My Cruel Love
Previously.
Maya saved the deal, Daniel flirted, Arman fumed—and in a locked room, the truth turned brutal. A contract. A threat. A moment that changed everything.
Seeing tears fall from Maya's eyes, Arman snapped out of his trance. He jerked away from her as if suddenly burned.
With a stern voice, he warned, "Don't ever do anything that'll make me lose my temper. Just obey what I—ahhh! Damn it. hey, let go, you crazy girl!"
Before Arman could finish, Maya stepped toward him, trembling with rage. Her eyes blazed like fire, as if ready to destroy everything in her path. Consumed by a blinding thirst for revenge, she grabbed Arman's wrist with both hands—and without warning, sank her teeth into his flesh.
Arman let out a strangled cry, stunned and breathless, staring at Maya in disbelief.
But almost immediately, Maya recoiled, trembling. The metallic, salty taste in her mouth told her everything—blood. Warm, sharp, and unmistakable. She didn't know whose it was—his or hers. Something shattered inside her. Without a word, she turned and bolted into the restroom connected to the meeting room.
Leaning over the sink, she turned on the faucet. Her hands trembled under the cold stream of water. As she rinsed her mouth, a faint reddish swirl appeared in the water—blood. Her stomach turned. That metallic taste, that scent—it triggered a wave of nausea rising up her throat. Her lips stung from where Arman's grip had cut her skin. It burned like fire.
Again and again, she rinsed, but the sticky feeling of blood wouldn't go away. It was as if she had touched a version of herself she didn't recognize. Did I really do that? She looked into the mirror, barely recognizing her reflection. Blood-streaked lips, pale face, red-rimmed eyes—she looked like someone she didn't recognize anymore. A stranger.
Splashing her face with water, she tried to calm down. Her chest still pounded. Slowly, she stepped out of the restroom—as if it wasn't her body, but her soul that had collapsed.
The moment she stepped back into the meeting room, her eyes met Arman's. He was still on the couch, jaw clenched, eyes burning with fury. The moment he sensed her presence, he raised his head and locked eyes with her. His voice, low and strained with suppressed anger, cut through the air.
"What the hell did you just do?"
As he spoke, he held up his injured hand.
Maya stood silently, her eyes slowly trailing to where he pointed. Right there. That's where she had bitten him. Clear indentations of her teeth were etched into his skin. The area was swollen, red, and still slightly bleeding.
A cold shiver ran through her.
If I'd bitten a little harder… maybe it would've torn through the flesh.
An unbearable weight pressed down on her chest. Her throat felt dry with remorse. I've never hurt anyone before. Never been this violent. Then why… why today? She hadn't bitten a person—she had bitten a moment, a memory, her own fury. Now reality struck back, and her insides collapsed in silence.
Arman was still staring at her—but not as if she was Maya. As if she was someone else entirely. An unknown threat.
Maya lowered her gaze, overwhelmed with one question: Did I really lose control like that?
Then she whispered, her voice soaked in guilt, "I'm sorry... I didn't realize it would hurt you that much. You... you hurt me too. You hurt the inside of my mouth when you grabbed me. That's why... I reacted. I'm sorry."
The words fell from her lips like broken glass—slow, painful, jagged. And as soon as she finished, she lowered her head again. Her eyes fixed to the floor, shadowed by shame.
Arman was silent for a moment.
Then, as if something clicked within him, he softened. Yes—he had hurt her too, in his anger. Her pale, shaken face confirmed that. The realization silenced him.
Without a word, he stepped closer to her. Slowly. Quietly.
He raised his right hand and gently touched her chin with his index finger, lifting her face up. Maya didn't resist, but her eyes remained downcast.
In a calm, serious voice, Arman said,
"Look at me."
The way he said it hit something deep within her, like a thunderclap under still water—quiet but powerful. She shuddered, just a little, but enough for Arman to feel it under his fingertip.
He didn't force her, didn't rush her—just waited.
Slowly, Maya lifted her gaze. Her eyes were shaky, filled with guilt, exhaustion... remorse.
Arman read it all, clearly. His voice was steady, low, but firm.
"You will not go near Daniel again. Understood?"
He paused, then added,
"I don't want to see you talking to him unless absolutely necessary. Got it?"
His tone wasn't threatening. It was a boundary. A silent claim—possessive, commanding without sounding like an order. Something that couldn't be ignored.
Maya stared at him, confused and frozen. She didn't show it, but a part of her feared this man. His towering presence, his strength—she felt small in front of him. With his head slightly lowered and hers just at his chest level, he looked like a giant. Muscular, controlled, unreadable.
She gave a small nod, wordless but clear.
Only then did Arman let go of her chin.
Then, in the same calm but commanding tone, he said,
"Alright. Let's go. Everyone's probably waiting for us."
With that, he turned and began walking toward the door.
Just then, Maya felt something stir inside her. A sudden wave of unease pushed her forward. She rushed after him, grabbing the same hand she had bitten earlier. Before that, she had quickly picked up her small bag from the table—the one she always carried.
Arman stopped mid-step. Maya, voice shaking, said,
"But... your hand... I mean, if someone sees it..."
She couldn't finish. Her voice, filled with guilt and hesitation, just faded.
Her cold hand sent a gentle shiver through Arman. He closed his eyes. That touch—it was unfamiliar, yet somehow achingly familiar.
Yes. He had felt this touch once before.
That first time they had come close... back then, Maya's touch had felt oddly known. But anger, misunderstandings, and pride had buried that feeling deep.
But now—now that same sensation returned.
And along with it, another memory surfaced—
A little girl. A young Maya.
That day, she had held his hand like this, pulling him, trying to save him from the car. That touch had left a mark deep in his chest.
And today... Maya's touch felt exactly the same. But why? Why do these two touches feel so identical?
A slight pull on his wrist brought him back. He opened his eyes and saw—Maya, head bowed, silently wrapping a napkin around his wound. The same spot she had bitten moments ago.
She was doing it with care, with tenderness—as if trying to erase any trace before someone could notice.
The bite was deep, the skin swollen and marked with blood. Anyone who saw it would know something had happened. And Maya, quietly, gently, was trying to make sure no one ever did.
To be continued...