Page 35 of Zorro

Zorro stilled.

Lakota. Friend.

It was the same word Bear had murmured in that echoing hallway weeks ago, after Everly had spun out, breathless and shaking in the wake of a grief she hadn’t dared name. Back when Bear had watched the way Zorro looked at her, even then.

This was a reminder. A quiet vow of I see her. I see you. Don’t fuck this up.

Zorro gave a slow nod. Not a promise. Not yet. But an understanding.

Bear moved past him without another word.

Zorro stood there, breath burning in his chest, and finally understood what Bear meant, not just about Everly, but about himself.

He ran harder than he needed for the rest of the run.

6

The café kiosk inside the hotel was mobbed in chaos, like a minor war zone. Jet-lagged conference attendees, twitchy guests, and caffeine-starved staffers had turned the modest cart into a battlefield of elbows and urgent espresso orders. Everly Quinn stood somewhere near the back of the line, her hair raked back, still in running gear, but it was as if she could feel Zorro’s shirt lingering like a brand on her skin.

She couldn’t stop replaying the moment in the hallway. The stare. The silence. The T-shirt.

The damn running commentary from his teammates.

God.

Her cheeks burned all over again.

She shuffled forward in line, trying to disappear into the conference badge around her neck, when the woman in front of her turned slightly, elegant long legs. Everly blinked.

The woman’s outfit had a vibe. Wide-legged linen trousers in a shade of olive that should have looked utilitarian but somehow screamed couture, paired with a sleeveless high-neck top in a deep, almost-black navy silk. Gold earrings the size of paperclips, messy red bun, not a single hair out of place.

Everly stared for a beat too long. “I could never pull off that outfit.” The woman turned fully, grinning with the easy confidence of someone who knew exactly how good she looked and exactly what to do about it.

Everly blinked again. That voice. That posture. There was something familiar about her, but she couldn’t place it.

“Honestly,” Everly added, “I’m not even sure where I’d wear anything like that.”

The woman raised an eyebrow. “I designed it.” Of course she did. “Oh, honey,” she added, her tone velvet and heat, “I could make you look good on an evening out or hip-deep in blood and bad lighting.”

Dozens of wounded. Dozens more uninjured but terrified. Children everywhere. Blood….

“We’ve met before. Niger. That’s it.” She reached out her hand. “Right. General Jackman’s aide. I remember now.”

“Of course.” The woman’s expression softened. “You’re the trauma surgeon, Dr. Quinn.”

“Everly, please.”

“You knew me as Lieutenant Phillipa Thompson, but I go by Pippa.” They stood in silence for a beat, the memory crowding the air between them. “You were very busy that day. All those burned children. It was awful.”

The noise of the coffee kiosk faded, replaced, if only for a moment, by the distant echoes of chaos in that hospital corridor. Smoke. Screaming. Children too silent. The thick scent of burned cloth and blood that never quite left your nose.

When all Americans had been told to exit the country after the coup, Everly thought often about all the people who had needed her. Sometimes those screams haunted her sleep.

Everly folded her arms, more from reflex than cold, her eyes flicking down to Pippa’s flawless trousers again, the incongruity making something in her tighten.

It was ridiculous, standing here, fixating on a silk top and high-waisted pants when her stomach was still tangled from the morning’s hallway ambush and Zorro’s ridiculous, infuriating tenderness.

But it was all connected, wasn’t it?