"Gabriel! Gabriel, no!"
"Marisol." I say her name sharp, military command. No response. "MARISOL."
Her eyes are open but she's not seeing me. She's somewhere else, trapped in memory, and the words spilling from her lips make something violent coil in my chest.
"Gabriel, what do we DO?"
I grab her wrists, pin them to stop the self-destruction. She fights me with surprising strength, all wild panic and desperate energy. Her nightgown, silk, barely there, I hate that I notice, rides up as she struggles. Her body against mine feels wrong. Too soft where I'm hard angles, too warm where I run cold.
She sobs, still lost in whatever horror holds her. "I did what you said, but she won't, she won't…"
"Marisol. Wake up. Now."
Something in my voice cuts through. She blinks, focuses, sees me. Really sees me. Holding her wrists in her bedroom, in her private space, breaking every rule she set.
For one heartbeat, confusion clouds her honey eyes. Then reality crashes back.
She jerks away like I've burned her, scrambling back against the headboard. Her chest heaves with each breath, and I keep my eyes on her face, not on the way the silk clings to curves I shouldn't be noting.
"Get out." Her voice is hoarse from screaming.
"You were having a nightmare."
"I said GET OUT."
"You were screaming Gabriel. And something about a woman."
Her face drains of color. Prey caught in headlights. Whatever walls she maintains during daylight: gone.
Someone hurt her. Someone made her this afraid. My hands itch for my Glock, for a name, for someone to punish.
"It was nothing. Just a nightmare. People have nightmares." Her hands shake as she pulls the sheet up to her chin. "Please. Just go."
The please stops me. Three days of defiance, of tactical banana jokes and manic energy, and she's never once said please.
I back toward the door, but I don't leave completely. Stand in the doorway watching her try to piece herself back together.
"I'll be in the kitchen. If you need…"
"I won't."
"If you need," I repeat, and leave the door cracked.
My phone buzzes at exactly 6 AM. Marco.
"Status," he says without preamble.
"Stable. Physically."
"That's not what I asked."
I lean against the kitchen counter, one hand resting on the Glock I've set beside me. Through the windows, Miami's sunrise paints the sky in shades of violence—red bleeding into orange, orange into gold. "She's a disaster, Marco. Nightmares. Panic. Self-destruction patterns. You sure her father knows what he's asking for?"
"Jorge reached out personally." Marco's voice carries that particular weight that means this is bigger than I know. "Old alliance. We have significant investment in their operations, not just the club. When he says the people who should be protecting her have been compromised, I listen."
"Compromised how?"
"His inner circle. Someone close, someone trusted. He won't name names, but he wanted someone immune to manipulation, charm, bribery. Someone who would see threats coming before they arrive."
