Page 92 of Zorro

Somehow, here between the laughter, the teasing, the steady warmth of his fingers brushing her wrist under the table, it didn’t scare her.

So, he was good at this world-building thing. This right here, with him, with them, felt like some kind of miraculous foundation. Maybe not perfect. Maybe not finished. But solid. Real. Something you could build the rest of your life on.

He’d given her his trust last night, and she’d taken it and given hers back. He had finally released the shackles on her armor and she was now completely defenseless, bringing her back to her earlier thoughts as emotion tightened her throat. He deserved what he asked for last night.

Everything.

They stepped out into the corridor, the hum of applause still echoing behind them. Voices rose around the conference exits, attendees murmuring, joking, flooding the hallway with post-panel buzz.

But Zorro didn’t let go of her hand.

Not once.

He waited until they reached the corner where the corridor curved toward the west elevators, half-lit and empty. Then he turned, pressed her gently against the wall with both hands on either side of her shoulders, and leaned in, breath catching on the edge of such joy his heart was aching with it. What happened in there…fuck. It was so genuine, so real it slaked his thirst for her in so many ways, and generated nothing short of dehydration.

He kissed her. Not like the playful, flirty way he teased her under the table. Not like last night’s hungry, unraveling want. But slow. Deep. Certain.

A kiss that said this is real. This is now. This is us.

His mouth moved to her temple, to the shell of her ear, his breath warm.

“Mi corazón,” he murmured. “You are my heart. Mi cielo. You…you already took it.” She shook, tremors that concerned him. He pulled back just enough to look at her. “I made reservations. Beachside. After your last panel. Good food. Quiet. Just you and me.”

She touched his lips. That bruised look in her gaze, the way her shoulders were drawn tight as piano wire, spelled something coming his way. It wasn’t just exhaustion. It was devastation. Zorro knew devastation. It wore that same rigid mask. The one that cracked only when you were finally alone. But her being alone…that was fucking over.

Her chest heaved. The tenderness in her voice, the hint of nerves beneath the confidence. It broke him open all over again.

She managed a whisper. “You planned a date?”

Zorro smiled, that slow, sassy grin she always reacted to with blown pupils, now soaked in love.

“I’ve been planning a future. Dinner’s just step one.”

She pushed away from him, started walking. “Oh, God…you…Mateo,” Everly wailed, her voice barely holding. She didn’t look back. Her heels clicked faster across the marble, toward anywhere that wasn’t him. His gut clenched, his heart suspended. No.

“Everly—”

“I can’t.”

Zorro followed without apology. Steady rhythm of booted steps behind her, trailing like the man she deserved. He was the man for her, goddammit. He’d always thought it was about being indispensable. The protector. The person no one could live without, to keep his team alive, his heart hidden, and his role secure. What the fuck was that? It was soul-sucking thinking, leaving him so fucking empty. He wanted to matter. Of course, he did. He’d thought he wanted proof of it. But none of that seemed to gel anymore. Not when she’d come to him naked, laid bare, and showing him how much she wanted him. This was something else. This wasn’t rejection. This was pain.

“Talk to me,” he said, his voice quiet, coaxing.

She kept walking. Faster. Her hands were shaking. He couldn’t let her disappear into silence. Not ever again.

“Don’t you goddamn walk away from me, Everly Quinn. You thinking you’re alone is fucking over! Stop running from me! From yourself! I’m right the fuck here. Talk to me!”

She froze, turning toward him with her mouth open and her eyes wide. He had never raised his voice to her, but he was fighting for his life here.

He caught up in two strides, his hand brushing her arm, gentle but firm. She flinched. He didn’t let go. Then, without warning, he slid his arm around her waist and spun her into a curtained alcove off the ballroom corridor, small, half-lit, private. An intimate corner with a velvet bench, meant for whispered conversations and dramatic exits.

Her back hit the wall, breath stolen. She gasped, blinking up at him as he framed her face with both hands.

“Can we just slow down for one damn minute?” he asked, voice low, grounding. His eyes searched hers. “Please.”

She exhaled hard.

Zorro inhaled like he was breathing her in, like her presence physically hit him.

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