The storm rolled in just after midnight.
Rain lashed against the windows, thunder shaking the glass. But the real storm raged inside their bedroom.
Kabir lay on the bed, shirtless, gun on the nightstand.
Meher stood by the window, back bare, a silk robe draped around her like armor.
He watched her, chest rising slowly. “You don’t sleep anymore.”
She didn’t turn. “Neither do you.”
He sat up. “Is it me you don’t trust? Or yourself?”
Silence.
Then Meher walked over, climbed onto the bed without a word, and straddled him — not to seduce, but to challenge.
She held his gaze as her hand reached beneath the pillow.
He grabbed her wrist.
Their eyes locked.
Slowly, she pulled out the dagger she had hidden there.
Not his gun.
Her blade.
“Why?” he whispered.
“In case you ever forget who I am.”
His grip tightened. Her pulse raced.
Then—
He let go.
“You sleep with a weapon under my pillow,” he murmured.
“I sleep beside the man who taught me to need one.”
His hand cupped her throat, but gently. His lips brushed hers—so soft it was cruel.
“I could kill you for this,” he said.
She kissed him back, breathless. “Then stop kissing me like you never will.”
And just like that, the knife fell to the floor.
But the danger didn’t.
Because in that bed…
Love came with a blade between them.
And neither was sure who’d reach for it first.
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