Slade had killed for money, for orders, for survival. But this? This was different.

The blood on his hands tonight wasn’t from strangers or marks with bounties. It was hers—her father, her brother, the uncle who once offered him whiskey at a too-small dinner table in a too-trusting home. All of them gone. By his hand.

He hadn’t meant for her to find out. Not like this.

She stood across the room, eyes wide, shaking, as the truth settled over her like ash from a fire she hadn’t seen coming. She didn’t scream. Didn’t speak. Just stared at him like he was a stranger.

And for the first time in years, Slade felt something worse than guilt.

He felt regret.