The Fallen Widow

Chapter 25: Night of Desire

The night had wrapped the haveli in a heavy velvet hush, broken only by the slow creak of wood, the whisper of the wind through lattice windows, and the faraway call of a night bird echoing across the quiet courtyards. A sweet, smoky scent lingered in the air—burnt sandalwood, rose attar, and the faintest trace of tobacco. The oil lamps had burned low, their flames trembling, casting amber shadows on the stone walls and over the embroidered cushions scattered across the floor.
As quickly as Hoorayn felt the urge to taste his grief, the old voices returned, clinging to her like smoke.
Harlot. Fallen widow.

Her breath caught. Her eyes flew open, shame crashing over her. She froze mid-reach, her hand trembling inches from his face. Her spine stiffened. She began to rise from the nest of cushions, but Shah Nawaz's hand caught her wrist, firm and unrelenting.

She gasped, startled, her feet slipping beneath her. She fell forward—her body colliding with his in a breathless tangle. He didn't flinch. Instead, he leaned back, bracing himself, letting her weight settle against him. Her hair spilled over his chest and jaw like a curtain of silk, her dupatta sliding down her shoulder. Their noses nearly touched, lips just a breath apart. His arm slipped instinctively around her waist, holding her there—not in lust, but in longing.

"I'm crushing you," she whispered, trying to push off his shoulders, guilt making her movements clumsy.

"Let me decide if you're crushing me," he murmured, the warmth of his breath brushing her cheek.

"I'm heavy—"

"Why did you stop?" His voice was low, thick, almost hoarse. There was hunger in it, yes—but not just for her body. It was hunger for her presence, her truth, her courage.

She shook her head, words caught in her throat. The voices inside were louder now, judging her, punishing her for laying here, wrapped in his arms, drunk on closeness.

"Please... let me go." Her voice cracked as her eyes welled. "This isn't right."

"What isn't right?" he asked, his lips grazing her temple. "We're to be married. You're mine."

"It's not me..." she whispered. "I've never... I don't do this." Her voice was barely a thread. "I've never made a move—never let desire speak like this. I'm in shock with myself."

"Never done what, Bulbul?" he said, his voice deepening with tenderness. "Never desired a man? Never wanted to taste his lips? To kiss?" His grey eyes searched hers in the dim light, kohl smudged at the corners.

She turned her face slightly. "It's wrong." The shame clung to her, moist and thick like the night air.

"What is wrong with a woman making the first move on a man she desires?" he asked, brushing the back of his fingers along her cheek.

She could taste him—faint tobacco on his breath, mixed with the bitter aftertaste of liquor. Her heart thudded hard against his chest, matching its rhythm.

"It's shameful," she admitted, the words tasting like copper. Tears slipped silently down her face. "Especially if she belongs to someone else. Or if they're not married."

His body stiffened for just a moment.

"You mean... you wanted me even then? While you were married?" His voice was low, stunned. "You brought me chai at four o'clock, and you felt it then?"

She nodded faintly, sobbing silently. "There was always a voice. It spoke when we were alone. It whispered..."

He lifted his hand, wiped her tears with his thumb. "What did it say?"

She couldn't say. It would make it too real.

"Listen to it," he urged. "It's your heart. Block out the world. That voice—it's the truth. Touch me. Obey it. Be with me tonight, just like this. Your presence heals me, Hoorayn."