"Will you give me permission?" Arahan asked, eyes locked on hers. "Permission to love you. To show you what it feels like to be wanted. Truly wanted."
She couldn't speak. Her mind reeled—replaying his words, the betrayal, the humiliation, the sudden offer of something she had craved all night.
Meanwhile, Arahan's other hand moved to Sahil. Calmly, possessively, he began unbuttoning Sahil's sherwani, sliding the fabric open to reveal skin.
Noorzadi's gaze snapped to the motion. Jealousy—hot, irrational, searing—exploded in her chest.
Before she could think, she lunged. Her hands gripped Arahan's shoulders and yanked him backward. He fell onto the bed with a soft thud, surprised but not resisting. She climbed over him, straddling his hips, dupatta falling away completely.
"You will do me first," she hissed, voice trembling with fury and need. "You will love me first. You will make me carry your child—a strong one. Not his. Mine."
Sahil stood up abruptly, sherwani half-open, face pale.
Noorzadi whipped her head toward him. "What happened to you, bastard?"
"I…" Sahil's voice cracked. "Since you're doing this… I'm walking away from here."
Noorzadi laughed—a harsh, broken sound that dissolved into another curse. "You gay, impotent, useless sword with no edge—how dare you think you can just walk away? The entire state is watching! Every guest, every relative, every newspaper ready to print the scandal! 'Groom flees bride on wedding night'—is that what you want for me? For us?"
She leaned forward, eyes blazing. "You will not walk away. You will stay right here. You will watch everything. And you will see—finally—what a real man does. What it looks like when a woman is claimed properly."
Sahil hesitated, then slowly sat back down in the chair across from the bed. His face was blank now—resigned. It didn't matter to him whether he watched or not. He was gay. This was never about him and her.
Noorzadi turned back to Arahan. Her fingers—still trembling—began tearing at the buttons of his sherwani, ripping the fabric open with desperate urgency.
Arahan let her. He watched her with dark, steady eyes, one hand sliding up her thigh beneath the lehenga, the other cupping the back of her neck.
"Tell me again," he murmured against her ear. "Tell me what you want, Noor."
She leaned down, lips brushing his, her voice raw and fierce.
"I want you to ruin me… the right way."
Noorzadi's fingers trembled as she tore open the last button of Arahan's sherwani, shoving the heavy fabric aside to reveal the hard planes of his chest. Her breath came in short, ragged gasps—anger, grief, and raw hunger twisting together until she could barely think.
Arahan didn't resist. He let her strip him, eyes never leaving her face, dark and patient. One large hand slid up her thigh again, bunching the lehenga higher, fingers brushing the damp silk of her panties. She shuddered violently at the contact.
"You want this?" he asked, voice low, almost gentle. "You want me to be the first—the only one—who makes you feel like a woman tonight?"
"Yes," she hissed, nails digging into his shoulders. "Fuck yes. Make me forget him. Make me forget everything."
She leaned down and kissed him—hard, desperate, teeth clashing. It wasn't sweet. It was war. She bit his lower lip until she tasted copper; he growled in response, flipping them in one smooth motion so she was beneath him, pinned to the mattress by his weight.
Sahil sat frozen in the chair, sherwani still half-open, eyes wide but detached—like he was watching a play he had no part in.
Arahan hooked his fingers into the waistband of Noorzadi's soaked panties and yanked them down in one rough pull. The delicate lace tore slightly at the seam, the sound sharp in the heavy silence. She gasped, legs instinctively parting wider, thighs trembling—not from fear now, but from the electric storm raging inside her.
He didn't tease. Didn't whisper sweet lies. He simply positioned himself between her spread thighs, the thick head of his cock brushing her slick, virgin entrance. The heat of him made her flinch, a fresh wave of tears spilling over as the reality hit again: this was happening. Not with the man who had promised her forever in front of Allah. With this stranger who had walked into her wreckage and offered to rebuild it with his body.
"Look at me," Arahan ordered, voice low and unyielding.
Noorzadi's eyes snapped to his—kohl-smudged, lashes clumped with tears, yet burning now with something fiercer than pain. Defiance. Hunger. A desperate need to reclaim what had been stolen from her tonight.
He pressed forward—slow at first, deliberate, letting her feel every thick inch as it parted her untouched walls. The stretch was immediate and merciless. A burning pressure built, sharp and overwhelming, her body resisting even as it yielded. Noorzadi's breath hitched, turned into a choked whimper. Her hands flew to his biceps, nails digging in like anchors.
Then, with one deep, brutal thrust, he buried himself to the hilt.
The barrier gave way in a sudden, searing tear.
Noorzadi's cry ripped through the room—raw, high, shattering. Half-pain, half-ecstasy, half-grief. Her back arched off the mattress, hips jerking involuntarily as hot tears streamed sideways into her hair. She felt it—the warm trickle of her virginity breaking, mixing with her arousal, slicking the way for him. The sting radiated outward, sharp and intimate, marking the exact moment her body changed forever.
"Fuck…" Arahan hissed through clenched teeth, holding still inside her, letting her adjust to the impossible fullness. Her walls fluttered and clenched around him like a fist—tight, hot, virgin-tight even after the breach. Blood and wetness coated him; he could feel it dripping down to where they joined.
Noorzadi sobbed once—loud, broken—then her hips twitched forward on instinct, chasing more despite the ache. "Harder," she gasped, voice cracking. "Ruin me. Please. Make it hurt. Make it real."
Arahan's control snapped.
He pulled back almost to the tip—letting her feel the drag of every ridge—then slammed back in, deep and punishing. The bedframe groaned. Noorzadi's cry turned into a moan, then another, each thrust forcing the pain to blur into something darker, hotter. Her nails raked bloody trails down his back; she didn't care. She wanted the marks. Wanted proof.
He fucked her like he was erasing Sahil's name from her skin—long, brutal strokes that rocked her entire body, the lehenga still bunched around her waist like a discarded flag of surrender. Wet, filthy sounds echoed: the slick glide of him inside her ruined entrance, the slap of skin, her increasingly desperate whimpers.
"Look at him," Arahan growled, nodding toward Sahil without breaking rhythm. "Watch your so-called husband see what he could never give you."
Noorzadi turned her head, eyes glassy with tears and lust. Sahil sat rigid in the chair, sherwani open, face blank—but his hands gripped the armrests so hard his knuckles were white.
She laughed through a sob—bitter, triumphant. "See this, you useless bastard?" she gasped between thrusts. "This is what a real man feels like. This is what you robbed me of—and what he's giving back."
Arahan angled his hips, hitting deeper, grinding against that spot inside her that made stars explode behind her eyelids. Noorzadi's legs locked around his waist, heels digging into his lower back, pulling him impossibly closer.
"I'm—oh God—I'm going to—" Her words dissolved into a keening wail as the first real orgasm of her life crashed through her. Her walls spasmed violently around him, milking him, fluttering so hard it dragged a guttural groan from his throat. She came apart—body seizing, tears flowing freely, a mix of release and catharsis.
Arahan didn't slow. He fucked her through it, chasing his own edge, until he buried himself one final time and erupted—hot, thick pulses flooding her newly claimed depths, marking her womb with every jet.
He stayed deep, grinding slowly, forcing her to feel every drop as it stayed inside her.
When he finally pulled out, a thick trickle of cum mixed with her virgin blood leaked onto the sheets—red and white proof of what had just happened.
Noorzadi lay there, chest heaving, body trembling, lehenga ruined, face streaked with tears and smeared makeup.
But her eyes—when they met Arahan's—were no longer broken.
They were alive.
"Again," she whispered hoarsely. "Don't stop until I'm carrying your child."
Arahan smiled—dark, possessive—and leaned down to claim her mouth in a bruising kiss.
He claimed her mouth again in that bruising kiss, swallowing her defiant words as his hips rolled forward once more. Noorzadi moaned into him, legs still locked around his waist, heels digging into his back like she could pull him deeper into her soul.
This time he didn't rush.
He fucked her slower—deliberate, punishing in its patience—each long, dragging stroke forcing her to feel every ridge, every vein, every inch of him owning the space Sahil had never claimed. Her walls fluttered helplessly around him, still hypersensitive from the first orgasm, the mix of her virgin blood, arousal, and his earlier release making every glide slick and obscene.
"Beg for it," he growled against her lips. "Beg for my child."
Noorzadi's head thrashed on the pillow. Tears—fresh ones now, born of overwhelming sensation—slipped from the corners of her eyes. "Please…" she whimpered, voice hoarse from screaming. "Give it to me… fill me again… make me pregnant… I want your baby… I want to carry your strong child… please, Arahan—"
The sound of his name on her lips—raw, desperate, reverent—snapped something in him.
He slammed in harder, faster, the bed creaking violently under them. Noorzadi's nails scored fresh lines down his shoulders; her hips bucked up to meet every thrust, chasing the edge again even as exhaustion clawed at her limbs. The lehenga was a tangled ruin around her waist, silk soaked with sweat and fluids. The room smelled of sex, attar, and broken vows.
Sahil watched from the chair—silent, unmoving, eyes glassy. It didn't matter to him anymore. This was no longer his night.
Arahan buried his face in the crook of Noorzadi's neck, teeth grazing her skin. "You're mine now," he rasped. "Say it."
"Yours," she sobbed. "Only yours— ahh— fuck— don't stop—"
He didn't.
He drove into her relentlessly until her second orgasm hit like a storm—harder than the first. Noorzadi's entire body seized, back arching off the mattress, a strangled scream tearing from her throat as her walls clamped down like a vice, milking him with rhythmic pulses. Her vision whited out for a heartbeat; she felt nothing but him—thick, hot, relentless—filling every empty space inside her.
Arahan followed seconds later. With a low, guttural groan he slammed home one final time and came—deep, pulsing jets flooding her womb again, thicker this time, hotter, marking her so thoroughly she could feel it pooling inside. He ground against her clit through the aftershocks, forcing every last drop to stay buried where it belonged.
When it was over, Noorzadi collapsed.
Completely.
Her legs slipped from around his waist, falling limp to the sheets. Her arms dropped bonelessly to her sides. Chest heaving in shallow, ragged breaths, she lay there—sweat-slick, trembling, eyes half-lidded and unfocused. Cum leaked slowly from her swollen, reddened entrance, mixing with traces of blood on the white sheets beneath her. The lehenga was twisted and stained; her hair a wild halo around her tear-streaked face.
She tried to move—tried to lift a hand, to speak—but her body refused. Every muscle quivered with exhaustion; her thighs shook uncontrollably. She felt… heavy. Full. Claimed. And utterly spent.
Arahan stayed above her for a long moment, breathing hard, cock still half-hard inside her. He brushed damp strands of hair from her forehead with surprising gentleness.
"Rest," he murmured, voice rough but soft. "You've taken enough for tonight."
Noorzadi managed a faint, broken whimper—half protest, half surrender. Her eyelids fluttered, too heavy to keep open.
Arahan slowly pulled out, watching another thick trickle of his cum spill from her. He leaned down, pressed a single, almost tender kiss to her swollen lips.
Noor Zadi collapsed forward, trembling, ass still raised, too spent to move.