22 - Isa
Aweek since the family tore itself in half over Adrian and me. A week of silence from Marisol, from Gabriel. But Juliet’s here, tequila bottle between us, choosing my friendship over Rosetti blood.
The weathered pier planks creak under our weight as she passes me the bottle. No glasses, no salt, no lime. Just two women on a rare day off, legs dangling over Biscayne Bay while the Miami sun bakes our shoulders. Salt and heat mix on my skin, the burn of tequila cutting through both.
"So you're actually going to tell me about him?" Juliet takes the bottle back, drinks without flinching. "About Adrian? Because watching you two is like watching a nature documentary about predators circling each other."
The comparison makes me snort. "We're not that bad."
"You're worse." She nudges my shoulder with hers, an easy touch I wouldn't have allowed three months ago. "The way he looks at you when you're not watching? Like you hung the moon. The way you pretend not to notice him doing it? Academy Award worthy."
The warmth spreading through my chest pisses me off a little.
When did I become someone who gets soft about friendship?
This is what I've been avoiding for half my life.
Someone who sees through my walls and teases me anyway.
Someone who stayed after the family schism, choosing my side without question.
The words fight to stay buried, old habits screaming at me to deflect, to scowl, to give her nothing. But Juliet chose me over her own blood at family dinner and every day since. That earns truth.
"It's intense," I finally admit, the confession scraping past years of silence. "Adrian and I. More intense than I expected."
"Intense how?" She leans forward, hazel eyes bright with curiosity. "Good intense or 'might murder each other' intense?"
"Both." I take the bottle, let the burn ground me. "Sometimes I look at him and think I've never wanted anything more. Sometimes I want to gut him for how thoroughly he's invaded my life."
"That's hot."
"That's fucked up."
"Those aren't mutually exclusive." She grins, and I find myself almost smiling back. "When was the last time you let anyone get under your skin like that?"
Never, I think. Out loud I say, "Every time I've ever had to leave somewhere fast, my car was already running. Keys in the ignition, tank full. I never asked him to."
"And you never acknowledged it."
"Never."
"But you got in."
"Every time."
The phantom smell of gasoline fills my nose. Burning and intense, just like Adrian himself. Even thinking about him makes heat pool low in my belly, that traitorous warmth that ignores everything my mind knows about control.
Juliet laughs, bright and genuine. "God, you two are perfect for each other. Both completely insane about control, both pretending you're not desperate for the other person to take it."
The truth of it sits heavy between my ribs. I've never talked about Adrian like this, never admitted to anyone how much space he takes up in my head. But, for some reason, I want to tell Juliet.
"Sometimes when he touches me, even just his hand on my back at the bar, I feel like I'm being claimed. Like he's marking territory." My voice drops, rougher than intended. "I’ve spent my whole life being this independent woman who can fend for herself but somehow, I want him to mark me. Claim me."
"Jesus, Isa."
"He makes me feel…" I stop, searching for words that won't sound ridiculous. "Like I could stop holding everything together so tight. Like maybe it wouldn't all fall apart if I let go."
"That terrifies you."
"Completely."
She takes the tequila back, her expression softening. "You know what I love about our friendship?"
"We have a friendship?"
"Fuck off, we absolutely do." She bumps my shoulder again. "What I love is that you never treat me like I'm breakable. Everyone else looks at me and sees the little Price sister who needs protecting. You look at me and see someone who can handle their shit."
"You can handle your shit."
"I know. But you're the only one who knew it without being told."
A shadow falls across the pier. I look up to find a man in board shorts standing too close, reeking of beer. The tattoos on his neck mark him as low-level muscle, the kind who thinks the Zayas expansion makes him important.
"Two pretty girls sitting all alone," he says, his leer making my skin crawl. "You’re in Zayas territory now. Lucky I came along to keep you company."
"We're fine," Juliet says, but he's already moving closer.
"Don't be like that, sweetheart. Just being friendly." His eyes travel down Juliet's body, then mine, lingering in all the wrong places. "Blonde and brunette, my lucky day. How about you both come party on my boat? Got plenty of beer, plenty of room for whatever you're into."
"Pass," I say flatly.
"Come on, don't be stuck up bitches." He grins, showing teeth. "I know how to show girls a good time. Especially pretty ones who think they're too good for…"
I’m climbing to my feet before he finishes the sentence, and my boot knife is already in my hand. Steel catching sunlight, held loose but ready in my hand. I don't stand, don't tense, just let him see the blade and the complete lack of fear in my eyes.
It's always the same. I don't have to raise my voice, don't have to girlishly shrink away or make a scene.
That kind of performance is for people who have never seen what a man like this does when he thinks no one is watching.
There are only two things men like this understand: blood, or the threat of it.
"You have three seconds to back away," I say, voice conversational. My body is already tilted for balance on the uneven pier, knees loose, knife held at a lazy, deadly angle. "Or I demonstrate how fast I can open your femoral artery."
He registers the threat a half-beat late, the way drunks always do, face going pale and then hard with the need to save face.
"Crazy bitch, you threatening me?" His voice cracks on the last word, but I give him credit for the effort. He's about two beers past bravado and one short of collapse, but no one wants to back down in front of an audience. Especially not a woman.
"Stating facts." I test the knife's edge with my thumb, let him see how sharp I keep it. "Two seconds."
He lurches back a half-step, nearly overbalances, catches himself with a flailing arm and mutters, "Fucking psycho," like the insult will restore the pecking order.
"One second," I say, and that's when something in his brain finally fires the right synapse. He stumbles backward, hands raised, but keeps his eyes on the knife, not me.
It would be easy, I think, to press the advantage—to lunge, to make him piss his shorts, to let the steel tell the rest of the story.
But I don't move, don't even step forward.
I let him retreat under his own momentum, humiliation growing the farther he gets from me.
He keeps up a stream of muttered curses, the words slurring together, but even the bravado sounds like a prayer now.
"The Zayas are gonna hear about this!" he shouts, but he's already thirty feet away, voice carried by the wind and the hollow in his chest.
"And yet." I keep the blade visible until he's twenty feet away, then thirty, finally turning to jog back toward the parking lot with one last shouted curse that the wind takes.
Juliet isn't breathing. It occurs to me only then, the way her chest is perfectly still, eyes wide, mouth half-open in shock. When the man finally disappears, she lets out a single choked laugh—a sound so sharp it startles a gull into flight.
"Holy shit," she says, voice thin but climbing. "You didn't even hesitate."
I almost want to apologize, to explain that this wasn't about the knife, or the threat, or showing off for her. It's just the way I've survived. But she looks at me like she's seeing a new species and I can't help but feel a little pride.
"Men like that only understand clear boundaries." I slide the knife back into my boot, feeling the familiar weight settle against my calf. "You show fear, they push harder. You show them steel, they find easier prey."
"You weren't scared at all."
"Why would I be? He was soft. Probably never been in a real fight, definitely never had a woman pull a knife on him." I shrug. "Bullies fold the second someone pushes back."
Juliet stares at me with something like awe. Her fingers drift down to touch the boot where my knife lives, not quite making contact. "How long have you carried it?"
"Years." Since other girls were carrying lipstick, I was carrying steel.
"I want that. That fearlessness. That absolute certainty that you can handle whatever comes at you."
"It's not fearlessness. It's math. I know what I'm capable of, what my knife can do, how fast I can move. I calculate odds and act accordingly."
"Still." She pulls her knees up to her chest, and I notice the slight tremor in her hands. "I wish I could be like that."
Something about her posture catches my eye. This isn’t just someone wishing she had knife skills.
“You okay?” I ask. Even as the words are out of my mouth, I realize this is the first time I’ve inquired after someone’s health in… well, maybe ever.
"I can't stop thinking about him."
The admission comes out of nowhere, Juliet's voice dropping to barely above a whisper. Her hands are definitely shaking now. I turn to find her staring at the water, fingers clenched white around her knees.
"Who?"
"Santiago Zayas." His name breaks in her throat like shattered glass.
My body goes still. The Zayas heir who cornered her during that assault at La Sirena a few months back. The psychopath who marked her as his. Even in our world of monsters, he stands apart. The kind of predator who enjoys the fear more than the conquest.
"He said he'd remember me." Her voice shakes harder now, tears threatening. "After they pulled him off, after everything, he looked right at me and said 'Pretty girl. I'll remember you.' Like a promise."
"Juliet…"