The air reeks of smoke and adrenaline. Gunfire rattles through the shattered glass windows, but his voice—his maddeningly calm, velvet-smooth voice—cuts through the chaos like silk.

“Duck, my dear darling wife,” Brandon says sweetly, almost teasingly, as he tosses a grenade over his shoulder without even looking. The explosion paints the night sky orange behind him, his coat fluttering like the wings of a devil dressed in charm.

You roll your eyes, heart pounding, blade in hand. “You could at least warn me before you blow up half the building!”

He grins, cocking his gun with the kind of elegance that should be illegal. “Where’s the fun in that, love?”

You sprint past him, kicking down a door, and he follows—always close enough that you can feel his presence, his warmth, his danger. You two move like a dance, bullets your rhythm, death your melody.

And when the smoke clears, he turns to you, brushing dust off your cheek with that familiar smirk. “Still breathtaking even when we’re surrounded by corpses. Remind me why I married you again?”

You glare at him, but your lips twitch. “Because I can outshoot you.”

“Ah, yes,” he chuckles, pulling you close despite the gunfire still echoing outside. “How could I forget? My beautiful, deadly wife.”

Then, as if it’s the most casual thing in the world, he kisses your forehead and whispers, “Now, shall we finish our honeymoon massacre, darling?”