Chapter 26
Raven
The footsteps drew closer, deliberate and measured.
"Sir, target confirmed," a voice murmured, low and professional. "McLaren located at the bottom of the ravine. Approximately seventy-foot drop. No signs of survival."
A pause. Then another voice—deeper, magnetic, commanding—responded.
"Then we're done here."
Something about that voice sent an electric current down my spine. It was both familiar and foreign, powerful in a way that few voices were.
I frowned, my mind working furiously. Someone else had wanted Jax dead? The arrogant racer had obviously made enemies, but professional killers seemed excessive for a street racing grudge.
Before I could process this further, the footsteps grew louder. Fuck. They were almost upon me now, just seconds away from discovering my position.
I reached down instinctively for the knife I usually kept strapped to my ankle, then remembered with frustration that I hadn't brought it. The race had required quick changes, minimal gear.
My muscles tensed as I prepared to take them bare-handed. Two opponents. Not impossible odds, but not ideal either, especially in this weaker body.
Then the air shifted behind me.
My instincts screamed a warning a millisecond too late. Someone had approached from behind with footsteps so silent even I hadn't detected them. Impossible.
I spun around, arm already swinging in a practiced strike aimed at the throat.
My fist never connected.
A hand caught my wrist in mid-air, stopping my momentum with effortless precision. Not just blocking—completely neutralizing my attack as if I were moving through molasses.
In the dim moonlight filtering through the trees, I found myself staring at the most devastatingly handsome face I'd ever seen.
Fuck.
Those razor-sharp cheekbones. That platinum blond hair falling in artful disarray. The lean, powerful build beneath that custom tactical gear.
Nash Wilder.
The leader of Ares Legion—the most elite private military organization in the world. The man whose forces had gone toe-to-toe with Bloodline operatives and sometimes emerged victorious. The legendary commander who reportedly suffered from such severe mysophobia that he never touched anyone—and those who touched him without permission didn't live to tell about it.
I'd never met him personally in my previous life, but every operative knew his file. His reputation. His ruthlessness.
And he was currently holding my wrist with his bare hand.
My brain short-circuited for a split second before training kicked in. I attempted another strike with my free hand, only to find I couldn't generate enough force. This body was still too weak, too untrained to access my full capabilities.
"Sir!" The other man emerged from the trees, his expression morphing from professional blankness to shock. "You—you're touching her?"
I saw the flicker of something in Nash's eyes—something almost like confusion. His grip didn't loosen, but something in his posture shifted subtly.
In that instant, my tactical assessment changed. If I couldn't fight my way out, I'd find another angle. The predator in me recognized an opportunity.
I deliberately softened my expression and let my body go limp, my free hand moving to clutch at his instead of striking.
"Ow!" I cried, injecting fear into my voice. "You're hurting me! I was just lost—I got scared when I heard people in the woods!"
Nash's expression froze somewhere between bewilderment and suspicion. His eyes narrowed slightly as they studied me, but he didn't release my hand.
I pressed my advantage, stepping closer and letting my body sag against his chest. "Please don't hurt me," I whispered, making my eyes wide and innocent. "I didn't see anything. I swear."
The warmth of his body was unexpected. For someone with his cold reputation, he radiated heat like a furnace. His hand around my wrist was firm but not painful, the skin surprisingly soft for a man who supposedly led missions in the world's most dangerous conflict zones.
"I—" Nash began, then stopped. He looked down at where our skin made contact, something like wonder crossing his features. "I'm not—"
"Sir," the subordinate interrupted, his voice tight with shock. "You haven't... You haven't killed her."
I let my eyes widen further, as if just realizing the danger.
Nash shot the man a look that could have frozen fire. "Finn. Handle this."
But Finn seemed too shocked to move. "In all these years... you've never touched a woman without... Anyone who touches you ends up—"
Well, well. Your killing policy is even more extreme than mine was, I thought, intrigued by this development.
"Finn!" Nash's voice cracked like a whip.
Before either of them could say anything more, my phone rang—Cole's ringtone cutting through the tense silence.
Damn it.
Nash used the distraction to step back, releasing my wrist with what seemed like reluctance. I noticed he immediately flexed his fingers, as if testing for damage or contamination, but there was none of the violent disgust I would have expected from someone with severe mysophobia.
"You should answer that," he said, his voice controlled again. "And forget what you saw here tonight."
I reached for my phone, keeping my eyes locked with his. "What exactly did I see, Nash?" I asked, deliberately using his name.
A flash of surprise crossed his face, quickly masked. Without another word, he turned and disappeared into the darkness, his subordinate following after one last confused look in my direction.
I answered the phone, Cole's worried voice filling my ear, asking if I'd finished the race, if I was okay, when I'd be back. I gave automatic responses, my mind elsewhere.
As I made my way back toward the main road, I couldn't help the smile that spread across my face. Nash Wilder, the untouchable leader of Ares Legion, had touched me. And instead of killing me, he'd looked... fascinated.
"We'll meet again, handsome," I murmured to the empty forest. "Count on it."