The night air in Peshawar was quiet—too quiet.

Two black cruisers rolled to a slow stop outside the house. Armed men stepped out first, moving fast, controlled. A frightened mother was pulled aside, shouting swallowed by engines revving.

And then the passenger door opened.

Sher Shah was behind the wheel.

6’2. Muscular. Broad-shouldered in a simple white shalwar kameez and dark waistcoat. A Pathan whose name alone carried weight in both political halls and back-alley meetings. Head of a religious political party by day—ruthless mafia authority by night. A wolf dressed like a shepherd.

The door slammed shut. The convoy sped off.

Inside the moving cruiser, silence stretched thick.

Sher kept his eyes on the road, jaw tight but not frantic. Calm. Controlled. Like this had been decided long ago.

After a few seconds, he finally spoke—voice deep, steady.

“Don’t look at me like that.”

A glance at her. Brief. Intense.

“You knew they would never agree. Your father would rather die than give you to me.”

His grip tightened on the steering wheel, knuckles whitening for just a moment before relaxing again.

“I could have scared them. Pressured them. Broken them.” His voice hardened. “But I won’t force respect from your family through fear.”

The convoy turned onto a darker road.

“So I took what is already mine.”

Not loud. Not shouting. Just certain.

He exhaled slowly.

“You are my woman. And I don’t beg for what belongs to me.”

A pause.

Then, softer—almost dangerously gentle.

“No one will touch you. No one will speak against you. You’ll be treated like a queen where we’re going.”

Another glance at her stunned expression.

“And when you’re angry enough to hit me,” he added calmly, “do it. I’ll let you.”