Chapter 258
Raven
The silence that followed could have stopped a freight train.
Secretary Morrison's classified briefing folder hit the floor with a thud. A four-star general's coffee cup froze halfway to his lips, liquid sloshing over the rim. Someone's pen clattered against the mahogany table, the sound impossibly loud in the vacuum of shocked silence.
I counted three separate jaws actually dropping. Three. In a room full of people trained to maintain composure during nuclear strikes.
Morrison made a sound somewhere between a cough and a whimper. "Is that... is that a Moussaieff Blue?" His voice cracked on the last word. "That ring costs more than my annual defense budget for the entire Pacific Fleet."
Ahab, that magnificent bastard, was grinning like he'd just won the lottery. His eyes practically sparkled with unholy glee as he leaned back in his chair, fingers steepled, watching the chaos unfold with the satisfaction of a man who'd been waiting for this moment since the day I'd walked into his life.
Nash remained on one knee, perfectly still, that ring catching the fluorescent lights and throwing prismatic patterns across the ceiling. He looked absurdly confident for a man whose proposal had just been financially appraised by the Secretary of Defense.
My heart was doing something complicated in my chest. Something that felt suspiciously like it was trying to escape through my throat.
Get it together, Martinez. You've faced down international terrorist networks. You've literally saved the world. You can handle one marriage proposal.
Except I couldn't.
Because half five hours ago, I'd been bleeding out in The Surgeon's lab, watching Nash tear himself apart to save me. I'd felt his heartbeat against mine through the quantum link. I'd experienced his absolute, unwavering determination to protect me even if it meant destroying himself in the process.
That moment had rewired something fundamental in my brain. Some essential circuit that controlled rational thought had been permanently altered, replaced with a single, overwhelming truth: Nash Wilder or nobody.
But I'd be damned if I made this easy for him.
I stared at the ring. Then at Nash's face—that stupidly handsome face with its ridiculous confidence and those eyes that somehow managed to look both predatory and tender at the same time.
My brain rebooted. Once. Twice. Three times.
Say yes, you idiot. Say yes right now.
Instead, I heard myself say: "Nash Wilder, are you using government resources for personal gain?"
His smile didn't waver. If anything, it grew wider.
I gestured around the room at the collection of stone-faced military brass. "Proposing here? In the Pentagon's classified briefing room? What's your angle? Did you think the infrared surveillance cameras would add artistic flair to our wedding video? Or are you hoping the ring's provenance won't require tax documentation?" I paused, examining the diamond with exaggerated scrutiny. "This is a Type IIb blue diamond. Natural, not treated. Probably sourced from the Cullinan mine. This costs more than the entire annual GDP of Lesotho."
Morrison made a strangled sound. "How do you know—"
"I've seen a few high-end collections," I said vaguely, waving my hand dismissively. Then, so quietly that only Nash could hear, I added under my breath, "Antwerp. 2019. Educational experience."
Nash's grin turned absolutely feral. "Actually, I own the mine where this came from. So it's technically tax-exempt. And I thought proposing here would be strategic—if you reject me, at least there are three battalions' worth of personnel to help me save face."
"How thoughtful."
"I try."
I let the silence stretch. Let him stay on his knee while I pretended to consider. Let the entire room hold its collective breath while I played with the man who'd literally torn through an army of clones to save my life.
Finally, I spoke.
"No."
The word dropped like a grenade.
Someone gasped. I'm pretty sure Morrison actually whimpered. The general with the coffee cup finally completed his drink, choking on it, spraying lukewarm liquid across the briefing table.
Nash's expression didn't change. He just stayed there, on one knee, that ring still extended, waiting.
God, I loved him.
"Unless," I continued, turning to face Morrison, who looked like he was contemplating retirement, "Secretary Morrison, if I become this man's 'legal partner,' do I get joint control over Ares Legion's entire asset portfolio?" I paused. "You know I'm practical about these things. Also, I still have school. High school homework. Eventually college applications. Can the Pentagon's think tank handle my homework? I'm thinking I'll need help with AP Calculus and World History."
Morrison's face cycled through several colors. Red. Purple. A sort of grayish-white that suggested imminent cardiac arrest.
"I... you... but..."
"Is that a yes?"
"Yes!" He practically shouted it. "Yes, absolutely, the entire intelligence apparatus of the United States government will handle your homework. Calculus, history, pottery class—whatever you need. Just... please..." He gestured helplessly at Nash, still kneeling. "Put that man out of his misery."