The sweet scent of rich cocoa and vanilla filled the dark, heavy air of the VIP lounge, completely replacing the usual smell of expensive cigars and aged whiskey.

Mehar sat with her legs curled under her on the pristine leather sofa, her face buried in the oversized mug of hot chocolate. A tiny dot of whipped cream smeared perfectly on the tip of her nose. Across from her, Irtaza hadn’t moved an inch. His dark, piercing eyes were locked onto her every movement, tracking the way her lips curved around the rim of the mug and how her small shoulders relaxed as the warmth seeped into her bones.

He was a man who calculated every breath, every move, and every dollar. Yet, right now, he was completely captivated by a girl who was currently trying to feed a stray kitten with a tiny silver spoon, making soft "choo-choo" train noises under her breath.

"He's not a train, Mehar," Irtaza said, his gravelly baritone rough but laced with an unfamiliar gentleness.

Mehar looked up, her wide, hazel eyes blinking at him in innocent surprise. "I know he’s a kitty, Mr. Giant. But trains move fast, and I want him to drink his milk fast so he grows big and strong like you."

A faint, rare smirk tugged at the corner of Irtaza’s lips. "My name isn't 'Mr. Giant.' It’s Irtaza."

"Ir-ta-za," she sounded it out, her soft voice rolling over the syllables like a melody. She smiled, her eyes crinkling at the corners. "It’s a pretty name. It sounds like a warrior from my storybooks."

"I am far from a storybook warrior, jaan," he murmured, his voice dropping an octave. There was a dangerous, dark truth to his words, but to Mehar, it just sounded like a comforting whisper.

Before she could respond, a sudden, loud thunderclap boomed outside, rattling the thick glass windows of the lounge. The lights flickered violently for a split second.

Mehar gasped, her childlike innocence instantly turning into pure panic. She dropped the spoon, squeaked in terror, and did the one thing no one in the city of Chicago would ever dare to do.

She lunged across the mahogany table and threw herself directly into Irtaza’s lap.

The guards in the room instantly went rigid. Bilal’s hand twitched toward his blazer. But one look at Irtaza’s face made every man in the room freeze.

Irtaza’s body went completely stiff as Mehar buried her face into the crook of his neck, her small hands tightly gripping the lapels of his expensive charcoal suit. She was trembling, whimpering softly against his skin as another wave of thunder rolled through the sky. She smelled like rain, sweet strawberries, and pure, unadulterated trust.

For a second, the ruthless mafia don forgot how to breathe. Her small, fragile body fit perfectly against his broad, muscular frame. Every protective instinct he possessed—instincts usually reserved for war and turf survival—screamed at him to shield her from the world.

Slowly, deliberately, Irtaza wrapped his large, heavily tattooed arms around her waist, pulling her flush against his chest. His big hand came up to cup the back of her head, his fingers tangling into her soft, damp hair, anchoring her to him.

"Shh," he whispered against her ear, his breath hot and grounding. "You're safe. I've got you."

"The sky is angry," Mehar whimpered, her voice muffled against his neck. She squeezed him tighter, entirely unaware of how her proximity was making his heart hammer against his ribs like a caged beast.

"The sky can't touch you in here," Irtaza replied, his tone fiercely possessive. He gently stroked her hair, his thumb brushing behind her ear in slow, soothing circles. "Nothing can touch you when you're with me. Look at me, Mehar."

Slowly, hesitantly, she pulled her face away from his neck. She looked up at him, her long eyelashes wet with a few unshed tears. Because she was sitting on his lap, the height difference was erased; her soft, flushed face was just inches from his sharp, dangerous jawline.

Irtaza’s gaze darkened, focusing on her trembling, rosy lips. The urge to lean in and taste the sweetness of the hot chocolate on her lips was a sudden, violent roar in his chest. But looking into her pure, trusting eyes, he reined himself in. She was a delicate flower, and he was a monster who broke things. He had to be careful.

Gently, using his thumb, he wiped away the smudge of whipped cream from her nose, his touch impossibly light.

"Better?" he asked, his voice thick with a sudden rush of emotion.

Mehar blinked, her fear melting away, replaced by a strange, warm flutter in her tummy that she didn't quite understand. She looked at his dark eyes, noticing for the first time the tiny gold flecks in them. She felt completely warm, completely shielded from the storm outside.

"Your heart is beating really fast, Irtaza," she whispered, placing her small palm directly over his chest, right above his heart. "Is it scared of the thunder too?"

Irtaza let out a low, breathless laugh, his grip on her waist tightening just a fraction, pulling her closer if that were even possible.

"No, meray jaan," he murmured, his gaze locking onto hers with an intensity that made the room feel scorching hot. "My heart isn't scared of the storm. It’s just realizing it finally found its home."

Mehar didn't fully understand his words, but she gave him another brilliant, breathtaking smile, resting her head gently against his broad shoulder, completely content to stay right there

Tell me what you feel..

Allah hafiz.