injuries, her voice quivered with a mixture of relief and worry.

He could feel the heat radiating off his own body, his emotions bubbling up. A part of him wanted to sweep her into his arms, protect her from every possible harm. But the anger, the raw adrenaline from earlier still pulsed through his veins, as did his admittance, he was the harm. "Move out of my way," he responded tersely, trying to avoid any more confrontation. He knew he was too worked up to staying within the walls he had erected in his mind, he feared he'd say or do something stupid, like hug her.

Ignoring his attempt at evasion, Meerab pressed, "You went to the Malik house? What if something happened to you?" He could hear the fury in her voice, mingled with genuine concern. It took him back to another moment, when he a bullet had grazed his arm outside a cricket stadium, and she had shown the same potent mix of rage and worry.

The memory of that day and the thought of her in danger caused his temper to flare, his protectiveness towards Meerab overpowering all other sentiments. "Do you have any idea what could have happened to you if Zubair took you?" he shot back, his voice sharp.

She stood firm, holding her ground, looking directly into his eyes. The fire he loved so much in those eyes was burning even brighter. "I know, but I am fine, Murtasim," she replied, her tone trying to soothe his heated state.

He clenched his fists, trying to reign in the storm of emotions. "But I am not fine," he admitted, his voice softer. The realization that she could be snatched away from him by someone like Zubair was a weight too heavy to bear.

Even under the dimming evening light, he could see her eyes glistening with fresh tears. "You shot someone," she voiced, her tone echoing the weight of her realization. He wondered how news could travel so fast, despite knowing that news, especially of this magnitude, had a way of finding its path.

He met her gaze, unflinching. "I did," he acknowledged, thinking of the audacity the man had to lay hands on her, "He touched you."

She took a step closer, her anger and frustration evident in every word, "And I dealt with it! I don't want people to get hurt because of me."

His features tightened, the protective rage he felt pulsing through his veins. "I have made it clear that anyone who touches you or any woman of this house will die," he responded, every word dripping with the promise of retribution. "That's my job."

Her breath caught, the weight of his words evident. "You'll go to jail," she replied, the notion of him being behind bars clearly pained her.

"I won't," he said with conviction. The intricacies of the feudal system had always kept him shielded, combined with his status and the genuine cause of defending his family. It wasn't just about power, it was about honor and the codes he lived by.

She took a deep breath, her chest rising and falling with the swell of emotions. "Murtasim, you can't just –"

"I can, and I will." His tone was firm. "I will do what I want, Meerab." He was filled with a mix of guilt and determination. The very fact that he had let someone as vile as Zubair come close enough to harm her was a failure on his part, a mistake he would never let repeat.

She stood there, a mix of fury and distress on her face. "You walked into their house, Murtasim! You could have been hurt!" She was yelling now, every word heavy with worry. "Do you know how worried I was?"

He looked at her, seeing past her anger to the raw concern underneath. The realization hit him hard that while he was busy ensuring her safety, he had inadvertently put her through another kind of torment – the agony of fearing for him.

Murtasim took a deep breath, grounding himself in the face of her raw emotion. "YOU could have been hurt, Meerab. Zubair is merciless when it comes to women," he said, voice edged with steel, the mere thought making him shudder.

She stepped closer, her gaze searching his intently. "Why does it bother you so much?" The vulnerability in her voice caught him off guard.

A heavy sigh left him as he looked away, avoiding her probing eyes. "You're my responsibility, Meerab, you know that," he finally replied, the weight of his role in her life bearing down on him.

"That's it?" she pressed, her voice tinged with disbelief and a hint of something more.

Murtasim's heart raced. Her question and the emotion behind it made it clear she suspected there might be more to his concern. He wanted to admit that the turmoil he felt for her was more than just responsibility, something he'd been suppressing because it muddied the waters of their relationship. But he couldn't muster the courage to face it, to face her. Instead, he retreated behind his walls of self-protection.

"Get out of my way, I am busy," he repeated, using the same line to distance himself from the conversation, from the undeniable connection they shared.

"Of course," she whispered, her face falling as disappointment clouded her eyes.

He turned away, but his heart felt heavy, the weight of their unspoken feelings bearing down on him. Every step he took away from her was a step taken with the burden of regret. He hated how seeing that look on her face made his insides twist with guilt and longing. But for now, his protective barriers remained intact, even if it meant shutting out the one person who seemed to genuinely care.

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A/N: Soooooooooo, what do you think? What was your favourite part? What do you think Murtasim is going to do now? I personally want to whack him right now. The next chapter is mostly done and should drop within the next few days too!