Kabir hadn’t left Meher’s side in two days.
Not during the stitches.
Not during the fever.
Not even when she whispered, half-delirious, “You’re not allowed to care.”
He stayed anyway.
He barked orders at doctors, snapped at his men, and sat by her bedside like a ghost chained to her body.
“You need rest,” she murmured, her voice dry.
He stared at her bandaged arm, eyes dark. “So do you.”
“I’m fine.”
“You bled for me.”
Meher tried to smile. “You’ve bled for worse.”
Kabir stood, pacing. “They said it was a rival crew. I had enemies. Not you.”
She met his eyes. “But I’m yours. Isn’t that what you keep saying?”
His jaw clenched. “Not like this.”
Silence stretched between them.
Then softly, she said, “You’re scared.”
He didn’t answer.
“Because I shouldn’t matter,” she whispered. “But I do.”
He turned away like the words burned.
“Before you,” he said quietly, “no one ever got that close. Not even Alina.”
Her breath caught.
“Why me?” she asked.
He faced her, raw and stripped.
“Because you were never supposed to matter. But you walked into my world like a lamb... and stayed standing like a lion.”
And in that moment, Meher saw it—
She wasn’t his prisoner anymore.
She was his weakness.
His obsession.
His only fear.
And fear, in Kabir’s world,
Was always the beginning of destruction.
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