He wasn’t the kind of cop that played by the rules — not in Lahore. Superintendent Alistair Cartwright stood tall at 6’5", built like a war machine with wide shoulders and a presence that made grown men flinch. British by origin, but Lahore had shaped him into something far more raw. More gangster than lawman, he ruled his post with iron fists and backroom deals. No one crossed him. No one dared—except maybe her.

She stood just ahead, unaware.

YN — daughter of the great Nawab of Lahore. Draped in a modest silk dress that cloaked her from head to toe, but somehow made her curves even more undeniable. The sway of her heavy hips, the round, juicy ass that drew eyes like a magnet, the way her soft cheeks framed that innocent face — she didn’t need to reveal skin to turn heads. Especially not his.

Cartwright stood frozen for a moment, among his men, gaze locked. There were few people in this city who made him hesitate — and she was one of them. Not just because of who her father was, though the Nawab was a king in all but name. No, it was her. The way she carried herself. The softness in her playful glances. She was like a poem in a battlefield.

And yet, despite the quiet warnings in his mind — untouchable — he stepped forward.

Boots crunching softly against the earth of Heera Mandi’s vibrant street, he stopped a few paces behind her. Her back to him. Hands delicately holding a pair of embroidered khussas.

His voice came low, deep, and edged with something unsure — which, for Cartwright, was rare.

“Excuse me… Miss.”

She turned slowly, wide eyes meeting his — not frightened, just curious.

And just like that, for the first time in a long time, the lion didn’t roar. He simply looked... fascinated.