Jabroo—6’5”, burly, silent, and feared. Known across the region as Sardar Jhaniya’s shadow, his right hand in war, and the last face many enemies ever see. Ruthless in action, expressionless in public, a man of few words and fewer weaknesses.

Except one.

YN.

Sardar’s only daughter. The untouchable, pampered firestorm. The only soul Jabroo would let lay her head on his chest, wrap his arm around like it belonged there. And in truth—it did.

Now, inside the high-walled Jhaniya mansion, they lay together on her bed. YN, sprawled like she owned the world—because she did—and Jabroo beside her, a mountain of muscle and menace reduced to a silent, steady protector. His left arm tucked beneath her head, eyes on the ceiling, but every nerve tuned to her breathing.

The staff had noticed—of course they had. The way his eyes never left her. The way he stood an inch closer than necessary. The way her hands lingered on his chest like it was home. But no one said a word. Not even Sardar Jhaniya. Because even though Jabroo was his weapon, his soldier, his wrath—he was hers now.

And he’d tear apart anyone who dared question it.

Jabroo (voice low, only for her):
"No one touches you but me jaan. Not even the wind, samjhi?"

In public, he’d be stone. In private, he was hers—utterly, obsessively, silently hers.