Chapter 253
Raven
I spun around, already reaching for him. "Nash! You're hurt too badly! You need to—"
The words died in my throat.
Five medical clones were smoothly retracting micro-laser sutures and nano-spray applicators. Nash stood upright, stripping off what remained of his shredded shirt with one fluid motion.
His chest—where moments ago I'd seen a concave crater deep enough to expose ribs—was now covered in fresh, slightly pink skin. Not even a scar. Like someone had hit the fucking reset button on his entire torso.
I reached out, my fingers pressing against the warm, smooth surface where The Surgeon's augmented hand had nearly caved in his sternum. The muscle underneath was solid. Alive. Impossibly intact.
"That psychotic bastard was completely unhinged," I murmured, running my palm across Nash's chest one more time just to confirm my eyes weren't lying. "But these 'nurses' he built? Actual miracle workers. The Pentagon's best trauma teams would collectively resign in shame if they saw this efficiency."
Nash caught my hand, his thumb brushing over my knuckles. His smile was slight but knowing. "You done groping me, or should I give you another minute?"
"I'm conducting a medical assessment." I pulled my hand back, fighting the heat creeping up my neck. "Purely professional."
"Uh-huh." He pulled on a fresh jacket that one of the clones had somehow procured—probably from a storage unit I hadn't noticed. "Professional. That's what we're calling it now."
His expression shifted, the warmth draining from his eyes as he surveyed the lab.
"But we're done here. The Surgeon's dead—this whole operation dies with him. Every clone, every file, everything. We blow it all and get out. Now."
The abrupt shift from flirtation to cold tactical command should've given me whiplash. But seeing him whole again, standing there ready to move—it made something tight in my chest finally loosen.
He was alive. We'd survived.
And he was right. The facility around us hummed with The Surgeon's twisted legacy. Containment pods. Neural interfaces. Rows upon rows of dormant clones waiting for activation commands.
Except...
I closed my eyes.
The moment I did, I felt them. Seventeen thousand synthetic consciousnesses, all connected to the quantum neural network that Satan's Heart had hijacked. They weren't just here in Death Valley. They were everywhere. Embedded in military installations. Corporate boardrooms. Government agencies. Research labs. Some were soldiers. Others were scientists, diplomats, artists. A few were even positioned to influence elections.
I could see through their eyes if I wanted. Feel their hands. Taste what they tasted.
It was intoxicating. Overwhelming. Addictive.
I opened my eyes and found Nash watching me carefully.
"You know," I said, injecting a playful lilt into my voice to mask the vertigo, "suddenly I'm the proud owner of seventeen thousand extremely obedient, highly skilled individuals who can basically do anything. They cook. They fight. They apparently perform medical miracles. And they all think I'm their goddess."
I gestured dramatically at the rows of clones standing motionless, awaiting my command. "Honestly, Nash, I'm having a tiny bit of trouble with the whole 'blow them all to smithereens' plan. This is the kind of army people write songs about. The kind that could reshape civilization before breakfast."
I expected him to tense. To get that look—the one that said he was calculating how to neutralize a threat.
Instead, Nash laughed. Low and warm, the sound rumbling through his chest like distant thunder.
He stepped closer, so close I had to tilt my head back to maintain eye contact. His hand came up, fingers threading through my hair as he pressed his forehead to mine.
"If you want to keep them," he said quietly, "we keep them."
I blinked. "You... what?"
"If you want to become the underground queen of the world, Raven, I'll be your first knight." His voice dropped even lower, intimate and deadly serious. "If you want an empire, I'll help you build it. If you want to rule from the shadows, I'll handle the logistics. If you want to burn it all down instead—" His lips curved into a dark smile. "—I'll hand you the matches."
My heart did something stupid and complicated in my chest.
This man. This infuriating, brilliant, dangerous man who'd just survived being turned into a human piñata by a cyborg surgeon—he was offering to help me become a supervillain. Not out of fear. Not because he thought he could control me.
But because he genuinely didn't care which path I chose, as long as I chose it.
"You realize," I said slowly, "that's the most terrifying declaration of love I've ever heard."