Chapter 229
Raven
The van door slammed shut behind us.
Nash ripped off his nanomask in one smooth motion, that infuriating smirk already forming. "Well, well. Congratulations on not committing murder tonight."
I paused mid-peel of my own disguise. "Excuse me?"
"That moment." He stretched his legs out, deliberately invading my space. "When The Surgeon touched my shoulder and your killing intent practically set off radiation alarms." His eyes gleamed. "I could feel you calculating seventeen different ways to disembowel him with a butter knife."
Bastard.
"I was perfectly in character," I said coolly, dropping Marianne Goodman's face into the disposal bag.
"Oh, you were." Nash leaned back, arms behind his head like he owned the entire van. "Murderously jealous wife. The way you shoved those women away from me?" He whistled low. "Almost convinced me you actually gave a shit."
Heat crept up my neck. "That was strategic improvisation. You were about to blow our cover with your little phobia issue."
"Mmhmm. 'Strategic.'" His tongue swept across his lower lip. "Is that what we're calling climbing into my lap and marking your territory?"
I'm going to kill him.
"At least I didn't oversell it," I shot back, crossing my arms. "That greedy businessman act? You were so committed to drooling over clone technology, I half expected you to actually resign from Ares Legion and go work for The Surgeon."
Nash laughed—a real one. "You think I was good?"
"Good?" I raised an eyebrow. "Nash, you were practically begging to invest in human experimentation. That hungry look in your eyes when he mentioned 'enhancement'?" I shook my head. "Disgusting. Convincing. But disgusting."
"Coming from the woman who watched him murder a server and didn't even blink."
"Neither did you."
"Because I was too busy making sure you wouldn't snap and kill everyone on that yacht." He leaned forward, suddenly serious. "Which brings me back to my original point. You wanted to gut The Surgeon the second you recognized him. Every instinct screaming to end him." His gaze locked on mine. "But you didn't. Why?"
My hands stilled.
Shit.
Because he was right.
If Nash hadn't been there, I would have struck immediately. Would have carved through that entire party in under sixty seconds.
But I'd... waited. Followed his signals. Let him lead.
Trusted him.
"I..." My voice came out wrong. "The intelligence—"
"Bullshit." Nash's smirk widened. "You went there to kill him, not gather intelligence. We both know it." He tilted his head. "So why'd you wait for my cues instead?"
My pulse jumped. "I didn't—"
"You read every single one of my signals," he interrupted. "Matched my pace. Adjusted your responses to my strategy." His voice dropped. "We moved like we've been doing this for years. Like partners."
Like more.
"Don't let it go to your head," I muttered.
"Too late." His grin turned wolfish. "Face it, Raven. You trusted me tonight. Actually trusted me." He leaned closer. "How's that feel?"
Terrifying.
"You're delusional," I said.
"Am I?" His knee pressed against mine. "Then why are you blushing?"
Fuck.
I wasn't—except I totally was. Heat flooded my cheeks and I hated every second of it.
"I'm not—"
"You are." Nash looked absolutely delighted. "The great Phantom, blushing because I pointed out she's capable of teamwork." He leaned in until I could count his eyelashes. "It's adorable."
"I will stab you."
"No, you won't." His hand came up, bracing against the wall beside my head. "Because then you'd have to admit why you're really angry."
My breath caught. "Which is?"
"That I'm right." His voice went low and rough. "And you hate that I can read you just as well as you read me."
The van suddenly felt way too small.
"You're impossible," I managed.
"And you—" His eyes swept over my face, lingering on my lips. "—look fucking incredible right now."
What.
"What?" I said out loud.
"This." Nash's free hand traced the air near my face, not quite touching. "The real you. No mask, no act, no Marianne Goodman." His gaze intensified. "Just Raven Martinez in a surveillance van, covered in someone else's fake identity, annoyed as hell that I'm calling her out." He smiled slowly. "It's the sexiest thing I've ever seen."
My brain short-circuited.
"You need help," I said weakly.
"Probably." He shifted closer. "But you're not pushing me away."
Shit. Shit. Shit.
"The mission's over," I tried. "We should—"
"Should what?" His thumb finally made contact, brushing my jaw. "Go back to pretending? To dancing around this?" His other hand slid into my hair. "I'm done pretending, Raven."
"Nash—"
"Anthony Goodman's performance is over," he murmured. "But Nash Wilder?" His breath ghosted across my lips. "His show's just getting started."
Move. Push him away. Maintain professionalism. Do something.
Instead, I heard myself whisper: "You're insufferable."
"I know." His mouth curved. "And you still haven't pushed me away."
Because I couldn't.
Because somewhere between the racing and the missions and the increasingly blurred lines, this had become inevitable.
And I was so, so screwed.
"This is insane," I breathed.
"Completely." His lips brushed the corner of my mouth. "Tell me to stop."
I should. I really should.
"I hate you," I said instead.
Nash's smile turned devastating. "No, you don't."
Then he kissed me.
Hard. Claiming. No hesitation.
And I—god help me—I grabbed his shirt and pulled him closer.
His hands tightened in my hair, angling my head as he deepened the kiss. I made a sound I'd deny later, fingers fisting in the fabric of his shirt. He groaned against my mouth and suddenly I was pressed back against the van wall, his body covering mine.
This is stupid. This is dangerous. This is—
"Raven." My name on his lips like a prayer and a curse.
—perfect.
His mouth moved to my jaw, my neck, finding spots I didn't know existed. Every touch sent electricity down my spine.
"Say it again," he demanded against my skin. "My name. Not the act. Not the role. Mine."
Oh fuck.
"Nash—" I gasped as his teeth grazed my pulse.
"Again."
"Nash—"
He captured my mouth again, harder this time. Possessive. I should hate it. Should fight back.
Instead, I matched him. Met every touch with one of my own. When his hands found my waist, mine slid up his chest to his shoulders. When he pressed closer, I arched into him.
What the hell are we doing?
Who cares?