The next evening, Kabir hosted a private gathering.
Only his inner circle—men who controlled drug routes, arms deals, and political pawns. The kind who bowed to Kabir but feared his silence more than his gun.
Meher wasn’t expected to speak.
She wasn’t even expected to be there.
But she entered anyway—head high, in a deep emerald saree, the velvet choker still tight around her throat like a mark of ownership.
The room fell silent.
Kabir looked up from his seat at the head of the table. His jaw clenched. “What are you doing here?”
She walked in like she belonged. “Your men should know the face of the woman they keep whispering about.”
A few chuckled. Most stared.
One bold man, Vikrant, smirked. “Didn’t know the Butcher’s bride had such sharp teeth.”
Meher smiled sweetly. “Sharp enough to cut through cowards who hide behind guns.”
The room stilled.
Even Kabir blinked—once.
She walked over and stood behind Kabir’s chair, placing her hand on his shoulder, soft but firm.
“I’m not his weakness,” she said, voice like silk over steel. “I’m his weapon.”
And for a moment, just one, even the wolves forgot to snarl.
Kabir didn’t stop her.
Didn’t correct her.
When the room cleared, he stood, turned to her.
“You enjoyed that.”
She met his gaze. “So did you.”
His lips curved.
And for the first time—he looked at her not like a possession…
But like a threat he didn’t know how to tame.
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