...before you taste it,

it is calm, simple, crystal clear—seemingly harmless.

But the moment it touches your lips, it is neither sweet nor bitter, neither sharp nor smooth.

its flavor is fierce, burning like fire.

A single sip ignites a fiery heat, searing from your mouth down to your core.

You think of stopping, yet you cannot.

You drink until the world blurs at the edges, until warmth settles in your veins, 

until your mind drifts into a hazy intoxication.

🎀🎀🎀🎀🎀

Maybe every woman held a secret place in her heart for a man who would fight for her.

When she had let go of everything, prepared to face the inevitable, when she had battled to her last breath, drowning in despair and helplessness—he had appeared. Like a deity descending from the heavens, stepping through the light, his presence cutting through the darkness. Her eyes had locked onto him, unable to look away.

In that moment, the past no longer mattered. Everything blurred, leaving only one image burned into her mind: his lethal intent, his fury, and the way he fought—desperately, relentlessly—for her.

Sometimes, watching a man lose his composure for her sake could be intoxicating. (Of course, this only applied if she didn't hate him.)

It was proof—undeniable and raw—that to him, she was important. Unique. Irreplaceable. And just like that, he carved out an even deeper place in her heart.

But if he fought for her twice, did that space grow even bigger?

With his hair styled in soft waves and his black diamond earring removed, Arden had shed his usual roguish flair. In its place was a quiet, steady masculinity—one that made Sandra, just for a fleeting moment, question whether he was truly as unreliable as she had always believed.

After leaving Yao's apartment, Arden never left her side. He stayed through the police report, the medical examination—carrying her in and out, never letting anyone else, except the doctor, touch her. Yet he never showed her a pleasant expression, and every other word out of his mouth was "stupid woman."

Anytime she so much as hinted at pleading for Yao, his expression darkened with such murderous intent that she thought he might strangle her on the spot. His glare alone was enough to silence her, forcing her to swallow the words back down every time.

Sitting on a bench, Sandra stared through the glass window at Arden. Despite his seething anger, he sat beside his lawyer—his posture tense, his jaw locked, but there—cooperating with the investigation.

She didn't understand why Arden insisted on reporting it to the police. If she refused to sign the indictment, dropped the charges, or denied in court that Yao had assaulted her, there would be nothing Arden could do to him.

On the contrary, it was Arden who, by beating Yao so mercilessly, would bring unnecessary trouble upon himself. Yao was a law student, if he decided to press charges, Sandra had no idea how Arden would handle it.

And yet, strangely, Sandra wasn't worried about Arden at all. She just believed—without reason, without logic—that he would resolve everything.

Sitting there, she gazed at his profile—the sharp focus in his eyes beneath his slightly curled bangs, the straight bridge of his nose, and the faint stubble along his jawline. A warmth spread in her chest.

It was a strange feeling.

Because of her parents' divorce—and later, her mother's involvement in another man's marriage—Sandra had endured her share of bullying while growing up. Her mother had never been strong, never someone who could protect her. She had always been left to hide away and lick her wounds alone.

There had been someone once—a figure who had stepped in to shield her at her most desperate moments. For years, he had been her undefeated hero.

But the person who once gave her a sense of security had long since ceased to be her savior and had become her nightmare instead. He left her with one painful truth: there's no one in this world more reliable than yourself.

So, as a once-delicate art student, she had fallen in love with martial arts. She had built walls, made herself seem unapproachable, thinking it would be enough to protect herself.

But time and again, reality had proved otherwise.

At her core, she was still that fragile, sensitive child. No matter how thick the armor she wore, she remained herself—always running, always hiding whenever she was hurt. And in doing so, she had stumbled into this man's embrace a year ago.

She could never forget the sense of security Arden had given her that night—the feeling of being enveloped, conquered, possessed. It was a kind of safety that was addictive, tinged with danger.

Arden exuded a natural authority, a commanding masculinity that overshadowed and dominated everyone around him. He carried a presence that controlled everything and the strength to bear it all. When she was in his presence, she could breathe, she could calm down. The insecurities and worries that haunted her seemed to lose their weight.

It was a kind of magic—a unique, irresistible magic that this devilish, rogue-like man carried with him.

"Let's go, stupid woman." 

Arden's tall figure loomed over her, casting a long shadow. It was only then that Sandra realized she couldn't remember when she had drifted off to sleep.

He leaned down, sliding one arm under her shoulders and the other beneath her knees, effortlessly scooping her up.

Half-conscious, Sandra mumbled, "Where are we going now?"

The entire night had been a whirlwind—from the police station to the hospital and back again. Morning had long since broken, and exhaustion clung to her like a heavy fog. She couldn't hold on any longer. Neither could Arden. His once captivating eyes were now bloodshot.

Sandra gazed up at him and thought, So even a devilish rogue can get dark circles under his eyes.

Arden tilted his head slightly, his gaze resting on the woman in his arms. He drew in a slow breath before murmuring, "Home."

"Oh," she whispered. The word barely left her lips before sleep pulled her under once more.

🎬🔀

Arden had no intention of sending Sandra back to her place. He could only relax when she was right where he could see her. Who knew when she'd wake up, her head full of nonsense, running off to tangle herself up with some other man? Hadn't she caused him enough trouble already?

But taking her back to his own home meant dealing with his old man. He could already picture the storm waiting for him—the lectures, the scolding. After all, he had just been warned, yet here he was, breaking the rules again. Sneaking out in the middle of the night, staying out till morning, and now coming home with an injured woman? He might as well walk straight into the lion's den.

After weighing his options, Arden pulled out his phone and called Moya. "I need to crash at your place."

Moya, who had just dropped April off and was finally asleep, was not pleased. Jolted awake, she fired off complaints like a string of firecrackers. "Crash my ass! Your house is so big, if it burned to ashes, the remains could bury my whole apartment. Go find one of your other admirers and stop bothering me. I am not in the mood for your bullshit right now."

Arden ignored her outburst and said coolly, "I'm bringing Sandra over. Clear the place."

Moya launched into another round of curses, only to realize halfway through that Arden had already hung up. Fuming, she chucked her phone into her wardrobe, muttered a few more choice words under her breath, and promptly fell back asleep.

Arden, drained from the night's chaos, nodded off for a split second at a red light. A sharp honk from the car behind jolted him awake.

The sudden noise roused Sandra as well. Lying in the back seat, she blinked at the car roof, her mind sluggish and disoriented. For a moment, everything felt distant, unreal. Meanwhile, Arden muttered a string of curses at the impatient driver, his voice rough with exhaustion. As her drowsiness faded, the fragmented events of the night slowly pieced themselves back together.

She sat up, glancing around at the unfamiliar streets. "Where are we going?"

Arden met her gaze in the rearview mirror. "Moya's place," he said. "Almost there. Take a shower, eat something, and get some rest. We'll deal with everything else later."

Moya's apartment was in a modern complex with tight security, making it nearly impossible for unwanted visitors to slip in. Arden leaned on the buzzer downstairs, pressing it repeatedly like a madman, but Moya stubbornly refused to answer.

Sandra tugged at his sleeve as he cursed under his breath. "Forget it. Let's just go to my place," she suggested softly.

But Arden, already set on his course, wasn't about to back down. "We're staying here tonight," he declared, pulling out his phone and redialing. Again. And again.

Moya, exasperated beyond words, finally yanked herself out of bed, dug through a pile of clothes in her wardrobe to find her phone, turned it off, and buried herself back under the mess to sleep.

When the calls went unanswered, Arden's patience snapped. His grip tightened around his phone, his jaw clenched. First Sandra ignored him the whole day yesterday, and now this? What was with these women? Did they all think his calls were a joke?

His frustration boiled over. Just as he raised his phone, ready to hurl it in anger—

A soft, cool hand wrapped around his.

"Arden, it's okay..." Sandra's voice was gentle, carrying a quiet warmth as she leaned into him, her arms slipping around him in a delicate embrace.

Even the fiercest storm of anger would quiet in the face of such tenderness.

Arden stilled, staring down at her, disbelief flickering in his eyes. She clung to him like a fragile bird seeking shelter, and something about it unsettled him.

What was she playing at now?

A strange unease crept over him. Every time she lifted him with warmth, the fall that followed was merciless.

It was the first time a woman had embraced Arden so freely, and he stood frozen, unsure where to place his hands. They hovered awkwardly in the air, as if in surrender.

The sight was so absurd that Moya rubbed her eyes, half-convinced she was still dreaming.

Despite her resolve to ignore them, she had ended up creeping downstairs. Trying to sleep in her wardrobe had left her restless, a gnawing unease growing with each passing minute. Ignoring Arden was practically asking for trouble—she knew all too well that defying him came with consequences. In the end, avoiding his wrath seemed like the smarter choice.

As Moya unlocked the building's door, the soft click startled the "statues" standing outside.

Arden's hands finally found their place on Sandra's waist, his grip firm yet possessive. Now, this was the Arden Moya recognized.

"All right, stupid woman. If you want to cling to me, I'll let you do it properly once we're inside," Arden murmured, his breath warm against Sandra's ear.

But the tenderness vanished the moment he lifted his head. His eyes darkened, his temper igniting like a struck match as he turned sharply toward Moya.

"You—%@$&...!" His furious bark cut through the air, sharp and unforgiving.

🎬🔀

Arden lay sprawled across Moya's bed, comfortably wrapped around his woman.

Poor Moya—ousted from her own sanctuary—had to endure Arden's scolding before retreating to the sofa, blanket in tow.

Fortunately, exhaustion had claimed them all. Moya lacked the energy to eavesdrop, and the two inside her bedroom were far too drained to put on any kind of "performance" for her.

They slept soundly, undisturbed, until the moon hung high in the sky.

Sandra woke with a gnawing hunger. Since devouring the pizza Arden had made for her that afternoon, she had only had two cups of tea at the police station. The tension had kept her distracted, but now that the weight of the moment had eased, her senses sharpened, acutely aware of her body's needs.

Her hand rested lightly against Arden's back, fingers brushing over his firm muscles. His familiar, masculine scent lingered in the air around her. His arm was wrapped snugly around her waist, and one of his leg sprawled over hers, leaving her toes slightly numb.

For a fleeting moment, Sandra felt disoriented. It was as if they'd returned to her bedroom, tangled in the aftermath of a heated, passionate afternoon—both of them spent and drifting in the comfort of sleep.

No coercion. No accusations. No hospital or police questions. She was just a woman indulging in forbidden pleasure behind her boyfriend's back.

But then the faint throb of bite marks on her neck pulsed with every heartbeat, tugging her sharply back to reality.

What shouldn't have happened had already happened.

Her life now felt like a tangled mess—a knotted string pulled tighter with every breath, winding as uneasily as the pit in her stomach.

Life's complications were self-inflicted, Sandra thought. If you're hungry, eat. Tired, sleep. Thirsty, drink. If only everything could be approached with such simplicity—what problems would be left unsolved?

Staying in the same position for too long was never easy. Asleep, it didn't matter. But awake? The discomfort crept in, subtle at first, until it spread across her entire body.

Arden stirred as Sandra wiggled her toes to shake off the numbness. Half-conscious, he grumbled softly and pulled her closer like a body pillow, shifting her just enough to suit his own comfort before drifting back to sleep.

Sandra felt like she was seeing stars—whether from hunger or the way he held her so tightly, she wasn't sure. She squirmed slightly, trying to ease the pressure.

Arden cracked open one eye, his gaze hazy. "What's wrong? Sleep properly," he mumbled.

Embarrassed, Sandra whispered, "I'm hungry."

"Hungry?" His hand lazily patted her butt. "The doctor said you shouldn't do anything strenuous yet. Be good and wait a couple of days."

Sandra nearly rolled her eyes. Even half-asleep, this scoundrel had only one thing on his mind.

"I'm hungry—and I mean my stomach is empty," she clarified, her tone edged with irritation. "I haven't eaten anything in two days."

Arden's brow lifted slightly as if finally grasping the seriousness of her situation.

Without a word, he flipped out of bed and opened the bedroom door—stark naked.

"Moya, wake up!" Arden's voice boomed through the apartment as he strode toward the living room.

Arden didn't give it a second thought—he never slept in clothes. He despised any kind of restraint and fully embraced his natural state while resting.

Sandra, however, was left dumbstruck, watching him march out without a stitch of clothing to wake Moya. Words completely failed her. This man has no shame.

"You never let anyone sleep, huh? Arden! What the hell are you flaunting around for? This is my home!" Moya's exasperated voice shot back.

"So what? I'm flaunting. What can you do about it? Get up and fix something to eat," Arden replied, completely unbothered.

"Your woman is still here—can't you restrain yourself a little?" Moya retorted, incredulous.

Arden scoffed. "What are you pretending to be shy for? It's not like you haven't seen it before." He casually opened the fridge. "Oh, you've got cake. What flavor?" 

"..."

Sandra sat up slowly, a quiet sigh escaping her lips. A dull ache spread through her chest, settling deep inside.

Sandra, what exactly are you to him?

❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️

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