His sinful Obsession

Unraveled

Rafael leaned lazily against the wooden beam of the doorframe, his sharp gaze sweeping across the dimly lit room. The warm glow of flickering candlelight danced along the walls, casting shifting shadows. But his attention was fixed solely on her.
Frida.
She stood near the mirror, completely unaware of his presence, fussing with the loose strands of her golden-brown hair. His eyes traced the delicate curve of her neck as she absentmindedly twisted a lock around her slender fingers before tucking it behind her ear. The simple action, so natural and unassuming, held an allure that stirred something deep within him.

Her dress—plain, modest—did nothing to conceal the subtle, tempting lines of her body. The way the fabric clung to her waist, the gentle swell of her breasts rising with each breath, the quiet nervousness in her movements... She was too soft, too untouched. A thing of purity in a world as corrupt as his. And that realization both irritated and fascinated him.

Rafael exhaled slowly.

There was much he wanted to do, much he could do—but he was a man of patience.
A hunter, never reckless.
Whether it was erasing an enemy or pulling a fragile little thing into his web, he left no loose ends.

"You're staring."
The gruff voice yanked him from his thoughts. Rafael didn't flinch, but his jaw tightened as James stepped into his line of sight, smirking knowingly.
"You've got it bad for that one,"
James remarked, folding his arms.
"Been watching her every damn move since she stepped into this house."

Rafael raised a hand, a silent command.
Enough.
He turned without a word, pushing the door closed with a quiet finality—blocking James from looking at her any longer. James huffed but let it go, following Rafael into the study. The air was thick with unspoken tension as Rafael lit a cigar, the orange ember flaring against the dark. He stood by the window, staring out at the night sky, exhaling slow curls of smoke into the silence.

James finally spoke, his tone measured but firm.
"Rafael, I need you to hear me out before we leave tomorrow morning."
Rafael's shoulders stiffened.
James took that as his cue to continue.
"Let her go. Get her out of your head, out of your path. Don't drag her into your world."
He hesitated before adding,
"She is not meant for this life. And you damn well know it."
Rafael's grip on the cigar tightened.
"And why exactly do you care?"
James frowned.
"What?"
Rafael turned to face him, eyes cold.
"You're my sister's husband, James. So tell me—why are you so interested in this woman? Are you fancying someone who isn't your wife?"
James's expression darkened instantly.
"What the fuck did you just say?"
His voice was a low growl, barely containing his fury.
"Lisa is my life. Don't you dare throw bullshit like that at me."

Rafael's smirk was cruel.
"Then why does it matter to you what I do with her? She's not Lisa's family. She's not yours."
James stepped closer, his anger palpable.
"Because I see her as a sister, you heartless bastard. And I won't stand by and watch you destroy her."
Rafael chuckled dryly.
"Destroy her? Oh, please. You're acting like I've already laid my hands on her."
His smirk widened mockingly.
"And besides... she's not even my type."
James glared at him, fists clenched.

Rafael took a slow drag from his cigar, his next words deliberately cruel.
"She's nothing, James. A lowly orphan, clinging to scraps of kindness. Do you really think someone like that would ever mean anything to me?"

A sudden sharp noise—like the crinkle of fabric shifting—made both men snap their heads toward the door.
Silence.
Then a faint, almost imperceptible shuffle of feet.
Rafael's eyes darkened.
James swore under his breath.
Someone had been listening. Maybe. 

"I apologize if I intruded on something. Lisa sent this tea for both of you. She was bringing the tray, but Daisy called her."
Frida's voice was small, tentative—yet it grated on Rafael like nails against glass.
Her words trailed off as his gaze locked onto her, dark and unwavering, as if she had just committed a crime simply by standing there. She fidgeted under the weight of his scrutiny, clutching the tray a little tighter.
James, ever the pacifier, offered her a small smile.
"I know, Frida. Thank you. Be ready in the morning—Daisy will throw a fit if you don't see her off."
Frida nodded, shifting awkwardly under Rafael's continued stare.
"Yes... Good night, then."
She hesitated, waiting—perhaps expecting Rafael to say something. He didn't.
He simply stared.
Cold. Uninterested.
She left.

James turned back to Rafael with a knowing look, his voice lower now.
"Rafael... please. As a friend."
Rafael didn't reply, didn't even acknowledge him.
James sighed and walked out, leaving Rafael alone in the study.
The door clicked shut, and that was it—his patience snapped.

His fingers curled tightly around the cigar, his jaw tensing. The rage inside him simmered just beneath the surface, coiling tighter and tighter. Why did they have to concern themselves with her? Why did James look at her like she was some delicate thing that needed to be protected? What was so fucking special about her?
She wasn't special.
She was nothing.
Just another woman.
 And women? They were all the same.
They acted demure, pretended to be innocent, but the moment they caught wind of his wealth, his power, they folded. Every single one of them. They whispered their lies with wide, doe-like eyes, only to shatter the illusion the moment they got what they wanted.

Frida was no different.

She was playing the role well—shy, hesitant, pretending she had never been touched, as if purity still existed in this world.
Please.
A woman like that wouldn't hesitate once she knew what he wanted. They never did. He had seen it a hundred times before. The moment she understood what being in his bed meant—what power came with it—she would fall in line just like the rest of them.
And then?
She would bore him, just like they all did.
Rafael exhaled slowly, taking a deep drag of his cigar, the ember burning bright in the dim room. His gaze flickered toward the window, the night stretching endlessly beyond the glass.
Maybe he'd entertain the idea.
Just for a little while.
Just for a taste.