Jaan-e-Azlan❤

44

The atmosphere in the cellar turned suffocating, the air thick with the smell of damp earth and the metallic tang of blood. The single bulb swinging above them cast jagged, rhythmic shadows, making the scene look like a nightmare in motion.

Zaryab's eyes were wide, bloodshot with a manic high. Seeing Azlan—the untouchable, powerful Azlan Khan—standing there dripping with sewer water and trembling with suppressed rage was the drug he had waited a lifetime to consume.

"Stay right there, King!" Zaryab shrieked, his voice cracking as he lunged down.

In one swift, violent motion, he hauled Mantasha up by her hair. She let out a piercing, broken cry as she was dragged upward, her bound legs tangling with the fallen chair. Zaryab slammed her back against his chest, using her small, trembling frame as a shield.

With his right hand, he pressed the cold muzzle of a black handgun hard against her temple. With his left, he still gripped the hunting knife, the blade pressed against her ribs, right over her heart.

"Drop it!" Zaryab screamed, the gun trembling against Mantasha's skin. "Drop the gun, Azlan, or I swear I'll paint this wall with her!"

Azlan froze. Every muscle in his body was coiled like a spring, his finger twitching on the trigger of his own weapon. He had the shot—he was the best marksman in his security detail—but the way Zaryab was shaking, the way he was using Mantasha's head to steady the barrel... the risk was 100%. One millimetre of error and he would lose his world.

"Zaryab, look at me," Azlan pleaded, his voice thick with a desperation that broke the hearts of the men listening via his comms. "It's between us. Look at how I'm standing. I'm unarmed if you want me to be. Just... move the gun away from her head."

"You think you can still negotiate?" Zaryab's face twisted into a mask of pure hate. "You think this is a board meeting?"

To prove his point, Zaryab pressed the knife in. Not enough to kill, but enough to draw a sharp gasp of agony from Mantasha. A thin line of crimson began to soak into the lilac fabric of her suit at her waist.

"STOP! STOP!" Azlan roared, his eyes filling with hot, angry tears. He threw his gun to the floor, the metal clattering against the concrete and sliding away into the shadows. "There! It's gone! I'm unarmed! Please... Misha, look at me, baby, just look at me."

Mantasha's eyes were unfocused, her breath coming in shallow, terrified hitches. "A-Azi..." she whispered, a single tear carving a path through the dust and blood on her cheek. "Go... please, just go."

"I'm not going anywhere," he whispered back, his heart shattering at her selflessness.

Zaryab laughed, a high-pitched, broken sound. "She's still trying to save you. Even now. Isn't that beautiful?"

Suddenly, Zaryab's expression shifted from manic to cold. He shifted his grip, and before Azlan could react, he slammed the butt of the gun into the side of Mantasha's head.

The sound of the impact was sickening. Mantasha's eyes rolled back as she went limp in his arms, her head lolling to the side.

"NO!" Azlan lunged forward, but Zaryab immediately reset the gun to her throat, his finger tightening on the trigger.

"One more step and I finish it!" Zaryab spat. "Get on your knees, Azlan. I want to see the Great Khan on the floor. I want you to beg. Not for your life—I know you don't care about that. Beg for hers."

Azlan stopped dead, his chest heaving. The sight of Mantasha unconscious, blood trickling from her temple and her waist, stripped away every ounce of his pride. He didn't care who was watching. He didn't care about the Khan legacy.