Dangerous Melodies - Chapter 17: Chapter 17

DANTE
I stepped into the guesthouse and walked straight into chaos.
Liquor bottles and half-filled glasses cluttered the countertops. Marisol’s version of bartending, apparently.
The freezer door gaped open. Stocked food sat untouched.
She’d had other plans.
A YouTube music video blasted from the speakers, the singer’s voice confident and crystal clear.
I shut the freezer with a sigh. Turned off the TV. Followed the sound of her voice to the bathroom.
Stopping in the doorway, I blinked. My brain short-circuited.
Marisol sat in the tub, water sloshing gently around her. Her light blue pajamas clung to her body, soaked straight through.
A tipsy, over-the-top grin spread across her face as she tapped her phone, music playing low in the background like she was prepping for a solo concert.
One hand pressed dramatically to her chest.
She spotted the security camera in the corner and pointed, eyes glassy and unfocused but locked on like she had a front-row audience. Then, with the flair of someone fully committed to the drama, she flung her arm wide and sang.
Bubblebath heartache...
I gave you my love and my leftover fries,
You ghosted me back with radio silence and lies.
You said forever, I heard ‘maybe tonight.
Now I’m sobbing in suds by the bathroom light.
She scooped a handful of bubbles and let them fall between her fingers with tragic flair. Her voice cracked on the next lines, slurred but oddly on key.
Bubblebath heartache, foam in my hair,
Crying to shampoo like you actually care.
You wrecked me, you left me, I’m drowning in blue,
And I smell like regret... and blueberry shampoooooo.
She held the last note like she was headlining a sold-out Broadway show, eyes closed, chin lifted, arm still stretched to the heavens.
I rarely laughed. My world ran on composure. Control. A shield I’d learned to live behind.
But Marisol, soaked and singing in clinging pajamas, drunk on her own nonsense and the last of her blue drink, cracked something in me.
A laugh broke loose. Raw, unexpected. I didn’t stop it.
She wouldn’t remember this come morning. I shook my head, lips twitching before I could stop the grin.
But I would.
God help me, I would.
“What am I going to do with you?” I muttered, not really expecting an answer.
She kept swaying, totally locked into the beat, her own private concert like nothing else existed beyond the music.
I stepped farther into the bathroom and stopped, arms folding across my chest as I watched her. Equal parts amused and baffled.
“You made a mess.” A mock frown pulled at my face.
“Oh, oh!” she gasped, then dunked herself underwater.
I barked out a laugh before I could stop it and reached in to haul her back up.
“What are you doing?” I asked, water dripping from my fingers. “Who takes a bath fully dressed?”
She sagged against the side of the tub, blinking up at me with that dazed, heavy-lidded look. Her eyes were full of drunk sparkle, dimmed by too many sips. Like she was trying to place where she was.
Her voice came slowly, thick with irritation. “Because you have a camera in the bathroom, Dante.” Her lips puckered. “You shouldn’t be a peeping Tom.”
I huffed a laugh. “It’s not on. See? No red light. This bathroom’s private. Always has been.”
Her eyes widened. “Oh! So you didn’t see me making funny faces at it?” Disappointment crept into her voice.
“What?” My gaze swept the room: kitchen chair, barstool, towel puddled on the floor. I shook my head, trying to picture the disaster she’d made.
“Alright, songbird,” I sighed. “Let’s get you out before you catch a cold.”
She giggled, water sloshing over the edge as she tried to stand. I caught her before she slipped, hands steadying her.
Her soaked pajamas clung like a second skin, nearly transparent. The faint peaks of her hardened nipples showed through the fabric, and desire struck low and sharp.
I looked away, jaw tight. The image already burned into me.
I grabbed a towel. “Let’s get you dried off.”
I guided her to the bedroom.
She wobbled as she walked, still holding her glass. That electric-blue drink swirled like something conjured in a lab.
Her amber eyes sparkled. “I love my blue drink so much,” she crooned. “It’s magic… because it’s blue. Like a Smurf!”
My lips twitched. I plucked the glass from her hand, condensation slick beneath my fingers, and set it on the nightstand.
“Alright, Smurfette. Turn around. I’ll help you into a clean t-shirt.”
She gasped like I’d confessed a state secret. “You know Smurfette?”
A slow breath left me. “I’m aware of more than you think.”
She narrowed her eyes, suspicion tangled with tipsy amusement. “Huh. I thought you only knew about scary things.”
If only you knew.
I shook my head, the corner of my mouth pulling up without permission. “Turn around.”
She hesitated, then did what I asked. “Close your eyes,” she mumbled. “I don’t want you to see my ugly scars.”
Something twisted in my chest.
“Okay,” I said quietly, keeping my voice steady. “Lift your arms.”
She obeyed, slow and silent.
I eased the wet shirt off her, the fabric clinging stubbornly to her skin. Cold brushed my fingertips as I peeled it away. When it fell to the floor, the scars came into view.
A fist clenched in my chest.
Grief hit first. Then rage. It moved through me like a storm.
Who hurt you like this?
She gave a soft shiver.
I didn’t wait. I grabbed the clean shirt and slipped it over her head, guiding her arms through the sleeves. The cotton settled against her skin, soft and dry, hiding the marks she clearly didn’t want seen.
“Hold still,” I said, dropping to one knee.
My hands slid beneath the hem of her shirt, brushing the top of her shorts. I couldn’t see a damn thing, but I could feel the damp fabric, the way it clung to her. The heat of her skin, so close, burned through my palms.
Focus. Just get her dry. Nothing else.
It was enough to make my pulse stutter.
Focus. She’s drunk.
Jaw tight, I eased the shorts down inch by inch, eyes locked on the floor. When the fabric pooled at her feet, I helped her step out, one leg at a time.
“All done.” I stood, forcing myself to meet her eyes.
She turned, gaze soft with gratitude. Then she wrapped her arms around me, pressing her cheek to my chest.
Her hair was still damp, cooling the fabric of my shirt, but the heat of her body soaked straight through.
She tilted her head. “Thank you for being nice today. I never want to leave.”
A frown tugged at my brow. “Even though I’m holding you here, you still want to stay? Why?”
“Because it’s safe,” she murmured. “They can’t get me here. Only you can come in… but you, I can handle.”
She gave a loose wave, like what she’d said explained everything.
I raised an eyebrow. “Is that so?”
She swayed a little, still looking up at me. “Hey, have you ever had sex on the beach?”
I blinked. That came out of nowhere. I didn’t answer right away.
I kept my mouth shut, waiting to see where this was going.
“I wanted to try it.”
A hum rumbled in my throat. Low and warning. My gaze sharpened. I waited.
“But I didn’t have the right ingredients,” she scowled.
Laughter broke from my chest. Full and surprised.
The cocktail. She meant the damn cocktail. “That’s a shame.”
She let out a long, loud sigh and flopped onto the bed like she was auditioning for a bad soap opera.
“I’ll probably die without ever seeing the beach… or having sex.”
I blinked, the smile tugging at my mouth slipping. “You’ll have sex sooner than you think.”
She rolled onto her stomach, laughter muffled against the sheets. Her t-shirt slid higher, exposing the curve where her lower back met the soft rise of her ass.
I looked away. But not fast enough. My gaze caught on it.
Still giggling, she mumbled, “I can’t have sex. I haven’t even kissed anyone.”
I stilled. “You’ve never been kissed?”
“Nope.”
My thoughts spun. I’d known she was untouched, but somehow, that small confession knocked the wind from me.
Despite the body of a woman, she was innocent in ways I hadn’t prepared for. A low ache stirred. Raw and possessive. I shoved it down.
Not like this.
“I’ll kiss you when you’re sober.”
She gasped, scandalized. “No! You can’t kiss me! There’s an order, Dante.”
She crossed her arms with all the authority of a queen issuing a royal decree.
Amusement flared. “An order?”
“Yes. First, you date. Then hold hands and hug, which leads to kissing. Then you get married. Then you can have sex.”
A smirk curved my lips. “What if the date’s on the beach? Can we skip to sex?”
She sat up, brow furrowed in serious concentration. “Well… um…”
I watched as she tried to logic her way through it. Fascinated.
“Only if the date was with you,” she mumbled.
That landed harder than it should have.
My smirk faded. “Why me?”
She stood and wrapped her arms around me again, resting her face against my chest.
“Because you could have hurt me, but you haven’t. You’re not evil like Marcos.”
Her eyes lifted to mine.
The name slammed into me like a punch.
Guilt rose fast. Ugly and familiar. But so did something fiercer. Protective.
I wanted to tear down every shadow that had ever touched her.
Something twisted inside me. Sharp and dangerous.
Her trust was a loaded gun. Addictive.
I thought of my mother. Of how love always ended in tragedy.
“I’m not sweet, Marisol,” I said, voice low. “I’m a cold, calculating asshole.”
She snorted. “Yeah, no shit, Sherlock.”
Laughter cracked out of me before I could stop it.
She grinned, tapping her chest. “But I,” she pointed, “I’m a sweetheart.”
I laughed again. Somehow, all of it—her and this moment—was ridiculous and real.
Brushing her hair from her face, I met her eyes.
I thought of the weapons hidden in her bag.
“You have the most beautiful eyes I’ve ever seen,” I said quietly. “I could get lost in them.”
Her brows pinched. “Dante, if you were lost, I’d find you.”
Her voice softened. “You don’t have to be scared. I’ll always have your back.”
Something inside me fractured.
You don’t have to be scared.
But she was wrong.
“I’m not afraid of getting lost,” I whispered. “I’m terrified of being found.”
She held me tighter, breath warm against my chest.
“It’s too late,” she whispered. “I already found you.”
I went still.
Her warmth seeped in. Dangerous and soft.
I rested my chin on her head, breathing in the scent of her hair.
Thoughts churned with desire. Protection. Dread.
But one truth cut through the noise:
She’d broken through my walls.
And there was no turning back.