His sinful Obsession

Throbbing Heart

A thought crossed his mind, a flicker of dark amusement. This wouldn't be the last time. There would be others—there always were. And each one would bring the same satisfaction, the same rush of control, the same delicious moment when life gave way to death under his hands.

And he would be there, standing over them, feeling just as he always did—powerful, untouchable, alive.

He stood there staring down at the lifeless form. The blood had pooled in thick, dark rivers, slowly creeping outward, yet it all felt... wrong. He expected the familiar rush, that sharp jolt of satisfaction that usually came with the moment when life slipped away. But this time, it wasn't there.

His grip on the blade tightened, knuckles white as if squeezing harder might somehow wring the pleasure from the act. But nothing came. No euphoria. No exhilaration. Only silence—the same hollow, empty silence that hung in the room like a thick fog.

He frowned, staring at the blood-soaked floor, the cooling body, searching for something—anything—to spark the feeling he craved. It was a clean kill, precise and efficient, just as he'd done before. And yet it lacked something. Something vital. It was getting on his nerves. Frustration gnawed at the edges of his mind, creeping in like a slow burn. How could this be? He had done everything right. The anticipation had built, the tension had been perfect, the terror was there and yet the final moment, the one that should have filled him with power and satisfaction, fell flat. Hollow.

He looked down at the body again, his lip curling. It wasn't enough. The man, now nothing more than a crumpled heap of flesh and bone, had been too weak, too easy. There had been no challenge. It was as if he had been cutting through paper, not flesh. The act felt mechanical, soulless, as if he had simply gone through the motions without feeling the weight of it.
A slow, simmering rage began to coil in his gut. He had wanted more. Needed more. The power, the thrill—it had eluded him this time, slipping through his fingers like sand, leaving nothing but a sour aftertaste. He had been killed, but he hadn't felt it. And that, more than anything, was unbearable.

His eyes narrowed, the blade still gleaming in his hand. Perhaps it was Sergei's fault. However, Rafael didn't believe in "perhaps". Assumption is the last thing he would ever do. It had always been too easy, too passive. Why did he feel like this one had been a mistake—a failure? He couldn't show it to the world, he would never make a mistake. He would never let his empire become like a sand castle, mistakes weren't allowed in his life.
He inhaled deeply, but the scent of blood that usually grounded him, that usually brought him back to that delicious sense of control, felt muted. Distant. The weight of the world still pressed on his shoulders, heavier now, like an itch he couldn't scratch.

There was no satisfaction in this. The silence that followed wasn't a triumphant stillness; it was a void. A hollow reminder that this—this—hadn't been enough. Yet no one could detect the turmoil inside him. No one can ever predict what was happening inside his mind. His face was as usual, always without any expression as if he had no emotions. To some extent, this might be true. Then again no one ever knew Rafael, he was 'untouchable' and this world can never decipher him. He wouldn't let them do it.

Oh, Rafael, what confidence you had. But did it satisfy you?

His jaw tightened, a muscle twitching as the realization slithered through his mind like a venomous whisper—this wasn't enough. The rush, the power, the domination—it was fleeting. It barely kissed the edge of his soul before vanishing, leaving behind a chasm of unbearable emptiness.
His fingers curled into fists, his breath slow but razor-sharp. He had craved something deeper, something that would rip through him like a wildfire, something that would make him feel. But all he felt was this void, stretching, growing, devouring him from the inside out.
He turned away from the lifeless form, but the hollowness clung to him, thick and suffocating. A bitter taste coated his tongue.
Disappointment.
This was a failure, a miscalculation—one he would never allow again.
Next time...
Next time, he would carve his satisfaction into the very bones of fate.
Next time, he would make it last.
Next time, he wouldn't just take—he would own.