His sinful Obsession

Butterflies

Rafael walked down the long hallway of the second floor with deliberate calm, each step echoing with the slow, arrogant tap of his polished shoes.
His hands were buried deep in his pockets, his gaze forward, expression unreadable—as if nothing in the world could disturb the fortress of his composure.

But then—
A sudden, soft thud.
Frida crashed into him, her tiny frame barely registering against his solid chest, yet he caught her reflexively. His arms wrapped around her waist with practiced ease, steadying her as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

And in that moment—he didn't let go.
No, he held her there.

Trapped.

As if she were made for this—made to fit within the iron cage of his arms.
As if she belonged nowhere else but right there, caught between the crushing heat of his control and the ice-cold fear that radiated off her.

She was trembling. Her skin was ice. Her small hands clutched weakly at his sleeve like a child clinging to the last edge of safety before drowning. Her tears soaked into his shirt, and still she couldn't speak. Couldn't even breathe properly.

Rafael lowered his head, voice honey-smooth and soft, so gentle it almost sounded loving.
"Mi nena... what happened?"
His words were laced with feigned innocence, but his eyes—his eyes told a darker story.

Calculating.
Devouring.
Predatory.

And slowly, his left hand left her waist, trailing upward, his fingers grazing her back.
Soft, slow... deliberate.
He drank in the feel of her body against his, savoring her vulnerability.

He wasn't touching her to comfort.
He was memorizing her.
Like a vulture, he took his time—each second stretching into a cruel mockery of affection.
But just as he began to lower his body, intent on lifting her into his arms, Frida suddenly stepped back.

That single movement—like a slap.

The air shifted.
Rafael froze.
His arms dropped to his sides, stiff, rigid. The space she created between them felt like a crack across his ego, and something feral flickered behind his eyes.
The warmth left his expression entirely.
What remained was cold.

Unforgiving.

He straightened slowly, and though his face remained carved in stone, the fury underneath was tangible—a quiet, pulsing storm. His jaw clenched. A vein twitched near his temple.

She did it again.
Rejected him.
Pulled away from him.

Always running, always denying him what he craved—her nearness, her surrender.

Rafael stared down at her—this frightened little thing before him—and a thought curled darkly through his mind.
She keeps forgetting who I am.
She keeps forgetting she belongs to me.

But he said nothing. He didn't lash out.
He just stood there, staring at her with that eerie, terrifying calmness...And behind that calmness,

A rage brewing like wildfire, just waiting to ignite.

"Mr... Mr. Salvatore... I... there was—"
"Breathe, Mi nena,"
Rafael said, tilting his head with a look that bordered on patient mockery.
"Try again, without choking on your fear."
"I—I..." Her voice cracked.
"You...?"
His brows lifted.
"I... can walk," she finally whispered.

He looked her up and down, the corners of his mouth twitching.
"That I see. You're not paralyzed... at least not physically."
His voice dropped to a murmur, something dark and almost tender.
"But you're shaking like a leaf, Mi nena. That doesn't scream capable to me. Come—let me help you."

Frida shook her head, eyes locked to the floor, every tremble in her limbs betraying how broken she felt.
"Mm,"
Rafael clicked his tongue, amusement curling in his throat.
"So stubborn. But someday... I'll make sure you don't walk at all. For weeks."
Her head snapped up, eyes wide.
"What?"
"Hmm?"
He smiled, the threat now swept away beneath a coat of innocence.
"Nothing. You misheard."
She took a shaky step back.
"If you're feeling up to it," he said smoothly, "we can talk. In your room."
"NO!" she screamed, her voice slicing the silence like glass.

Rafael blinked once, slow, then smirked.
"Now that was unexpected."
She was crying now, shaking from the inside out, her voice broken between sobs.
"There was something... I don't know, I can't go back there. Please, I can't. I'm scared..."
"Shhh." His voice turned to silk. "Come here."

Frida glanced over her shoulder, back toward the room, as though the shadows themselves might swallow her whole. Her lip quivered.
"Frida."
Rafael's voice dipped lower, warning and coaxing in equal measure.
"I don't want to go back."
"I didn't ask you to,"
he replied, stepping toward her with the patience of a predator.
"I asked you to come to me. Isn't that easier? You don't need to run. You just need to stay."

She looked confused, trapped, her mind spinning.
"Where else would you go, hmm?"
he murmured. "Lisa? Gone. Your dog? Still in the clinic. This town? Doesn't know you. So tell me... who do you have?"
He leaned in, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear—his fingers grazing her skin far too close to the curve of her breast, too deliberately slow.
"Only me."

She flinched—but didn't move away. Too afraid, too overwhelmed.
"Don't," she whispered. "Please..."
"Don't what, Frida?" he asked softly, mock confusion in his tone.
"Touch you? Help you? Remind you who actually cares that you're breaking into pieces in front of me?"

With one hand on her shoulder, he slowly turned her around, his touch firm but not harsh—like someone handling glass with the intention to crack it just enough.
"Tell me what you saw," he urged.
"What happened in that room?"
"I don't know!" she cried. "I swear, I don't know anything!"

She thrashed in his arms like a bird with clipped wings— desperate, hopeless, and wild.