His sinful Obsession

Restless

The night was thick with silence, save for the occasional rustle of leaves in the distant garden below.
On the second-floor terrace, Frida stood leaning against the stone railing, her gaze lost in the expanse of the darkened courtyard. The air was cool, brushing lightly against her skin, but it did little to soothe the unease settling in her chest. She had to talk to someone—anyone—and Ella was the only person who could calm her swirling thoughts.

She lifted her phone to her ear, pressing it against her cheek as her fingers tightened around the cool metal of the railing.

"Ella, you won't believe what happened,"
Frida's voice was softer than usual, almost trembling as she spoke.
"I... I was upstairs, wiping my tears, and I saw him. I thought he wasn't coming back or else I wouldn't ever want to stay here. He was just standing there, watching me.....like a creep. But it wasn't just a look, Ella. His eyes... there was something in them. Something dark. It scared me."

A beat of silence passed before Ella's voice crackled back, steady but carrying a hint of concern. "Frida, you need to be careful with him. Mr. Salvatore isn't someone you can trust easily.
His darkness runs deep, everyone knows that, you can't let your guard down around him."

Frida swallowed hard, the memory of Rafael's intense stare still fresh in her mind.
She leaned against the cool stone, her other hand gripping the phone tighter as though it were the only thing keeping her grounded.
"I... I don't know what to think anymore, I don't even know him, never heard of him, Ella. But there's also Nicolas. He—"
she hesitated, her thoughts catching on the recent moments that felt too strange to ignore.
"He's been flirting with me. I don't like it, Ella. It feels wrong. Like he's doing it for some other reason."
There was a brief pause on the other end of the line. When Ella's voice came back, it was laced with something darker, more cautionary.
"Frida, you don't know the full story about Nicolas. He's... not who you think he is. Be conscious of him, especially. And Mr. Salvatore. They're both dangerous in their own ways. You need to keep your distance."

Frida frowned, confusion and anxiety knotted in her stomach.
"What do you mean by that, Ella? What aren't you telling me?"
Her words felt like a whisper of suspicion, but before she could press further, the sound of footsteps from behind startled her. She froze, her heart leaping into her throat.

She turned quickly, and there he was. Nicolas. His presence on the terrace was like a shadow stretching into the dim night. His face was unreadable, but his eyes—those eyes—seemed to pierce through her, knowing something she wasn't ready to face.

Frida's breath hitched, and in a panic, she abruptly ended the call, the phone slipping from her ear as she stared at him.

"Who were you talking to?"
Nicolas asked, his voice low, the question almost too casual, too probing.
He leaned against the railing, one hand slipping into his pocket, his gaze never leaving hers. There was something in his posture, in the way he carried himself, that made her uneasy.

Frida hesitated, her pulse quickening. She forced a smile, though it didn't quite reach her eyes. "Just Ella. My best friend."
She didn't dare say more.
The air between them seemed to thicken with unspoken words, her stomach churning with a mix of discomfort and uncertainty.

Nicolas studied her for a long moment, and then his expression softened, though it didn't quite reach his eyes.
"You don't have to worry, Frida. You're safe here. I'll make sure of it. After all, you are her friend, her sister"

The assurance in his voice sent a cold shiver down her spine, but before she could respond, Fernando's voice boomed from the stairs, breaking the tension like a bolt of lightning.

"What's going on here, you two? Secret rendezvous?"
Frida exhaled, her shoulders easing as Fernando bounded up the stairs, his usual playful grin breaking the tension in the air. The moment he arrived, the mood shifted—his teasing was effortless, his laughter rich and infectious. Nicolas responded with his usual guarded smirks, rolling his eyes at Fernando's antics, and soon, their banter filled the space as if nothing had happened.
As if the weight of something unseen hadn't settled moments before.
But deep inside, Frida felt it.
Something was wrong.
It was a whisper at the back of her mind, an uneasy sensation curling around her ribs, tightening with each passing second. She forced a small smile, playing along, but the feeling wouldn't leave.

And above them, in the deepest corner of the third floor, Rafael stood motionless in the shadows.
He was silent.
Watching.
His grey eyes, colder than a winter storm, never left them. Not for a second. His fingers pressed against the windowsill, the wood biting into his skin, grounding him in the chaos of emotions surging through him. He took in everything—the way Frida's lips curled in a soft, fleeting smile, the delicate tilt of her head when she listened, the way Fernando stood just close enough for their arms to brush. And Nicolas—too close.
Rafael's jaw flexed.
The storm inside him darkened, coiling and restless, filled with something dangerous and unrelenting. It was an emotion he refused to name. It clawed at his chest, thick and suffocating, something possessive and primal that twisted through his veins like venom.
She was his.
She didn't know it yet. Maybe he didn't fully understand it yet.
But Rafael felt it.
She stood there, laughing, unaware. Blissfully oblivious to the way she was unknowingly drawing him in. He couldn't look away. Not yet. Not when something inside him whispered that soon, she would belong to him completely.
And when that moment came, nothing—no one—would stand in his way.