Chapter 207
Raven
Method acting. Right. Because pretending to be married to Nash Wilder for an entire evening won't be complicated at all.
"I've done deeper covers," I said, perhaps too quickly.
"I'm sure you have." His tone was infuriatingly neutral.
Finn's team arrived twenty minutes later—silent, efficient, and carrying enough specialized equipment to make the CIA jealous. Anthony and Marianne were sedated, tagged, and loaded into a van marked "Georgetown Catering Services" while two technicians set up what looked like a mobile surgical suite in the Goodmans' guest bathroom.
"Facial mapping takes four hours," the lead tech—a severe woman named Dr. Anderson—informed us. "Full prosthetics fabrication another six. You'll have working masks by dawn, complete with thermal regulation so they'll pass infrared scans."
"Voice modulators?" Nash asked.
"Subdermal implants. Temporary, biodegradable. Twenty-minute procedure each." Dr. Anderson's expression suggested she'd done this before. Many times. "You'll sound exactly like them. Just need to nail the speech patterns."
Which meant homework.
---
At 3 AM, I found myself in the Goodmans' room, surrounded by surveillance footage, audio files, and behavioral analysis reports that Finn's team had compiled with terrifying speed.
"Anthony Goodman," I read aloud, skimming the psychological profile. "Former KGB operative turned 'businessman.' Aggressive, controlling, drinks heavily at social events. Demonstrated tendency toward public displays of dominance over spouse, including..." I grimaced. "Yeah, we're going to have to sell that."
Nash appeared in the doorway with coffee. "The ass-grabbing?"
"Among other things." I accepted the cup gratefully. "Apparently he calls her 'kotyonok'—little kitten—in that creepy possessive way."
"And Marianne?"
"Plays the trophy wife, but she's the real brain in the operation. Handles finances, maintains connections. Clingy in public, cold in private." I pulled up a video of them at some gala. "Watch how she touches him. Always his arm, his shoulder. Constant physical contact, but it's strategic. She's managing him."
We spent the next hour dissecting their mannerisms. The way Anthony's voice dropped to a growl when he was irritated. How Marianne's laugh was always half a beat too loud at her husband's jokes. Their weird synchronized movement patterns—decades of partnership creating unconscious coordination.
"We need to practice," Nash said finally.
"Practice what, exactly?"
He stood, offering his hand. "Being them. Come on."
This is going to be awkward.
I took his hand. He pulled me up, then without warning, yanked me against his chest—rough, possessive, nothing like Nash's usual controlled precision.
"Like this, kotyonok," he growled, accent thick and authentic. "Anthony doesn't ask permission."
My breath caught. This was Nash, but also... not Nash. The way he held me, the dangerous edge in his voice, the slight curl of his lip—
Jesus Christ, he's actually good at this.
"Your turn," he said, dropping the accent. "Marianne would be clinging right now. Performatively dependent."
I forced myself to melt into his grip, draping my arm over his shoulder, tilting my head to expose my throat in that calculated gesture of submission that was really manipulation.
"Like this, darling?" My voice came out breathy, sickly sweet. "You're so strong."
Nash's expression flickered—some emotion I couldn't quite read. "Better. But she'd touch more. Constantly. And Anthony..." His hand slid lower, settling possessively on my hip, thumb brushing the bare skin where my shirt had ridden up. "He doesn't ask permission."
Heat flared through me—immediate, unwelcome, impossible to ignore.
It's just skin contact. Professional. Clinical.
Except my body wasn't getting that memo.
I let my fingers trail down his chest, maintaining character, then went further—tucking my hand into his back pocket, pressing closer until there was no space left between us. "Like this?"
His breath hitched. Barely noticeable, but I caught it.
Got you.
"Exactly like that," Nash said, voice rougher now. His other hand came up to cup my jaw, tilting my face toward his. "The problem is the intimacy. They've been married thirty years. There's a comfort there. A familiarity we can't fake without..."
"Without actually being comfortable," I finished, hyperaware of every point where our bodies touched. His thumb was tracing small circles on my hip bone. When had that started?
This is just a role. Method acting. You've done worse for missions.
But my traitorous subconscious whispered back: You've never felt this natural doing it.
"So we practice," I heard myself say, not pulling away. "Until touching each other is as automatic as breathing."
Nash's eyes darkened. His hand tightened on my hip—not Anthony's aggressive grab anymore, but something else entirely. Something that was pure Nash.
"Then we should be thorough." His voice dropped an octave. "Anthony and Marianne don't sleep in separate beds."
My heart slammed against my ribs.
He guided me backward—slow, deliberate—until my legs hit the edge of the Goodmans' king-sized bed. One gentle push and I was sitting, looking up at him.
"They've been married three decades," Nash continued, voice low and dangerous as he braced his hands on either side of me, caging me in. "That means body language. Unconscious synchronization. The way couples move around each other in private spaces."
Oh.
"You're saying we need to..." I couldn't quite finish the sentence.
"Sell it completely." His thumb traced my lower lip. "Every guard, every camera, every criminal on that yacht will be looking for inconsistencies. If we haven't..." He leaned closer, his breath warm against my ear. "If we can't make them believe we've shared a bed for thirty years, we're dead before we reach international waters."
My pulse was doing things it absolutely should not be doing during mission prep.
"That's..." I swallowed hard. "That's actually a valid tactical concern."
"Purely tactical," Nash agreed, but his smile suggested otherwise.
Liar. We're both liars.
"How thorough are we talking?" My voice came out steadier than I felt.
Nash's answer was to slide his hand into my hair, tilting my head back. "Thorough enough that when Marianne's butler mentions the Goodmans' bedroom habits, we don't flinch. Thorough enough that muscle memory takes over."
"That's..." Insane. Brilliant. Terrifying. "A very professional approach to deep cover."
"I'm nothing if not professional." His lips were an inch from mine now.
This is still just the mission. Just preparation. Just...
"Prove it," I whispered.
Nash's smile turned absolutely wicked. "Challenge accepted."