The mission was supposed to be simple. In, out, no casualties—at least none that mattered.

But then the priest got shot.

Slade stood in the middle of the chapel, blood on his boots, tux jacket discarded, gun still warm in his hand. Beside him, his partner adjusted the veil with one hand and reloaded with the other.

Not exactly how he pictured their wedding day.

“Guess this makes it official,” he muttered, watching the last of the mercs scatter into the night.

She didn’t answer—not with words. Just a small nod, a smirk, and a bullet between two eyes that weren’t his.

Slade looked down at the ring on her finger, then back at the bodies on the ground.

“For better or worse,” he said.

And in their line of work, worse always came first.