Chapter 257
Raven
"Oh, I understand perfectly." I leaned against the table, deliberately casual. "The Surgeon had seventeen thousand operational clones. He'd replaced key personnel in forty-seven countries. He was seventy-two hours away from activating a neurological override that would have turned every clone into a perfect, obedient drone." I met Patterson's eyes. "I stopped him. You're still breathing. Questions?"
Patterson's mouth opened and closed like a fish.
Morrison recovered first. "We are... profoundly grateful." He approached me, arms outstretched as if to embrace me. "If there's anything—anything—we can do to repay—"
Nash's hand shot out, stopping Morrison cold. The movement was fluid, effortless, and carried an edge of violence that made every security guard in the room tense.
"Careful, Mr. Secretary." Nash's voice was pleasant. Too pleasant. "I'd appreciate it if you kept your hands to yourself. That's my girlfriend you're reaching for."
Morrison froze. "I—of course. My apologies. I was simply overcome with—"
"Your gratitude is noted and appreciated." Nash withdrew his hand but didn't step back. "Physical contact, however, is not part of the arrangement. We'll take the acknowledgment. The medals. The honors. But touch her again, and we'll have a different kind of conversation."
The temperature in the room dropped ten degrees.
I should have been embarrassed. Or annoyed. Nash was being deliberately territorial, practically pissing a circle around me in front of the entire defense establishment.
Instead, I felt my pulse quicken in that annoying, thrilling way that happened whenever he got protective.
Down, girl. Not the time.
"Understood," Morrison said faintly. "Completely understood."
Ahab coughed to cover what sounded suspiciously like a laugh.
"Now then." Morrison retreated to the head of the table, composure visibly reassembling. "As Captain Harrison mentioned, we have prepared the Medal of Valor—our highest civilian honor for acts of extraordinary courage. It has never been awarded to someone of your... age demographic."
He produced a velvet box from beneath the table, opening it with reverent care.
The medal inside was genuinely beautiful. A golden star suspended from a blue ribbon, the words "VALOR" engraved in bold letters, surrounded by laurel wreaths. It probably weighed half a pound and cost more than most people's cars.
Morrison held it out like he was presenting the Holy Grail. "Miss Martinez, it is my profound honor to—"
I plucked it from his hands, examined it for approximately two seconds, then shoved it into the cargo pocket of my tactical pants.
Like loose change.
The room collectively inhaled.
"Cool," I said. "Thanks."
Morrison looked like I'd just kicked his puppy. "That's... that is a symbol of this nation's highest respect."
"And now it's in my pocket." I patted the bulge cheerfully. "Don't worry, I won't lose it. Or sell it on the dark web for cash. Probably."
Ahab pinched the bridge of his nose, but his shoulders were shaking with suppressed laughter. "I told you," he said to Morrison. "No title in this world is impressive enough for her. She's seen too much. Done too much. A piece of metal on a ribbon?" He gestured at me. "She's beyond that."
"I'm literally standing right here," I pointed out.
"And we're all grateful for it," Morrison said weakly.
Nash slipped his arm around my waist, pulling me against his side in a move that was both possessive and oddly comforting. "If we're done with the ceremony, we have places to be."
"Of course. Of course." Morrison looked like he desperately wanted us gone so he could process... well, everything. "You have our eternal gratitude. Both of you. If you ever need anything—"
"We'll send an invoice," Nash said cheerfully.
We turned to leave, and I was already mentally planning my shower (and maybe stealing Morrison's fancy fountain pen on the way out, because old habits), when Nash suddenly stopped.
I bumped into his back. "What—"
He turned, and the expression on his face made my breath catch.
Gone was the smirking mercenary, the dangerous operator, the untouchable war god. In that moment, Nash Wilder looked... nervous. Uncertain. Vulnerable.
"Actually," he said, voice carrying across the room with startling clarity, "there is one more thing."
Before I could process what was happening, he dropped to one knee.
Oh.
Oh, fuck.
The room collectively stopped breathing. I heard someone's pen hit the floor. Somewhere, a general made a strangled sound.
Nash reached into his jacket and produced a small black box. When he opened it, the ring inside caught the fluorescent lights and turned them into stars.
It wasn't just big. It was obscene. A blue diamond the size of my thumbnail, cut in a way that made it seem to glow from within, surrounded by smaller white diamonds that probably cost more than a small country's GDP.
"Raven Martinez," Nash said, and his voice carried a weight I'd never heard before—something raw and real and terrifyingly sincere. "The President can give you honors. Congress can give you medals. But all I can give you is me." His lips quirked in that familiar half-smile. "So I'm asking: will you consider having a plus-one for your next world-saving adventure? Preferably with legal documentation and tax benefits?"