The Ember
Almeer's pov;
The night was thick, the kind of damp, heavy dark that felt like it was listening to everything I wasn't saying. I stood there, rooted to the pavement, staring up at a sky that had decided to hide the moon behind a curtain of bruised clouds. It felt appropriate.
I felt a presence before I heard it. An old man, moving with the slow, deliberate gait of someone who had long ago stopped rushing, came to a halt beside me. He didn’t look at me with the hurried curiosity of a stranger. He looked at me with the heavy awareness of someone who recognized a familiar wound.
I must have been a sight. My white shirt was wrinkled, the sleeves pushed back past my elbows in a hurried mess, my hair probably a disaster from the wind. But it was my eyes he lingered on.
"Life is cruel, isn’t it?" he asked.
It wasn't a question that needed an answer. It was an observation, spoken with the quiet authority of age.
I let out a soft, dry chuckle that felt hollow even to my own ears. I shoved my hands deep into my pockets, feeling the cold air bite at my wrists. "Yes, it is," I murmured, my gaze still fixed on the horizon. "But who’s counting?"
The old man didn’t flinch at the bitterness. He just chuckled, a low, raspy sound. "I hope life gives you something you will never forget, son."
I turned my head then, finally meeting his gaze. The weight of my past…the London nights, the secrets, the ghosts…felt like a physical pressure behind my eyes. "Life has already given me plenty I can’t forget, even if I begged for amnesia," I said, my voice dropping an octave. "But I still hope… I hope there’s something out there actually meant for me. Something that feels like peace ….." words died in my throat.
A small, natural smile touched his lips. It wasn't pity; it was something rarer.
"An ember in the ashes," he said softly, almost to himself. "That’s new. I haven't seen that spark in your generation for a long time. Well, I’ll pray you find what you’re looking for."
He didn't wait, he just turned and walked away, his silhouette slowly dissolving into the shadows of the street.
I watched him go until he was nothing but a memory in the dark. "Before the ember turns to ash," I whispered, the words puffing into the cold air like a ghost, "I hope your prayers actually work."
I walked alone, my boots rhythmic against the pavement of a street that seemed to stretch into a horizon of nothingness. Loneliness here wasn't a feeling; it was a physical distance, longer than any road I had ever traveled.
I was deep in the hollow quiet of the outskirts when the silence splintered.
Thud-thud-thud.
The frantic, uneven slap of sneakers against wet asphalt. I stopped in my tracks, my senses sharpening instinctively. Out of the fog, a figure materialized…a girl, running as if the devil himself was breathing down her neck. When our eyes met, she skidded to a halt, her breath coming in jagged, terrifying hitches. She looked at me, and I saw a reflection of the very monster she was fleeing. To her, I was just another shadow in a dark alley.
She looked back at the darkness she’d come from, then at me, her body vibrating with the indecision of a trapped bird.
I took a step forward, my hands raised palms open, a silent truce. "I'm not here to harm you," I said, my voice low, trying to anchor her. "Believe me."
She let out a strangled yell, a sound that broke the night apart. Behind her, the air changed. The heavy, synchronized rhythm of combat boots began to echo. "H-elp... help me, plea-se," she uttered. Her voice wasn't a cry; it was a fracture.
The boots were too close. I didn't have time for a formal introduction. I reached out, my fingers catching the edge of her black dupatta. I twisted the fabric once around her arm not to hurt, but to tether her to me and grabbed the other end firmly.
"Run," I commanded.
We took a sharp turn into a side vein of the city, weaving through narrow passages where the brick felt like it was closing in. We ran until the sound of the pursuit faded into the distance, leaving only the sound of our own desperate lungs. Escape tastes like the first breath of air after being underwater.
We finally stopped at the arched entrance of a familiar sector: Muslim Community.
I leaned against a brick wall, catching my breath, my chest heaving. "Where’s your home?" I asked, looking at her properly for the first time. "I’ll walk you back. What were you even doing out there? Don’t you know the rumors about that area?"
She looked around, her eyes wide and disoriented. "I-I don’t know anything... But why are we here? I don’t belong to this colony! I even…."
"What?" I interrupted, a sharp frown carving into my forehead.
I scanned her again. She was wearing a black shalwar qameez, the same fabric I was still holding in my hand. In this part of England, clothes were a language, and I had read hers as a map back to this neighborhood.
"I thought you lived here," I said, my voice tight. "Tell me your address. I’ll leave you there."
She hesitated, her fingers trembling as she clutched her stomach. "I belong to... Pakistan."
Pa….Pakistan.
The word didn't just open a door; it ripped open a wound I had spent a decade stitching shut. The air around me suddenly felt like it was vibrating with ghosts.
"Your mom belongs to Pakistan, Meer!" a voice screamed in the back of my skull.
"I don't belong there, and I never want to go back."
"You ate my happiness."
"I love you, Meer... you are a blessing."
"She's no more."
One voice overlapped another, a relentless tidal wave of memory. I stumbled back, the ground beneath my boots feeling like shifting sand. My hazel eyes burned, blurring with a saltiness that wasn't from the rain. My head spun under the weight of a country I had tried to delete from my blood.
A sudden, dull thud echoed through the street sharp as a gunshot.
I snapped out of the fog to see her collapsed on the wet concrete. I rushed to her side, my hand reaching out but freezing an inch from her shoulder. I paused.
"Hey... hello? Can you hear me?" I whispered, my voice thick.
I pulled my phone out, thumb hovering over the emergency digits. I stopped. If I call them, the questions start. The police. The records. I looked at her muddy, wet clothes and the way she was clutching her stomach even in unconsciousness.
Without wasting another second, I tucked one arm under her knees and the other behind her back, scooping her up. She weighed almost nothing…a broken swan.
The streets were tomb-silent as I carried her toward my house, our shadows stretching long and distorted under the yellow streetlamps. Once inside, the warmth of the hallway felt alien. I laid her gently on the bed, pulling the heavy blankets up to her chin to ward off the chill of the cold night.
I walked away quietly, the click of the door feeling final. I collapsed onto the sofa in the TV lounge, staring up at the shadows dancing on the ceiling. My mind was a storm that refused to settle tangled threads of the girl, the word Pakistan, and the ghosts of my mother.
"Should I call a doctor?" I asked the empty room. No answer came. I stayed there, a sentinel in my own home, until sleep finally overpowered the chaos.
Author's pov;
The following dawn did not break with the soft promise of morning; instead, it bled a cold, grey light over the skeletal remains of an abandoned textile factory. The air inside was stagnant, heavy with the metallic tang of rusted iron and the unsettled dust of a decade’s neglect.
A dozen men stood in a jagged line, their spines rigid, breaths hitching in the silence. Before them sat Nolan, perched on a discarded wooden crate as if it were a throne of ivory. His fingers drummed a frantic, uneven rhythm against his thigh.
"You weren’t able to find her?"
His voice was a shard of glass dragged across stone, shattering the quiet.
"Sir, we chased her... we had her until the edge of the industrial district," one of the scouts stammered, his eyes fixed firmly on the oil-stained floor. "But she vanished. Like a ghost into the fog."
"You are nothing but fools!" Nolan’s roar echoed off the corrugated tin walls, multiplying his rage. He surged to his feet, his face contorting into a mask of lunatic desperation. "It has been a month! Thirty days of incompetence! David wants her at any cost, do you hear me? At any cost!"
The atmosphere shifted abruptly. The frantic energy Nolan had projected was suddenly smothered by a heavy, suffocating pressure. The factory held its collective breath.
From the yawning shadows of the loading dock, Max stepped into the light.
He moved with the predatory grace of a creature that owned the darkness. He was draped in charcoal-black trousers and a leather jacket the color of a midnight sky, zipped just enough to reveal the stark, clean contrast of an off-white shirt beneath. He didn't just occupy the space; he dominated it, turning the vast warehouse into his private cage.
"Enough," Max said. His voice wasn't loud, but it carried the weight of a falling gavel. "I will handle this case personally."
He stopped a few paces from Nolan. His ocean-blue eyes were not the color of a tropical shore, but the frigid, crushing depths of the Atlantic in mid-winter. They were devoid of heat, stripped of mercy.
"Sooner or later, she’ll be here," Max continued, his gaze drifting toward the rafters as if he could already see her broken spirit hanging there. "Serving David exactly the way he wants."
Nolan made the mistake of looking directly into those blue depths. The defiance in his chest withered instantly. The sheer aura Max projected a chilling mix of calculated violence and absolute authority forced Nolan to recoil.
"On your service, Boss," Nolan barked, his voice straining to regain its edge. "Ready to kill or to be killed."
"Hmm," Max hummed, a sound of bored dismissal.
Nolan stepped aside, retreating from the center of the floor to take his place among the ranks of the foot soldiers. Max turned his back on him, his focus now narrowing onto the men before him. When he spoke again, his voice had shifted into the sharp, biting tone of a commander.
"We search the nearest town first," Max barked, the order cutting through the air like a whip. "Concentrate on the Muslim community. Check every cellar, every attic, every shadowed corner of their quarter. I want that girl found before the sun sets on this day. Do you hear me?"
"Yes, Sir!"
The response was a singular, thunderous roar. As the men dispersed like a pack of hounds released from their leashes, Max remained standing in the center of the wreckage, a dark silhouette against the rising sun, ready to hunt a soul that had nowhere left to hide.
Mira's pov;
The moment my eyes snapped open, the air was echoing with the Fajr Azan. My heart hammered against my ribs as the flashbacks hit me in violent waves: England, Max Rhodes, and the desperate race to save my honor and my life.
My head throbbed with a dull ache. I looked around, my mind racing back to him….the man who had saved me last night. The air felt heavy and tight as I scanned the room frantically. My body shivered with a new kind of dread. Who is he? Why did he bring me here? Was I in his room? A sharp, nervous pang struck my stomach, and tears began to roll down my cheeks.
I gathered every ounce of courage I possessed. I couldn’t afford to be weak in this house; I had to fight for my dignity.
"Ya Rabbi, help me, please," I whispered.
The sound of the Azan continued to echo in my ears. Stumbling, I began to search for a prayer mat. I needed to speak to my Creator for strength. I have always known that when no one else is there, your Creator is by your side. Strangely, despite my fear, the room held a lingering sense of peace. As I tripped forward, I finally found a prayer mat. He must be Muslim, I realized.
I remembered his silhouette from last night, running beside me to keep me safe. A flicker of hope sparked in my chest, but I was too terrified to truly hold onto it.
I turned away and headed toward the bathroom. My clothes were caked in mud and I was utterly exhausted. Looking through his wardrobe, I found a T-shirt and a pair of trousers. My first instinct was to recoil. No, don’t do this. Don’t wear these. What if he isn’t a good man? What if he thought something else?
I squeezed my eyes shut and prayed, "Ya Allah, I believe in You above all else. No one is here to hold me; You are the only One who hasn't abandoned me. Help me and protect me."
With my heart still racing, I took the clothes and stepped into the shower.
Author's pov;
Sunlight crept through the window and fell across his face, pulling him from sleep. He yawned as he stood up from the couch, shaking his head once. He scanned the place for a second with half-open eyes. His eyes widened as realization hit him. The Girl!!! He grabbed his head out of frustration.
"Oh no,no… how could I sleep in this situation? Ya Allah," he whispered, clutching his head as a sharp pain struck. Gathering what courage he could, he walked toward the room, guilt weighing heavily on him. How could I sleep when she was unconscious? He knocked softly.
Inside, she lay on the prayer mat, tears slipping silently as she spoke to her Creator and thought how life played with her innocent desires. What she thought and what she got .At the sound of the knock, fear tightened around her heart. She shifted, whispered softly, "I trust your plans. My honor is in Your hands," and rose to open the door.
As the door opened, he froze. She stood there wearing his shirt and trousers, her dupatta neatly wrapped in a hijab around her calm, clean face.
"I know I crossed limits," she said quickly, words spilling in one breath. "I used your clothes and prayer mat. I was restless, I needed to talk to my Rabb. I’m really sorry."
"It’s okay," he replied gently, his eyes drifting toward the prayer mat before lowering. "I just came to check on you. You fainted last night."
"I regained consciousness at Fajr," she said, "I fainted because I was starving…." She stopped abruptly as the tea spilled from her mouth. He looked at her for a moment, then immediately lowered his gaze. She watched him innocently with big eyes.
"Come outside," he said softly. "Have breakfast and make yourself comfortable. I’ll drop you at your place. And I’m sorry I brought you here instead of calling for help."
"I’m grateful for everything," she replied quietly. "Your decision… somehow worked in my favor."
He narrowed his eyes slightly. "How?... Let’s talk over breakfast." With that, he turned and walked away.
Watching his back disappear, she placed a trembling hand over her heart.
"Ya Allah," she whispered, "What should I do? I can’t trust anyone. Help me. I should run from this place , what if......... but I'm starving. Ya Rabbi, what should i do?"
The morning sun filtered through the heavy velvet curtains of the Rhodes villa, casting long, golden needles of light across the disarray of the master suite. Outside, the world was beginning to stir, but inside, the air was thick with the scent of expensive cologne and the lingering quiet of a house that held its breath.
Max entered the room with the silent, heavy tread of a predator returning to its den. His eyes were bloodshot, his jaw shadowed with a night’s worth of stubble. He had spent the hours before dawn directing his men like chess pieces, sending a specialized team into the heart of the Muslim Community sector.
He paused at the foot of the bed.
Riya was a vision of soft edges and rhythmic breathing, a stark contrast to the jagged violence of his world. She was still deep in the pull of sleep, her blond hair fanned out across the white silk pillows like spilled ink. Max felt the tension in his shoulders, the tension he didn’t even realize he carried, finally begin to snap.
He watched her for a long moment, his gaze tracing the gentle rise and fall of her chest, the curve of her waist beneath the duvet. To the world, he was the man who ruled London with an iron fist, but here, in the sanctuary of this room, he was simply a man starved for the sight of her.
He didn't wake her. Not yet. He disappeared into the bathroom, the sound of splashing water the only noise in the suite. When he emerged, the suit was gone, replaced by soft, casual clothes that made him look less like a king and more like a human.
He hopped onto the bed, the mattress dipping under his weight. He moved with a careful, desperate gentleness, sliding his arm beneath her and pulling her into his heat. He leaned down, pressing a lingering, reverent kiss to the side of her neck.
Riya shifted, a soft, sleepy mumble escaping her lips as she instinctively felt his warmth even in her dreams. Max let out a low, husky chuckle, the sound vibrating against her skin. He lowered his head, resting it against her chest, listening to the steady, grounding throb of her heart.
Her eyes flickered open, heavy with sleep and hazy with a slow-blooming recognition.
"You are home?" she whispered, her voice like velvet.
"Morning, baby," he replied, his voice a deep, gravelly rasp. He tightened his hold, as if trying to pull her soul into his own. "Sorry, I was out the whole night. I’m still busy, things are moving fast….but look, I was yearning for you. I couldn't breathe out there without seeing you first."
Riya ran a slender finger through his dark, unruly hair, the touch soothing the fire in his mind. "So you have to go back?" she asked, a small pout forming on her lips.
"Ummmm... yes," he replied, mirroring her tone with a tired smirk.
Riya mimicked his "ummmm" back at him, the playful mockery making him break into a genuine laugh. It was the first time he had laughed since last night.
He reached for her pillow, dragging it down and burying his head beside hers, though his arms never let go of her waist. He looked at her, his eyes dark with a mix of exhaustion and unshakeable pride.
"I rule London, Riya," he teased, his voice dropping into a mock-serious tone. "I'm a busy man. The city doesn't run itself."
Riya just smiled, pulling him closer, knowing that no matter how much of the city he owned, in this moment, he belonged entirely to her.
