Chapter 195
Raven
The White House loomed ahead, bathed in golden floodlights that made the marble columns gleam like something out of a fairy tale. Which was appropriate, considering the parade of actual royalty streaming through the entrance.
"Is that—" Katya's voice pitched upward. "That's Crown Prince Abdullah of Saudi Arabia."
"And Princess Marguerite of Monaco," Ethan added, his face pale. "With the Duchess of Cambridge. And—oh God, is that the Belgian Foreign Minister?"
I watched a woman in a diamond tiara step out of a Rolls-Royce, her gown trailing behind her like liquid silver. A uniformed attendant appeared instantly to escort her inside.
"We look like refugees," Katya muttered, plucking at her rumpled combat pants.
She wasn't wrong. Five days of military testing had left us looking like we'd been dragged backward through a war zone. My borrowed jacket had a suspicious stain on one sleeve. Ethan's shirt was wrinkled beyond salvation. Even Katya's usually pristine appearance had devolved into something approaching "presentable disaster."
Meanwhile, European nobility glided past in designer gowns and bespoke tuxedos, each one worth more than my parents' house.
"I can't believe we're going to meet the President looking like this," Ethan said weakly.
Nash's low chuckle drew our attention. "Did you really think I'd let you walk into the White House dressed like that?"
Before any of us could respond, a sleek black Lincoln Town Car pulled up to the curb. The driver stepped out, opened the trunk, and gestured toward several garment bags hanging inside.
"Ladies first." Nash nodded toward Katya and me. "The car's spacious enough to change. Take your time."
Katya practically sprinted for the vehicle.
I followed more slowly, suspicious of Nash's preparation. The man planned everything three moves ahead, which meant this gala had been part of his calculations long before Reeves made the official invitation.
Control freak, I thought, though without any real heat.
The garment bags contained options ranging from floor-length ball gowns to cocktail dresses to elegant pantsuits. Everything designer. Everything perfectly sized.
"He measured us?" Katya held up a crimson gown with a plunging neckline. "When did he even—"
"Don't ask questions you don't want answered." I rifled through the selection, bypassing the flashier options.
Most of the dresses screamed look at me—sequins, beading, dramatic trains. Beautiful, but impractical. The kind of outfit that announced you were trying too hard.
I pulled out a simple black dress instead. Knee-length, sleeveless, with clean lines that wouldn't restrict movement. The fabric was high-quality—probably cost more than my motorcycle—but it didn't scream wealth. Just understated elegance.
"That's it?" Katya emerged in her crimson gown, looking like a Russian princess. "Raven, there's a Valentino in there. And a Dior."
"I'm comfortable." I slipped on the matching heels—low enough to run in if necessary—and checked my reflection in the car's tinted window.
Professional. Forgettable. Exactly what I wanted.
When I stepped out, Nash's eyes tracked the movement. His gaze traveled from my shoes to my face, lingering just long enough to make my pulse jump.
"Beautiful," he said quietly.
Something warm unfurled in my chest. I crushed it immediately.
"It's a dress."
"It's perfect." He offered his arm. "Shall we?"
I meant to refuse. Meant to maintain some distance, some professional boundary between us.
Instead, my hand settled naturally into the crook of his elbow.
When did this become normal?
Behind us, Katya's delighted laugh rang out. "Ethan! It's a gala. We should arrive together. Walking in alone is so... lonely."
"I'm fine walking alone—"
"Too late!" Katya looped her arm through his. "We're a team, remember?"
Ethan's expression suggested he was reconsidering every life choice that had led to this moment. But Katya was already pulling him toward the entrance, and he stumbled along in her wake like a man resigned to his fate.
Nash's low chuckle rumbled through his chest. "Your friends are entertaining."
"They're going to be terrified within five minutes of walking in there."
"And you?"
I watched another limousine disgorge a minor European royal, complete with military medals and a ceremonial sash. "I've been in worse situations."
"I don't doubt it." His hand covered mine where it rested on his arm. "But try to enjoy yourself tonight. Consider it practice for the life you deserve."
The life I deserve. As if I hadn't spent twenty years earning the right to blend into shadows. As if I belonged anywhere near this level of power and privilege.
Still, as we approached the entrance, something settled in my chest. A familiar calm I recognized from high-stakes missions. The moment before everything kicked into motion.
Game face on.
The security checkpoint at the entrance was manned by two Marines in dress blues, their posture military-perfect. One held a tablet, cross-referencing names against the guest list. The other watched the crowd with the cold assessment of someone trained to identify threats.
I approved. These weren't ceremonial guards—they were actual security.
Nash walked straight past the checkpoint.
"Sir!" The Marine with the tablet moved to intercept. "I'll need to see your—"
He looked up. His face went from stern professionalism to something approaching terror.
"Mr. Wilder." The words came out strangled. "You're—we weren't—I mean, welcome! Please, go right in!"
Nash paused. "I seem to have forgotten my invitation. And I've brought extra guests. That won't be a problem, will it?"
The Marine was already shaking his head frantically. "No, sir. Absolutely not, sir. Admiral Thornton and General Hayes both mentioned you'd be attending. They're looking forward to speaking with you tonight."
"Excellent." Nash's smile was pure charm. "Then we'll get out of your way."
"Of course, sir. Enjoy your evening!"