She thinks she's finally caught the elusive artist, but she doesn't realize he's the one who's been hunting her all along…
Warning tags: stalking, smut, obsessive, possessive, dark romance, manipulation (WC: 1.1K)
Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4-end
The phone trills for the nth time, a persistent digital plea. Rafayel deliberately shoves it deep into the sofa cushions, burying the noise before returning to his ritual—the slow, rhythmic stirring of a hand-ground pigment. A soft breath of satisfaction escapes him as he tests the color. "Not bad."
By now, Thomas is likely in a state of absolute meltdown. Rafayel has met every desperate demand from the Association with a wall of glacial indifference. He knows exactly who they’ve sent to find him. In fact, he’s been waiting for her, but he’s playing for time. He needs to be certain that when you finally collide, your world will revolve entirely around him—even if he has to break it first.
He’s known you for a long time. Longer than the history of Linkon, longer than the era before the tides swallowed the old world. He waited through the centuries, through deaths at sea and endless cycles of rebirth, always chasing the flicker of your shadow with a hunger that bordered on madness. You never came back—not until now.
You were just drinking coffee on a rare day off when he saw you. He was outside that cafe, passionately haggling over sea shells drawing crowds, his voice rising with theatrical indignation at the vendor's "audacity." The moment his eyes locked onto yours, the performance died, replaced by a cold, sharp focus. He shoved a wad of cash at the vendor, grabbed his shells, and followed you inside, his pulse thrumming with a predatory rhythm.
You looked drained, your eyes clouded with a fatigue that made him ache. For a fleeting second, your gazes met, but you looked right through him, turning your attention to the window with a lack of interest. His stomach twisted into a dark, knotted jealousy. You didn’t remember. That makes twice now.
He lingered, pretending to read a newspaper while he studied every nuance of your face, memorizing the way you breathed. You looked younger than the girl he met long, long ago, but there was a new strength in your silhouette that he found intoxicatingly submissive.
He watched you type, scroll, and frown at your phone in that adorable, indecisive way of yours. He had to hide a smile behind his paper. How adorable.
When your sharp Hunter instincts finally felt the weight of his stare—heavy and suffocating—he was a ghost, flipping the page just in time to remain a stranger stalking in broad daylight.
When you finally left, he was on your heels in a heartbeat, leaving his untouched coffee on the table. You wandered aimlessly, your hand eventually drifting toward a pair of iridescent purple shell earrings. “How much?” you asked.
The vendor, sensing a mark, quoted a price that was pure robbery. Rafayel’s blood boiled—not with justice, but with the possessive need to be your only savior. He stepped in, his voice sharp and commanding. “You told me those were a quarter of that price minutes ago. Are you trying to scam her?”
You turned, surprised by the sudden intervention. The vendor fumbled, stammering about "pricing errors," and you ended up paying the fair price. The smile you flashed as you thanked him and walked away—pure, unadulterated joy—hit him like a physical blow to the chest.
That smile will be the death of me.
It was the same smile from the beach, before the Chronorift Catastrophe pulled him from your memory. You’ve forgotten him twice, but he’s determined to make sure there won't be a third. He’ll carve himself into your mind this time.
He followed you home, tailing your taxi in a car that was honestly way too flashy for a "secret" mission, though he barely cared if you noticed. He watched you arrive at a decent apartment, feeling a wave of relief until he saw the golden-haired man. His hands white-knuckled the steering wheel as he watched you laugh together. His mind immediately went to dark, lethal places—who was he? Did he matter to you? I need to buy a unit in that building, he thought, his eyes narrowing. Just in case.
The following week was a blur of obsession. He learned your routine, your job at the Association, and your hermit-like tendencies. He hated that you chose such a dangerous profession; he could cage you in a world of silver and silk, though he knew you weren't ready for it yet. He eventually realized the blonde guy was just a colleague, and the relief was so sharp he abandoned his plan to "dispose" the man.
Then Thomas xcalled. Rafayel actually answered on the third ring. When Thomas mentioned the Association was sending a representative named Y/N to investigate his N109 Zone dealings, Rafayel’s own words echoed in his mind.
“Maybe in this world, the only thing that time cannot change is the fate written between us.”
He stopped the stalking immediately. He couldn't risk being caught hovering before the trap was set. He wanted to run to you right now, to pull you into his arms and remind your body of every ounce of his love—to remind you of how your curves once yielded and molded perfectly to his shape until you couldn't tell where he ended and you began. But you had forgotten everything; you’d only see a predator.
No, he needed you to hunt him. He wanted you to chase him, to become obsessed with his shadow just as he was with yours. The thought of you finally catching him, maybe even pinning him down for an interrogation, made his breath hitch and his length harden painfully.
He became a phantom. He dodged your calls, stood you up at cafes and bars and museums, even vanished from his own home. He’d leave just enough of a trail for Thomas to feed you, enjoying the sadistic game of cat and mouse.
You were beyond livid. Your boss was breathing down your neck, and this "genius artist" was treating you like a joke. No matter where you went—he was always "just gone." You didn't realize that the man in the back of the cafe wearing a wig and a low-slung hat was the very man you were looking for, suppressing his laugh to himself as he watched you stomp your feet in frustration.
Finally, you snapped. You got his studio address and headed to Whitesand Bay, determined to end this. You rang the bell. Silence. Stubbornly, you decided to wait in the shadows for an ambush. He never came back. Does this man ever sleep here?
Rafayel watched you from the darkness of his studio, charmed by your persistence. He watched you through the security feed, his tongue tracing his lower lip. But he knew he couldn't push you too far. He didn't want you to hate him.
One night you decided to meet him no matter what, you were surprised to see the lights on the studio. He’s home—finally. You were about to ring the bell when you noticed the gate slightly opened. Is it a thief?
He was sitting at his easel, humming a low, haunting melody under the moonlight, when the gate creaked. She’s here. He moved with lightning speed, killing the lights and hiding the voyeuristic sketches he’d made of you over the past week.
You slipped inside, your heart hammering against your ribs. The house went dark, confirming your fears—there’s a thief. You crept forward, spotting a silhouette moving in the shadows. With the grace of a trained Hunter, you pounced. You slammed him into the floor, pinning his arms behind his back in a brutal lock. “Who are you?!”
“Ow! Ow! Let go! What do you think you’re doing?”
“What are you doing in someone’s house, you thief!” You tightened the hold, ignoring his yelp of pain. With a sudden, fluid surge of strength, he bucked under you, flipping the positions with a force that stole your breath, until he was staring up at you from the floor, pinned beneath your legs.
“You’re the thief, lady—this is my studio!” His eyes widened in mock disbelief, though they glittered with a dark, perverted satisfaction. “Who are you and why are you barging in?”
The moonlight hit his face. It was him. The elusive artist.
You scrambled off him, your face burning with embarrassment. “I’m so sorry, Mr. Rafayel! Are you hurt?”
“I’m definitely not 'okay,' thank you.” He stood up, brushing off his expensive silk shirt, his eyes locked on yours with a gaze that felt like it was stripping you bare. “You still haven't explained why you’re here.”
He stepped into your personal space, forcing you to back against the wall. He was breathtaking—sharp jaw, straight nose, and those eyes... a deep, swirling sea with a shimmer of pink that looked dangerously unstable. He leaned in until you could feel the heat of his breath, his eyes dropping to your lips.
“I-I’m Y/N, from the Association,” you stammered, completely unaware that his length was reacting to the lingering heat of your weight on top of him, throbbing with the memory of your knees against his chest. “The door was open... I thought someone was robbing you. It was a mistake.”
“Fine,” he said, his voice a low, dangerous velvet that made your skin crawl in a way you didn't hate. He scratched his neck, feigning annoyance. “I haven't been the easiest to find. But that doesn't give you the right to break in. Go home, Hunter. Tell them to send someone else.”
Your heart sank. You couldn't fail this mission. You looked at him, your eyes pleading under the moonlight, looking exactly like the prey he had been stalking. “I’m truly sorry. Please... let me make it up to you.”
He saw the look in your eyes—the desperation, the submission—and knew he had you exactly where he wanted.
Gotcha.
Tried to write how he had to bide his time before his prey walked to his mouth by herself. This fishie is hella scary, but very interesting to write. Dark Rafayel, y’all. 😈
Part 2 and 3 is now available. Thank you for reading! 💜