Page 11 of Zorro

“Six months,” she murmured, her voice not quite steady.

Zorro’s eyes narrowed slightly, but not with suspicion. Understanding. “I was wounded six months ago.” He tilted his head slightly, gesturing to the scar. “But you already knew that.”

Her breath snagged. Gently, she pressed a fresh bandage over the stitches, sealing the skin with careful precision. “Keep this dry,” she whispered.

But he wasn’t done.

“Here the same time as me…” he drawled, voice lower now, solemn at the edges. “You didn’t stop by the hospital to visit? That cuts deep.” She looked up sharply, but he was already watching her, gaze locked to hers, reading her like a map. “Unless you did.”

The air between them turned electric.

She wasn’t going to fall for that bait. She wouldn’t. She couldn’t. But her eyes dropped to his mouth anyway, traitorous and slow. “I’m off shift,” she said quickly. “You should really get some rest.” She turned away, needing distance like oxygen, but his fingers wrapped around her wrist. The contact burned. She flinched.

“Don’t touch me,” she snapped, the words sharper than intended. She jerked back, knocking over the tray beside her. Instruments clattered to the floor, forceps, gauze red with his blood, the metal basin splashing water across the tiles, spinning before it stilled.

He looked at her like she’d just cracked in front of him. His expression, concerned, unguarded, unraveled something she wasn’t ready to face.

She couldn’t breathe. Let him speculate. He had no proof. “I’ve got to go,” she said, barely above a whisper.

Then she turned and fled past the man whose touch still burned into her wrist, into the hallway thick with heat and noise, straight into the wall of his teammates, caught between hard chests and tall bodies. She pushed past them all, past the jokes, past the noise, past her own foolish reaction.

She came out of the room fast and distressed. Dakota “Bear” Locklear didn’t say much, but he didn’t miss much either. Right now, he knew one thing for sure: a woman doesn’t move like that unless she’s running from something.

He caught her before she stumbled, just shifted to block her path, steadying her with presence alone. She didn’t even realize he had kept her from falling. She just pushed past them into the hallway toward the exit.

“Flint,” he murmured.

Without another word, the pure black dog, broad-shouldered, lean-muscled, every line of him honed for work and war, trotted forward, calm and sure. He set himself directly in front of her, a living presence she couldn’t walk through. Dr. Quinn stopped moving and looked down at his partner.

Flint looked up, his sharp, intelligent eyes, filled with the kind of compassion only a dog could offer. They knew stress. Flint understood better than most.

She didn’t look up at first. Didn’t seem to notice anything but the hallway floor and whatever had spooked her.

He’d seen that look too many times to count. It didn’t usually belong to doctors. But it belonged to warriors. People who had seen too much and still had to keep going.

Her fists were clenched too tight. Her shoulders were shaking. Fear. The kind of fear that didn’t shout but buried itself deep in the bones. The kind warriors didn’t admit to but carried like ghosts beneath the skin. He recognized it for what it was, a woman too afraid to understand her own heart. But Bear had seen something else in her. From the very beginning.

Courage. Not the conscious kind, but the warrior kind, soul courage, that wouldn’t fail her if she reached for it. If she believed. No one could walk that terrifying path for her. It would only accept her footsteps.

He swallowed hard. From the beginning, the moment he saw her, she reminded him of his youngest sister, Ayla. The memory of her still haunted him. She had disappeared when she’d been fifteen while he was crushing BUD/S—a decision he made to escape the impoverished life in South Dakota on the Pine Ridge Reservation. With the money he’d made from being a SEAL, a portion of it went home to his parents, who were able to find more stable housing and feed and raise his youngest brother, Nathaniel.

Finally, she registered Flint. He didn’t move. Didn’t look to Bear for orders. He just held her gaze, still and waiting.

“Hey, there, boy.” Her voice was hoarse. “I didn’t give you a proper greeting. Leave it to you to remind me.”

She reached down, fingers curling into his fur like she needed something real to hold on to.

That’s when Bear stepped in.

“Doc,” he said, voice low and grounded.

She blinked. Looked up, her expression underneath a war between control and something pushing for recognition, for ownership. He didn’t press. Didn’t ask. He just stayed still. Let her choose.

Then movement behind her.

Zorro stepped into view, bare-chested, vest slung over one shoulder, eyes locked on her like she was a thread he wasn’t ready to cut loose. His posture was relaxed, but Bear saw the truth of it, the tension in the shoulders, the weight in the jaw. The way he tracked her every breath.

Bear could read a room. Read them both.