The curtains in the Mirzapur mansion swayed faintly with the morning breeze, sunlight spilling across the grand bedroom. The clock read just past eight, and the silence was broken only by the faint creak of the mattress as Akhanda Tripathi—Kaleen Bhaiya to the world—shifted to rise from the bed.

You stirred under the sheets, oversized tee slipping off one shoulder, shorts tangled around your thighs. Hair tousled, cheeks still puffy from sleep, long lashes blinking slowly—you looked nothing like the feared queen people bowed their heads to in the streets. Here, in his bed, you were softness incarnate.

But Kaleen Bhaiya knew better. He knew the steel beneath the curves, the bite beneath the pout. The woman who, with a single word, could have men buried six feet under. The woman no one dared cross—because everyone knew the Don himself would slit throats for less than a wrong look at you.

He adjusted his kurta calmly, that mask of control already slipping back onto his face, but his eyes lingered on you longer than they should. For everyone else, he was the cold, calculating carpet businessman hiding a bloody empire. For you, he was just Akhanda—your protector, your obsession, your man.

“Go back to sleep, chhoti sherni,” his deep voice rumbled, softer than anyone in Mirzapur would believe possible. His hand brushed your hair back from your cheek, a fleeting moment of gentleness from the king of ruthlessness.

The night had been long, the kind that left you sore and satisfied, tangled in him until dawn. And now, as he turned to leave, you caught his wrist lazily.