Dhaagey: The Ties that Bind Us

52. fire and peace

Author's Note: Thank you for all the love for the last chapter, moving onto the next one. Over 15K words - some plot, and a lot of indulgence because they (and anyone that read that one shot) deserves it. See you on the other side, hehehe. 

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The sun had begun its slow descent into the golden haze of late afternoon when Meerab finally stepped outside, a full two hours after Murtasim had sauntered out of the bridal boutique. Sauntered, not walked, not stormed, no, that would've been too simple for the man who always left just enough room for mystery. He had left like a storm that didn't rage, but lingered in the air. Heavy, electric, a warning.

She emerged into the dying sunlight with a slightly frazzled glance, her lashes blinking against the brightness after the boutique's artfully dim lighting. The heat clung to her skin, but it was the kind that settled like silk rather than a burden. Her hair, which she had taken such time curling into soft waves, now held only the memory of form. Looser, softer, clinging to her temples with the humidity of exertion and stress. She had changed in and out of far too many outfits, stood beneath too many appraising eyes, and spoken too many polite words. She was, in short, tired.

Her gaze flickered instinctively to Maa Begum, who walked outside and stood in the boutique's entrance in the shade of a stately awning, her arms crossed with all the imperious elegance of a woman who had built empires in the absence of her husband. She had been attempting to glare, Meerab was certain of it, but the older woman's mouth had curved ever so slightly at the edges, betraying the amusement she fought to suppress.

Meerab realized then. That look in Maa Begum's eyes, the glint that sparkled beneath the veil of irritation, it wasn't truly anger. It was the kind of begrudging fondness only a mother possessed, the kind reserved for sons who defied her better judgment and yet, somehow, always made her heart soften against her will.

A quiet sigh followed when their eyes landed on the Mercedes parked at the end of the gravel path.

He was still here.

He hadn't driven away in anger. No, Murtasim stood beside the car, his broad shoulders framed against the lowering sun, his arms crossed over his chest as he leaned against the passenger door like he belonged there, like he always did, grounded, immovable, a constant in her chaos.

Maa Begum did not even look at Meerab as she spoke. "Jao," she said softly, not as a command, not even a suggestion, but as a surrender. As if she had laid down her arms in a battle that she no longer had the strength nor desire to fight.

A slow grin tugged at the corners of Meerab's mouth, sheepish and childlike, as though caught red-handed in some mischief. "Sorry, Maa Begum," she murmured, before rising up on the balls of her feet to press a swift, impish kiss to the woman's cheek. There was no apology in it, not really, only affection, and something dangerously close to glee.

As she turned, a shout rang out behind her. "Traitor!" Rumi's voice echoed like a petulant declaration of war.

Meerab burst into laughter as she took off at a light jog, her heels clacking lightly on the sun-warmed stone beneath her. Rumi's betrayal had stemmed from one thing and one thing alone – the dressing room secrets Meerab had refused to divulge. And secrets they would remain, for some things could not be explained in words, not even to Rumi.

Her pace slowed as she neared the car, and she watched, with a strange sort of reverence, as Murtasim moved.

He kicked off from the side of the Mercedes with the casual grace of a man used to motion, his spine straightening to its full height, jaw tense, eyes locked on her with a focus that felt... heavier than it should have. Not angry. Not quite. But laced with something else, something sharp and unyielding that coiled in the pit of her stomach. His steps were measured, silent as he moved around the hood of the car to her side, and with one hand – large, steady, deliberate – he opened the passenger door.