Chapter 3
Zorro’s lips moved slowly against hers, carefully at first. His kiss was almost hesitant, but bold at the same time.
Like he was unsure of such a forward move, perhaps even unsure if she would respond, but he’d taken the shot anyway because he couldn’t bear not to know.
And as his lips curiously danced along hers, she could not help but respond in unison.
Calliope had kissed many men—and even some women—and plenty of her patrons had written about, sang about, or illustrated sentiments about the perfect kiss.
But Calliope had never felt a perfect kiss before.
Not until this moment as her masked prince’s warm, smooth lips settled everything around her.
And so she did not fight the fire inside of her that threatened to burn, to consume, either. It’d been too long since Calliope had felt such a spark.
The softest sound escaped his throat as his tongue slid into her mouth without hesitation, the strokes slow and deliberate, reverent almost.
With every caress of his tongue and soft motion of his silken lips, Calliope felt herself slipping.
The lines between want and need felt as if they were being stretched taut, and the lines were going to snap.
She knew she was playing with fire, but Calliope missed fire.
She missed its warmth, its intensity. She missed dancing in the flames.
For such was the life of a muse—always sparking, always igniting someone’s passion—until, of course, the fire burned down to embers, unable to sustain its heat any longer. Or died, altogether.
Calliope’s shoulders loosened and she felt the faintest heat on her neck, her flesh.
In her blood. Her charming Zorro settled his hand against her throbbing vein, his palm hot, the touch smooth.
She could not help but feel overwhelmed by him.
By his kiss, his touch, his earthy, spicy cologne.
For the moment, there was pure bliss. There was only them, in this moment, existing inside time itself as well as outside of it.
Her insides heated like a fire and that familiar jolt, that spark she’d longed to feel again, returned with renewed vigor, rising from the ashes like a phoenix as the air thinned around her.
Who is this man? Where has he been hiding?
The mysterious masked stranger continued his torturously slow, seductive kiss, gently sucking her bottom lip before grazing his tongue over it.
The act, however small it was, was full of untapped desire.
A deep sound escaped him, something akin to a deep whispered moan, like a desperate prayer.
In that one swift motion, that faint caress of his tongue as he kissed her bottom lip, she could feel everything bubbling beneath the surface.
Everything this perfect man kept buried.
His determination, his passion, his drive.
And all at once, the spark flourished, the rush of flames catching on the brittle remnants of the dried leaves and wood Calliope had strewn over her broken, coffined heart.
Flashes of color flooded her vision. Bursts of bright, victorious red, fading into deep, dark shades of green, like a forest on fire. She settled her hand on his neck, feeling his racing pulse beneath her fingertips.
Did he feel it, too? This spark? This undeniable fire?
Did he understand what power those words held for her?
Anything you want. Anything, Princess.
Calliope had never truly seen herself as a figure of royalty, and though many men had called her Princess—or kitten or baby, and even sweetheart—there was an offering in the way her perfect stranger spoke such devotion.
Oh, Zorro... you do not understand the words you speak.
Calliope knew he did not understand. How could he? For starters, he was drunk—as was she—but he was also a human. And humans rarely understood the depth of their words and promises, Calliope had learned.
He’s no different than the other men I’ve entertained, Calliope thought, trying to combat the ease of which she felt to fall into this man and give him everything he desired.
Whatever that may be. She wasn’t sure what he truly desired because she could not see it in her mind’s eye the way she usually could with the people she inspired.
The spark always knew what a man or woman needed from her to thrive, and perhaps if Calliope had not been so lost in the perfection of his kiss and the sweet taste of pineapple on his tongue along with the haze of the alcohol she’d consumed, she may have realized how important that little fact was.
Because a muse’s purpose was to inspire those who would change the world—with the help of her patronage, of course.
But there was only one person who could truly inspire a muse, one person who could change their immortal fate, and they would be blind to their deepest desire, because their truest desire would be their mate.
Their divined mate, of course.
At the faintest thought of the myth that was a muse’s mate, memories flashed through her brain of Chuck and of David.
Of all the promises they’d made in vain.
Chuck had called her his soulmate, on more than one occasion.
David as well. But David also called her the devil, too.
And oh, how blind she had been when it came to David and his truest desire.
“If only I could just feel the spark,” he cried, angrily shoving the papers on the desk. The memory of him on his knees, eyes imploring her with tears pushed forth, trying to sour the perfect moment. It was a warning, a cautionary instinct.
Because Calliope knew just what could happen if she let herself forget. If she gave in too easily to the spark inside of her. She needed to protect it.
Because love—was not for muses. It was for the patrons, the men and women who desired her gifts, who needed her love to become the philosophers and artists and musicians that were meant to change the world.
Greatness could not be achieved without the power of a muse’s praise, after all. The love she gave was never equal. It was never reciprocated. Chuck had proved that years ago, and Calliope surmised perhaps then, it was better to separate her own wants and needs from the work she had to do.
And for centuries, Calliope had accepted that fate. That no one would ever love her or desire her in the way she truly wanted.
She’d deluded herself into believing David was different. His writings and musings were captivating, and the moments she allowed herself to feel love for him, were as shattering as they were beautiful. Because no matter how much Calliope gave, she never felt whole, she never felt the spark.
She fought the urge to slip down memory lane, not wanting to think of their heated tryst the night they’d met in the Den of Sin, or their whirlwind affair, of his cursed words that would forever haunt her. But it was no use. They were too similar to Zorro’s breathless pleas.
“I’ll do anything, Callie. Please, just give me a spark to get through these pages...”
That was what Calliope’s patrons failed to understand.
For every spark Calliope gave them, the more pain it caused her, the more it drained her.
And when there was nothing left to give them, her job was done.
And the inevitable downfall would rain on the muse and her patrons and leave her alone once more, dying to find the next man or woman to bring it back.
No one could ever sustain it, least of all Calliope. Because the universe had created her to be infinite, and a soulmate who could sustain her spark would take that away.
It was a cruel existence for a muse. To love and lose, over and over again, for the sake of humanity and its advancements.
But for the moment, Calliope was not loving or losing.
She was living inside the electrified energy that existed between her and a stranger, in the most perfect kiss.
She moved her mouth against his, shoving the poisonous thoughts away.
His hand slid up her neck, into her hair, and he tightened his grip, holding her still.
Calliope relished in the force of his grip as it grounded her.
She kissed him with hunger, craving to hear those words once more.
Anything you want.
Oh, sweet devotion. Cruel, bloody devotion. It would be her undoing.
When her mysterious Zorro broke away from their heated, perfect kiss, her lips tingled, the energy between them still crackling in the air.
She gazed back at him, at his kiss-swollen, plump lips. At his jeweled gaze and dilated pupils. The energy between them was unlike anything she’d ever felt before, and it was far too tempting to resist.
But that was why she came to the DeLux tonight, was it not? She came to find a muse of her own, a spark to ignite the inspiration she’d lost. A person to make her forget about the pain of her loss, the pain of love.
Was Zorro that man? She wasn’t sure.
But one thing she was sure of was that she’d never met or kissed anyone like him in her entire life, and that was enough for Calliope at the moment.
Soon enough, the night would end, and reality would return.
If all Calliope had was a moment to feel like this she wanted to live in the moment as long as she could.
“I think we should go,” Calliope said, tasting the words on her tongue. They felt foreign, but also exhilarating.
This is probably a terrible idea. I’m not entirely sober, and Zorro isn’t, either. This could end a total disaster. But something told her it was only just the beginning, and she’d had too much to drink to refute hope like that.
Zorro nodded, grabbing her hand and pulling her off her chair, toward the exit of the cafe. She let him pull her through the crowd, her hand in his palm heating like a fire. His fingers curled around hers and the spark, the energy between them, could be felt like it was an entity all its own.