The rain lashed violently against the rooftop, pounding in a steady, merciless rhythm.

The small warehouse reeked of iron and blood, the floor slick with the evidence of a battle fought in shadows.

Crimson streaks painted the concrete—splattered violently against the walls—and the broken, lifeless bodies of men lay scattered.

A man choked on his own blood, his fingers scraping weakly at the bullet wound in his chest, his breath shallow and broken.

He wasn’t pleading.

He knew better.

Because the woman standing over him was merciless incarnate.

Her boots crunched over the bloodied floor as she crouched before him.

Dressed in full tactical black, the mask covering her face was splattered with blood—her clothes soaked, her gloved hands steady and unshaking despite the carnage around her.

The man’s eyes widened faintly when she slowly pulled off the mask.

Because she was beautiful.

Too beautiful.

Soft brown eyes that should have belonged to a woman who kissed her husband goodbye every morning.

Lush lips that should have smiled as she baked pies for her neighbors.

But instead, she stared at him with dead, empty eyes—as hollow as the barrel of the silenced gun she pressed to his forehead.

His voice quivered faintly.

“W-who are you?” he rasped weakly, blood pooling in his throat.

Her expression was cold, emotionless, her voice a flat, haunting whisper.

“A widow.”

She pulled the trigger without blinking.

---

Seven hours later, Emma Chavda Windsor Shergill was standing barefoot in her kitchen, her hair in a messy bun, dressed in her husband’s oversized T-shirt.

She was cutting apples for dessert, humming softly under her breath.

The faint scent of sandalwood and cinnamon lingered in the kitchen.

When Major Aryan Shergill walked in, he was still dressed in his uniform, fresh from deployment, with mud on his boots and exhaustion heavy in his eyes.

But the moment he saw her—his wife, his sunshine—he grinned tiredly, walking over and wrapping his arms tightly around her from behind.

He buried his face against her neck, inhaling the faint floral scent of her shampoo.

“Meri jaan…” he murmured against her skin.

(“My life…”)

Her lips curved softly, and she tilted her head to give him better access to her neck.

“Major sahib, kitni thakaan hai?” she teased softly, her voice barely above a whisper.

(“Major, so much exhaustion?”)

His arms tightened, pulling her closer.

“Aapke paas hoon… thakaan gayi.”

(“Now that I’m with you… the exhaustion is gone.”)

She turned in his arms, pressing a soft kiss to his chest, right over his beating heart.

And just like that, she became his soft, clumsy, innocent wife again—the woman he would kill for.

The woman he would protect with his life.

He had no idea that she didn’t need protecting.

Because Emma Chavda Windsor Shergill was S.A.B.E.R.’s most ruthless killer.