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.
"Okay. Cool. So I'm traveling with someone who throws people into rocks. That's normal. That's totally fine. Is this a hobby? Like, 'What are your interests, Nico?' 'Oh, I enjoy pull-ups and HURLING MEN INTO JAGGED STONE.'"
He doesn't respond, just keeps driving with that maddening calm.
