Chapter 225
Raven
Every eye in the room swiveled toward me.
The Surgeon's expression shifted. Not surprise. Not shock.
Recognition.
His fingers twitched. Guards moved subtly closer, hands drifting toward weapons.
Well. Fuck.
My hand instinctively reached for the hidden blade strapped to my thigh, muscles coiling, ready to—
Nash's arm shot around my waist. Hard. Possessive.
"For God's sake, Marianne!" His voice cracked with perfectly manufactured fury. He yanked me behind him so roughly that I actually stumbled. "I told you to throw away that goddamn necklace!"
What?
I opened my mouth to speak, but Nash's eyes locked with mine for half a second.
One look. Sharp. Commanding.
Play along.
Oh.
Oh.
I adjusted my expression instantly—from combat-ready to petulant housewife caught doing something stupid. The transformation took less than a breath.
"I didn't know it was radioactive!" I whined, reaching up to fumble with the Satan's Heart beneath my dress. "I just thought it looked vintage! Very Breakfast at Tiffany's!"
Nash—no, Anthony Goodman—grabbed my wrist before I could fully remove it. "Vintage?!" He practically roared. "You got it off some kid!"
I let my shoulders slump, pulling the pendant free and tossing it onto a nearby side table with exaggerated drama. "It was stylish!"
Chandler's watch immediately dropped in pitch. Still beeping, but... weaker. Confused.
The Surgeon picked up the necklace, dangling it between two fingers like something contaminated. His eyes narrowed. "You... acquired this from a child?"
Nash scoffed, every inch the embarrassed billionaire husband. "Not just any child. Some mouthy teenager. What was her name again?" He turned to me, and in that split second, I saw the calculation behind his eyes. The way he was threading the needle between truth and fiction.
He's brilliant.
"Raven," I supplied, voice dripping with disdain. "Raven Martinez."
The Surgeon's hand froze mid-air.
"Raven Martinez." He repeated the name slowly. Testing it. His gaze sharpened. "That... is not a simple high school student."
Nash laughed. Harsh. Dismissive. "Oh, trust me. She's just a cocky little hustler who—"
"No." The Surgeon's voice cut through the room like a scalpel. "She is far more than that."
The temperature dropped several degrees.
Nash's expression shifted to calculated interest. "What are you talking about?"
The Surgeon examined the pendant again, then glanced at Chandler's watch. The readings were erratic now—sporadic bursts instead of the sustained scream it had produced when aimed at my chest.
Because it's not on me anymore. Because it knows. Ethan said it himself—off its host, Satan's Heart is just a glowing paperweight.
The Surgeon's jaw tightened. "This is a fake."
"Excuse me?" I channeled every ounce of offended rich-woman rage I could muster. "I paid good money for—"
"You were scammed, Mrs. Goodman." The Surgeon tossed the necklace back to me dismissively. "Or perhaps... given a decoy."
Nash's eyes narrowed. "What the hell does that mean?"
The Surgeon began to pace, his earlier fury at Maria Santos completely forgotten. "Raven Martinez is no ordinary girl. I've encountered her before. Briefly. But those eyes..." He paused, and for the first time, I saw something close to reverence in his expression. "I would recognize those eyes anywhere. Cold. Ancient. The eyes of someone who has killed more times than they can remember."
My pulse hammered against my ribs.
Nash remained perfectly still beside me. "So you're saying this kid is dangerous."
"I'm saying Phantom's consciousness is inside her." The Surgeon's voice dropped to something almost hungry. "The greatest assassin who ever lived, walking around in a teenage body. And she's protected by the President of the United States. By Delta Force. By that insufferable boy scout, Nash Wilder."
Nash—the actual Nash Wilder—let out a bark of laughter.
"Nash Wilder?" He said the name like it tasted foul. "The so-called 'God of War'? Please. Give me two decent squads and a weekend, and I'll turn him into Swiss cheese. Man's all reputation and no substance."
Oh my God. He's trashing himself. To his face.
I had to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from smiling.
The Surgeon studied Nash—studied Anthony Goodman—with renewed interest. "You think you could handle Wilder?"
"I know I could." Nash's confidence was absolute. Unshakeable. "But that's not the point, is it? You can't just take the necklace from her. Not with that kind of protection."
I leaned forward, letting Marianne's calculated sweetness seep into my voice. "But we don't need to take it by force."
Every head turned toward me.
I smiled. Slow. Predatory.
"I already have her contact information."