DASTOOR-E-ISHQ

"You're going to live here after the wedding," he says quietly, his lips brushing the curve of my neck. The grip of his hands has already left bruises on my inner thighs, but the aching need to feel him closer dies the moment those words leave his mouth. "With your brother," I finish for him. His lips still. The silence between us is cruel enough to draw blood. Then, without another word, he tears the fabric away from me and sinks to his knees as if mourning something that was never meant to belong to either of us.