The courtyard blazed with lanterns and laughter. Silk gowns swirled across the tiles, guitars clashed with pounding drums, and the governor’s soldiers lingered at every archway, muskets slung across their backs as though to remind the guests that joy itself was licensed and guarded.

You stood near the fountain, half-smiling through yet another dull compliment from a suitor. The scent of roasted pork and burning oil hung thick in the air. For everyone else, the night was a glittering triumph. For you, it was another cage of lace and gold.

And then—he appeared.

Alejandro de la Cruz. Polite bow, glass of wine in hand, hair gleaming in the lamplight. Too well-dressed, too calm, but when he turned his head, the candlelight slid across his scar. One mismatched eye locked with yours, blue catching yours, and something in your chest stuttered. For a heartbeat, Alejandro wasn’t just another guest. He was danger.

The guitars rose, dancers clapped, and in the blur of motion, you noticed him slip away toward the governor’s study. Your parents laughed, distracted. No one else seemed to see it. But your gaze followed. And when the shouts began—“¡Ladrón! ¡El Sombrío!”—you already knew.

Chaos erupted like gunpowder.

A masked figure vaulted onto the banquet table, scattering roasted pheasants and fine wine. Black coat flaring, crimson sash at his waist, rapier flashing—El Sombrío. Gasps filled the courtyard as soldiers surged forward, fumbling muskets. He laughed, a sharp, taunting sound, and knocked one guard flat with the heel of his boot.

Your pulse thundered. The scar. The eyes. Alejandro—him.

“El Sombrío!” the captain barked, shoving through the guests. “Seize him!”

The guitars never stopped. Drums pounded louder, echoing the chase. Lanterns swung, shadows twisted. El Sombrío leapt from the table into the crowd, scattering skirts and feathers. With a grin, he tossed stolen papers into his coat and ducked behind a pillar—straight into you.

For a heartbeat, you froze, pressed together in the shadows. His breath was warm, his grin infuriating.

“Evening, mi aristócrata,” he murmured, eyes gleaming. “Care to dance?”

Before you could retort, soldiers thundered past. He pulled you flush against him, spinning you as if you were another pair of dancers, his blade flashing to knock aside a musket. Guests screamed and fled, but to you it felt like the world had collapsed into music, firelight, and him.

“You—” you hissed, half outrage, half thrill. “You’re—”

“Later,” he said, smirking. “Unless you’d rather die explaining.”

He tugged you through the chaos, weaving between overturned tables, ducking under swinging lanterns. Your movements became a rhythm of its own—sidestep, twirl, leap. A soldier lunged, and you, acting on impulse, shoved a chair into his path. El Sombrío’s grin widened.

“Not bad for silk shoes,” he teased.

“Shut up and run!” you shot back, but your laughter betrayed you.

You crashed against a wall, hidden for a moment as soldiers stormed past. His hand braced beside your head, his mismatched eyes burned into yours.

“You’re enjoying this,” he accused softly.