Page 87 of Undercover Shadow

“To the future,” Gus contributed. “Whatever it brings.”

“To family,” I said, looking at each of them. “Blood or chosen.”

We drank, the whiskey burning warm down my throat.

“Speaking of family,” Con said, setting down his glass. “Did you know Leila invited the MacLeods?”

“What?”Ash gasped.

“Fiona and the daughter. They’re here.”

“Christ,” Gus muttered.

“That’s my wife-to-be,” I said. “She believes in redemption. Or at least in not punishing the innocent.”

“The daughter just got back from Norway, didn’t she?” Con asked. “Renegade mentioned something about it being complicated. Research station in the Arctic or something.”

“From what we’ve been able to ascertain, she had nothing to do with her father’s crimes,” I confirmed.

“Still,” Ash said quietly. “Can’t be easy for them, being here.”

“Or easy for everyone else, having them here,” Con added.

“We’ve all done things,” I reminded them. “Or had family who did things. Glass houses and all that.”

Gus checked his watch. “Right, then. Philosophy later. Time to get you married.”

The chapel at Glenshadow had stood for four hundred years, witness to countless MacTaggert ceremonies—christenings, weddings, funerals. Today, it had been transformed with white roses and purple heather, Leila’s choices. Simple but elegant, like her.

The guests were already assembled as my friends and I took our positions at the altar. A small gathering by any standard—Unit 23-ers, select MI6 personnel, a few trusted friends. It was perfect.

Typhon sat in the second row with his wife, Eliza. Beside her, Viper dabbed at her eyes with a handkerchief, though she’d deny it later. Mrs. Murray sat across the aisle, already weeping openly but silently. Douglas stood at the back like a sentry.

I spotted Fiona MacLeod in the last row, wearing simple black, her face carefully composed. Beside her sat a young woman with auburn hair pulled back severely—Isla. She stared straight ahead, her posture rigid, as if she was enduring rather than attending. Renegade sat beside them.

The music changed, and everyone stood.

First came Lex as maid of honor, radiant in deep purple.

Then, when Leila appeared, everything else faded.

She wore a simple white dress that managed to be both elegant and practical, and her dark hair was swept up. Her eyes found mine, and the smile that spread across her face made my heart stop. This was happening. We were doing this.

She walked alone, because as she’d said, she was giving herself to me.

When she reached me, I took her hands, feeling a tremor in them that matched my own.

“You clean up nicely, MacTaggert,” she murmured.

“You’re beautiful,” I replied, meaning it with every fiber of my being.

The ceremony itself was simple. Traditional vows with a few modifications—we’d removed “obey” and added “support in all missions, classified or otherwise,” which got a laugh from those who understood.

“Do you, Niall MacTaggert, take Leila Nassar to be your wife?” the officiant asked.

“I do.” No hesitation.

“Do you, Leila Nassar, take Niall MacTaggert to be your husband?”