Chapter 8 - Marisol
Iwake with his name on my lips and humiliation burning through my chest like acid.
The weight of him above me. My wrists pinned in his hands. The moment when his eyes dropped to my mouth and I knew, I knew he was going to kiss me. And then—nothing. Cold air where his body should have been. The slam of his door.
"I wouldn't have minded. If nothing had become something."
I said that. Out loud. To his closed door. Like some pathetic, desperate fool.
I bury my face in my pillow and scream until my throat burns.
The rejection sits on my chest like a weight, making each breath feel like drowning in reverse.
I've been rejected before. By my mother's dying words praising Gabriel, by my father's disappointment, by family abandonment.
But this is different. This is physical.
This is me on the floor offering everything and him choosing nothing.
No. Stop.
I sit up, pushing hair out of my face. So what if he rejected me? Men don't reject Marisol Delgado. They beg for my attention, buy bottles just to sit near me, follow me around La Sirena like lost puppies. Clearly something is wrong with him.
I'll just be normal. Breezy. The human equivalent of champagne bubbles. Light, effervescent, impossible to ignore. He'll see what he's missing and feel terrible.
This is fine. Everything is fine.
I shower, letting the hot water wash away the memory of his hands on my wrists.
Do my makeup, subtle but flawless. Choose a sundress that's cute but not trying too hard, yellow like the fire because that's what I am.
A fire that attracts moths. Not a girl who lies on floors wanting tactical bananas to kiss her.
Deep breath. Time to pretend nothing happened because, according to him, nothing did.
I emerge from my room like a woman who definitely didn't spend the morning screaming into fabric.
He's in the kitchen.
Shirtless.
My brain stops working. He's doing something with a protein shake, his back to me, and I can see every muscle moving under his skin.
The tattoos on his right arm, dates and symbols I don't understand.
Scars that tell stories he'll never share.
The way his shoulders flex as he pours powder into a shaker bottle.
His phone buzzes on the counter. He grabs it, tension rippling through his shoulders as he reads. His free hand moves to where his gun would be, an unconscious tell I've learned means danger.
He turns. Sees me. His face goes completely blank, like I'm a threat assessment he's already dismissed.
But for just a second, half a heartbeat, his eyes drop to where my dress has slipped off one shoulder. His jaw tightens. His grip on the phone turns his knuckles white.
Then he reaches for a shirt hanging on the back of a chair and pulls it on. Fast. Efficient. Like my seeing his body is a problem that needs immediate solving.
The rejection hits fresh, even as I note that moment of want he couldn't quite hide.
"Morning, Horse Man!" My voice comes out too bright, manic at the edges. "I see you're doing your whole…" I gesture vaguely at him. "Protein situation. Very healthy. Very boring. Ten out of ten nutritionists would approve while simultaneously dying of boredom."
He grunts. Doesn't look at me. Goes back to shaking his terrible chalk water. But I notice the way he grips the shaker, too tight, like he's imagining it's something else. Maybe his own throat for almost looking at me like that.
"I was thinking we could—"
"I have calls to make." He's already moving toward the door, but he pauses at the threshold. For a second, I think he might turn around. His shoulders bunch like he's fighting something.
Then he walks out, leaving me with the scent of cinnamon and gun oil.
"Oh. Okay. Well, I'll just… exist here then."
I stand alone in my designer kitchen, my breezy opener dead on arrival, wondering how someone can make putting on a shirt feel like such a thorough dismissal. Even when their hands shake just a little while doing it.
Every interaction for the rest of the morning is worse than the last.
I make coffee. Not my usual champagne-for-breakfast approach, but his terrible military coffee, black and bitter. The way he drinks it when he bothers to drink anything that isn't protein sludge.
I set the mug near him while he types on his laptop at the dining table. His shoulders are rigid, and he's checking his phone every thirty seconds. Something's wrong. Something beyond his rejection of me.
"Peace offering," I say, aiming for light. "For subjecting you to my terrible self-defense skills yesterday."
His hand actually moves toward the mug. I see his fingers twitch, almost reaching, before he pulls back like the ceramic might burn him.
"I don't need coffee."
"It's already made—"
"I said I don't need it."
But he's not looking at me when he says it. He's looking at the mug like it's a tactical problem he can't solve. The dismissal in his voice is absolute.
I take the mug back to the kitchen. Pour his perfect military coffee down the sink. Watch it swirl away like my dignity. My mouth fills with a metallic taste.
Twenty minutes later, I try again. Different approach. Get him talking about something other than how much he doesn't want my coffee or my company.
"So… your family. The Rosettis. That's a lot of brothers, right?"
"Yes." He doesn't look up from his phone, but I catch him glancing at the windows. Checking sightlines. Always checking.
"And a sister? Sofia?"
His jaw tightens, just slightly. His typing stops. "Yes."
"Are you close?"
"We were."
"Were?"
Nothing. His thumbs move over his phone screen like I'm not even here. But his breathing has changed. Deeper, controlled. The way he breathes when something matters.
"I heard one of your brothers is having a baby? Or his wife is? That's exciting. Little Rosetti babies probably come out knowing how to intimidate people."
He finally looks at me, and his eyes are cold as January in Chicago. But underneath the ice, I swear I see something flicker. "Is there something you need?"
"I… no. I was just making conversation. You know, that thing humans do when they live together. Words. Sounds. Emotional connection."
"I'm working."
He's moved to the window now, studying the street below like he's planning an invasion. Or expecting one.
"Right. Sorry. I'll just… exist quietly over here. Again."
I retreat to the couch, pull out my phone, pretend to scroll through Instagram while my eyes burn.
The rejection is constant now, a steady drumbeat of dismissal.
I watch him from behind my phone screen.
He never looks at me. But twice, when I shift positions, he starts to turn toward me before catching himself.
By lunch, I'm desperate enough to order food. Thai from his favorite place. I've been paying attention to his preferences even though he clearly hasn't been paying attention to mine.
"Food's here," I announce when it arrives. "Your usual. Pad thai, extra spicy, no vegetables because apparently you hate joy and fiber."
"I'm not hungry."
"You have to eat—"
"Marisol." He says my name like it's tactical equipment he needs to put down carefully. Asset. Assignment. Not the woman who was underneath him yesterday, wanting him. "I said I'm not hungry."
But he's looking at the takeout bags with something like longing. When did he last eat? This morning's protein shake?
"Okay, but about yesterday—"
"Nothing happened yesterday."
"I KNOW nothing happened. That's kind of the point. I just wanted to say—"
"There's nothing to say. We trained. That's it."
"Nico—"
"That's it, Marisol."
The words land like ice water. But his hand on the table is clenched into a fist, knuckles white with the effort of… what? Not reaching for me? Not explaining? Not caring?
"Got it," I say, my voice flat. "We trained. Nothing else. Crystal clear."
I throw the Thai food in the trash, containers and all. He flinches at the sound. Actually flinches. But keeps typing on his laptop like I'm not having a complete breakdown three feet away.
The afternoon stretches endless. He's physically present but completely absent. Takes calls in rapid-fire professional speak, lots of "copy that" and "maintaining position" and "no visual confirmation yet." Military words for military problems that don't include me.
Then he's doing pull-ups in the doorframe of the guest room, shirtless again because now he doesn't even bother covering up, because I'm not worth the effort of modesty.
I watch him from the couch. Fifty. One hundred. He doesn't stop. The discipline of it, the relentless control, it's like watching someone perform surgery on themselves. Precise. Cold. Necessary.
But at three hundred and twelve, his rhythm stutters. He drops from the bar, and for a second, he grips the doorframe like he needs it to stay upright. His eyes find mine across the room.
The look lasts maybe two seconds. But in it, I see everything he's not saying. Want. Fear. Something that looks like apology before he shuts it down.
What's wrong with me?
I've had men want me. Lines of them. But I've never had a man look at me like I'm everything he wants and can't have. Not when I'm trying. Not when I'm right here.
At four PM, I crack.
"I'm going to La Sirena tonight."
"No."
"Excuse me?"
He's at the window again, that spot he keeps returning to. His hand rests on his hip where his gun sits. "You're not going out tonight."
"You don't get to tell me—"
"It's not safe. You're staying here."
The casual authority in his voice makes me want to throw something. But there's something underneath it. Genuine concern, maybe. Or orders he can't explain.
"I OWN La Sirena. I have responsibilities—"
"Your staff can handle it."
"I want to GO."
"And I said no."
He doesn't even look at me. Just keeps scanning the street below like danger might materialize any second. His phone buzzes again. He checks it, jaw tightening.