His sinful Obsession

Remnant

A pounding headache throbbed at her temples, relentless and deep like waves crashing against fragile glass. Frida stirred with a low groan, her brows knit in pain, eyes fluttering open but quickly squeezing shut again from the blinding sting. A hand crept to her forehead, trembling, as if by instinct trying to quiet the storm inside her skull.

"Ah..." she winced, the sound barely above a whisper.

Her eyes opened again, this time adjusting to the dimness of the room. The curtains were drawn tight, allowing only slivers of morning light to seep through—casting long, eerie shadows across the room. It was quiet, far too quiet. Slowly, cautiously, she sat up. Her head spun. Her fingers tightened against her temple.

Then she saw it.

The oversized shirt hanging off her delicate frame—unmistakably a man's. The sleeves swallowed her wrists. The hem brushed the tops of her thighs. Her breath hitched. Her chest rose in sharp gasps.

"What...?" she whispered, staring down at the shirt as if it might explain itself.

The last thing she remembered...was the shower.

Her mind scrambled. Flashes of heat. The pounding of her heart. Voices, low and intense. The feel of... skin? A chest? Her head was swimming. She couldn't remember. No matter how hard she tried, it was a blur. And the harder she tried, the sharper the pain grew.

Panic twisted in her stomach.

She staggered to her feet and walked into the bathroom like a ghost, bare feet silent on the floor. The mirror didn't lie. Her face was pale, her cheeks puffy and flushed. Her eyes were red-rimmed from crying—or from something else? Her lips parted slightly in confusion and horror. She backed away from the mirror.

"What did I do...?"

Or worse—what was done to her?

Her body trembled. She clutched the sink for support, bile rising in her throat. Shame, fear, and helplessness all converged into a storm within her chest. What if something happened that she didn't consent to? What if... she had sinned without even knowing it?

There was a gentle knock at the door. She didn't respond.

Another knock. Then a voice, warm and familiar.

"Ms. Annévik? It's Mrs. Andersen. I brought you something light to eat, dear. May I come in?"

Frida opened the door just enough for the old woman to step inside, a tray in hand. On it, a bowl of light soup, some toast, and a soft fruit salad. Mrs. Andersen's eyes softened the moment she saw Frida's expression.

"Å kjære barn..." (Oh dear child...) she sighed, placing the tray on the bedside table.

"What happened to me?" Frida whispered, voice brittle.

Mrs. Andersen paused before answering, choosing her words carefully.

"Mr. Salvatore brought you back last night. There was... trouble in the house. Intruders. He found you—out of it, drugged, from what the doctor said. He kept you safe."

Frida stared at her, lips parting but no sound coming out. The pieces weren't connecting.

"You were in shock. He took you somewhere safe. Nicolas came back later and helped stabilize everything. You've been sleeping since dawn."

Frida sank onto the edge of the bed.

"I don't remember anything."

Mrs. Andersen gave a sad smile. ""It's probably better that way." She hesitated. "You don't have to be afraid. He didn't... He didn't hurt you, if that's what you fear."