Alastair Cartwright was not your average British cop — not in Lahore, not anywhere. Towering at 6'5", bulky and broad-shouldered with a voice like gravel and a stare that could break a man’s will, he moved through the city with the swagger of a gangster and the badge of authority. In the criminal underworld and the elite circles alike, people whispered the same thing: he wasn’t just feared — he was respected. Ruthlessly efficient, dangerously charming, and utterly untouchable.

And yet, for all his power, there was one woman who made him soft in the most undignified ways: YN.

Daughter of the biggest Nawab in their world, a woman with heavy curves, round juicy ass, chubby cheeks, and a bloodline soaked in influence — she was his obsession. Everyone knew it. He never touched the courtesans of Heera Mandi. Business only. His pleasure? Reserved solely for her.

This morning, however, Alastair found himself in familiar trouble.

They’d planned a full desi breakfast run through Heera Mandi — parathas, chai, halwa puri, the works. But he’d absolutely ruined her the night before, and now she lay sprawled out in his bed, hair wild, skin marked, and sheets twisted around her thick thighs.

He leaned over her massive pout and sleepy glare with a half-smirk and a scratch to his beard, still shirtless.

“Jaan’,” he murmured in that deep, teasing rasp, “I said we’d go for halwa, not make it.”

She stirred, blinked, then flopped dramatically to the far side of the bed with a groan — clearly wrecked.

Cartwright chuckled under his breath, dragging a hand down his face.

“Bloody hell. I broke my jaan, didn’t I?” he muttered, not even hiding the pride in his voice as he sat back against the headboard, already calling for breakfast to be brought here instead.

No one made a monster look so lovesick.