Chapter 6 - Marisol
I’ve been staring at his forearms for twenty minutes.
I woke at noon with his name on my lips and wetness between my thighs, then avoided him for two hours until he cornered me in the kitchen with that commanding voice: "Get dressed. We're leaving." No explanation. No asking. Just that tone that makes arguing feel pointless.
Now he's driving, one hand on the wheel, the other resting on the gear shift, and I can't stop watching the way the muscles flex when he turns. The veins that stand out against tanned skin. The way his fingers grip with casual certainty, like everything he touches belongs to him.
Last night he kissed me. His mouth was on mine, his hands on my face, and now he's acting like it never happened. Like he didn't taste my tears and swallow my panic and make me feel safe for the first time in eight years.
Back to the fake-happy routine. It's safer than whatever this raw, wanting thing is that's taken over my body.
"You're staring," he says without looking at me.
"I'm assessing threats. You should be proud."
"My arm is not a threat."
"Your entire existence is a threat to my sanity."
There's that tiny twitch at the corner of his mouth, the one I'm learning means he's fighting not to smile.
"Where are we going?" I ask, desperate to change the subject from his devastating forearms.
"Out."
"That's not an answer."
"It's the only one you're getting."
"You can't just kidnap me, you tactical banana. There are laws."
"You got in the car willingly."
"Because you used your soldier voice. Your 'I've already decided and resistance is futile' voice."
"I don't have a voice."
"You have seventeen voices. There's tactical assessment voice, disapproving of my life choices voice, counting my drinks voice—"
I stop mid-ramble as he turns off the main road onto a quieter stretch. The landscape changes, buildings giving way to palm trees and glimpses of blue between the green. My chest tightens.
"Nico."
"What?"
"This is the ocean."
"I'm aware."
"You brought me to the OCEAN."
He pulls into a small lot beside a stretch of beach I don't recognize. Rocky on one end, sandy on the other, more private than the tourist spots. "You mentioned you used to swim. With your mother."
The words land soft and devastating. He listened. At two in the morning, when I was falling apart by the pool, he listened to every broken piece I offered and filed it away. And now he's brought me here because… because what? Because he thinks I need to face it? Because he wants to fix me?
"I can't go into the water," I say, my voice smaller than intended.
"I didn't ask you to."
We stand at the edge of the parking area, and the ocean spreads before us like a memory made real. The sound hits first: waves against sand, that ancient rhythm I haven't let myself hear in eight years. Then the smell: salt and seaweed and something indefinably alive that makes my throat tight.
My mother's voice floats through my mind: The water is where God lives, mija. Can you feel Him?
I take off my sandals without thinking. The sand is warm between my toes, familiar and foreign at once.
"I can't go in," I repeat.
"You don't have to swim. You can just… be near it."
Something cracks in my chest. This impossible man, this stone-faced soldier who counts my drinks and judges my choices, brought me to the ocean because I told him I missed it.
We walk along the shore in silence. The waves lap toward my feet and I let them, just barely, the cold water kissing my toes before retreating. Each touch is a small victory and a smaller heartbreak.
"She used to sing in the water," I say suddenly, the memory hitting sharp and sweet.
"Rihanna. My mother. She'd float on her back for hours, making up songs about the clouds, the birds, the way light hit the waves.
Said the ocean was her orchestra and she was just trying to keep up.
She taught me to float before I could swim properly.
Said if you trusted the water, it would hold you up.
We'd lie there together, her singing, me trying to be as still as she was.
I never could. Always had to be moving, kicking, splashing.
" I laugh, but it comes out wrong. "She'd say 'Mija, you fight the water like it's your enemy. Let it be your friend.'"
"So is it your friend?"
I scoff. "The water doesn't hold anyone up. It just takes."
I glance at him. His black t-shirt shows everything: the breadth of his shoulders, the way his chest tapers to his waist, the shadows of muscle that shift when he moves.
There are tattoos on his right arm. Military insignia, dates that probably mean something terrible.
Without thinking, I reach out, my fingers almost touching the ink, then jerk my hand back.
"Your shoulders are threatening too," I blurt out, covering my almost-touch with deflection.
"Threatening how?"
"They're very… broad. And muscled. Do you throw people often?"
"Only on special occasions."
"See, I can't tell if you're joking."
"I don't joke."
"You literally just…" I stop walking, studying his profile. "You're messing with me."
"Unlikely."
But there's something in his eyes when he glances at me, something warmer than his usual assessment. For a moment, I think he might kiss me again. My heart stops. The air between us thickens.
Then he looks away. "We should head back soon."
I want to scream. I want to grab his stupidly perfect face and demand to know what last night meant. Instead, I just nod and try not to let him see how his rejection stings.
"Holy shit. You're Marisol Delgado."
The voice comes from behind us, and I tense immediately. A guy in his late twenties approaches, all golden tan and expensive swim trunks, the kind of man who treats the beach like his personal kingdom.
"I've seen you at La Sirena," he continues, getting closer. Too close. "You probably don't remember me."
I don't. They all blur together: the men with their bottle service and their wandering hands and their assumption that my chaos means consent.
"My boys and I had a table for my birthday last month. You danced on it." His grin turns lewd. "Best fucking night of my life."
I want to disappear. Of all the moments for my reality to catch up, of all the reminders of who I've been. The disaster, the party favor, the girl who'll do anything for attention.
"We're leaving," I say, but he's already reaching out.
His hand doesn't just touch my arm. It slides down from my elbow to my waist, fingers spreading possessively against my ribs. "Aw, come on. Let me buy you a drink. There's a place nearby."
What happens next takes three seconds.
Nico moves faster than thought. One moment the guy is touching me, the next Nico has him by the throat. No warning. No words. Just violence, sudden and absolute.
He drags the guy toward where the beach turns rocky, where the waves crash against jagged stone. The guy tries to fight. He's fit, probably thinks he's tough. But against Nico he's nothing. A doll made of flesh and poor decisions.
The throw is brutal.
Nico hurls him into the rocks where the water churns white with force.
The sound of flesh hitting stone makes me flinch: a wet, meaty thud that excites me when it shouldn't.
The guy crashes into the jagged edges, waves immediately slamming him back against them.
He comes up gasping, bleeding from his head, screaming.
"I'm sorry! I'm sorry, I didn't know she was yours!"
Nico watches in silence.
The guy tries to grab hold of something, anything, but the rocks are slick with algae and sharp as broken glass. Every attempt to climb out opens new cuts on his hands. The metallic scent of blood mixes with salt air, and I can taste copper on my tongue like I'm the one bleeding.
"Please! Fuck, please help me!"
And Nico just watches.
He stands at the edge with his hands at his sides, observing the destruction with cold satisfaction. The waves keep pushing the stranger back into the rocks, nature itself conspiring in his punishment. The hot sand burns my feet while cold spray from his struggle dots my skin.
This is what Nico is, I realize. Under the discipline and protocol, under the careful control. This is the soldier. The weapon. The monster my father hired to keep me safe.
This is what my father pays for. Not just protection. Ownership. The right to destroy anyone who crosses the invisible lines around me.
I should be horrified. A normal person would be horrified.
I'm wet.
My whole body flushes with heat that has nothing to do with the Miami sun.
There's an ache between my legs, a pulse that matches my racing heart.
I'm watching this beautiful, terrible man destroy someone for the crime of touching me, and all I can think about is what those hands would feel like on my body.
Eventually the guy manages to crawl onto the beach, sobbing, bleeding, dragging himself away from us like a wounded animal.
Nico turns to me, his expression unchanged. Calm. Controlled. Like he didn't just nearly kill someone with his bare hands.
"Ready to go?"
I stare at him, unable to form words. He walks back toward the car, and after a moment of standing there practically vibrating with arousal and shock, I follow.
"I'll order lunch when we get back," he says casually, opening my door for me.
The normalcy of it makes my head spin. Talking about lunch after what just happened.
In the car, silence stretches between us like a living thing. I can't stop seeing it: the throw, the blood, the cold satisfaction in his eyes as he watched that man break against the rocks.
"So," I finally manage. "That happened."
"Yes."
"You just… threw a man into rocks."
"Yes."
"Because he touched me."
"Yes."
"And you're not going to explain? Apologize? Say literally anything about what just happened?"
"No."
A laugh bubbles out of me, high and hysterical. The chaos-goblin awakens, desperate to make sense of this.