Alejandro Cruz.
Sombra.
The Shadow.
He shouldn’t be here.
He shouldn’t be anywhere.
He was exiled two years ago, stricken from every record, declared kill-on-sight. The manhunt was vicious; the rumors even more so. Some said he died. Some said he vanished into the mountains. Some said he took out half the hunters sent after him before evaporating like smoke.
But here he is.
Alive.
And huntingme.
He looks exactly the same.
Six-six, maybe six-seven, shoulders broad enough to eclipse the aisle. That strong, sculpted face—molten dark eyes, jaw sharp enough to cut glass, the effortless elegance he always carried wrapped in expensive leather and a tailored coat meant for someone who makes death look fashionable.
No sniper rifle, which is…wrong.
He’s never without a long-range kill option.
Never.
The fact that he’s on foot means he came in close.
For me.
He turns—and locks eyes with me.
My steps halt without permission.
The market blurs.
The noise dropsto a muffled hum.
For one suspended second, it’s just us and memory hits like a blade to the ribs.
The beach and breeze. Salt clinging to our skin. His hand sliding down my thigh and my fingers tangled in his soft hair.
His mouth at my ear whispering,I’ll be right back. Promise.
Then he walked away and betrayed the Guild. Two days later, his exile notice hit the boards.
Open contract.
Kill on sight.
And then he disappeared like fog in sunlight, yet here he stands.
And as if he knowsexactlywhat I’m remembering, the motherfucker has the audacity to grin.
Hardly a smile—just the faintest tug at one corner of his mouth.
Almost not there but I see it.
