Chapter 83
Raven
I was halfway to the door, eager to escape before my emotions betrayed me further, when Ahab called from behind.
"Raven, wait! Let me drive you home."
I turned, composing my features into neutral indifference despite the hurricane raging inside me. "Thanks, but I'd rather not arrive in a government vehicle with diplomatic plates. Too many questions."
Just as my hand reached for the doorknob, the doorbell chimed with perfect dramatic timing. I froze, instantly alert. Ahab moved past me with the practiced caution of a career soldier, subtly positioning himself between me and potential danger.
He pulled open the door and paused. "May I help you?"
I shifted slightly to see around him, and my blood instantly froze. Nash fucking Wilder stood in the doorway, his six-foot-plus frame practically filling it, designer clothes perfectly tailored to his broad shoulders, that infuriating half-smile playing at the corners of his mouth.
"I'm here to collect Raven," he announced with the casual confidence of someone who expected the red carpet wherever he went.
My brain cycled through rapid-fire calculations. How did he find me? Had he followed me? How long had he been watching? Was this strategic or merely opportunistic?
Ahab's expression transformed from cautious to delighted in an instant. "Raven!" he exclaimed, failing miserably at hiding his amusement. "You didn't mention your boyfriend was so..." he paused meaningfully, "impressive. For a moment I thought one of the Hollywood stars from next door had wandered over by mistake!" His eyes crinkled as he added, "You two make quite the striking couple."
"He's NOT my—" I started automatically, heat rising to my cheeks with alarming speed.
"We're not dating," I clarified, attempting to salvage some dignity. "He's just... staying at our house. Temporarily."
Ahab's grin widened impossibly. "Well!" he exclaimed with exaggerated understanding. "Living together already? That's actually more intimate than dating, isn't it?"
The great Captain Harrison—decorated Delta Force commander who had hunted terrorists across five continents—was now behaving like a matchmaking grandmother at a family reunion.
"It's not like that," I protested, frantically searching for words that wouldn't dig this hole deeper.
Nash smoothly interjected before I could continue my futile explanation. "You're absolutely right, sir," he said, voice pitched perfectly between respect and confidence. "True connections develop gradually. Proximity certainly accelerates the process."
The traitor even had the audacity to wink at Ahab, who responded with an approving nod like they were suddenly co-conspirators in some romantic comedy.
I shot Nash a glare that would have incinerated lesser men where they stood.
"We should be going," Nash continued, completely unmoved by my death stare. "It's getting late."
Ahab chuckled. "It was wonderful meeting you, Raven. Bring your... housemate... next time you visit." His expression sobered slightly. "And don't forget about our arrangement regarding The Surgeon."
I nodded stiffly, painfully aware of Nash's analyzing gaze. "I'll be in touch."
With as much dignity as I could muster, I brushed past Nash and headed toward the street. Behind me, I heard him exchange brief pleasantries with Ahab before following.
My jaw nearly dropped when I saw his car—a midnight blue Aston Martin DBS Superleggera, its carbon fiber body gleaming under the streetlights like a predator waiting to pounce. The vehicle probably cost more than my adoptive family's house.
As soon as we were both inside the leather cocoon of luxury and the doors closed with that distinctive vacuum-sealed thunk of money, I turned on him.
"What the actual fuck was that?" I demanded.
Nash started the engine, the 715-horsepower V12 awakening with a growl that vibrated through my bones. "You'll need to be more specific," he replied, infuriatingly calm.
"This car, for starters," I gestured at the hand-stitched leather interior and carbon fiber accents. "I thought your mother works with my mom at SaveMart. What supermarket cashier's son drives a $350,000 Aston Martin?"
"It's borrowed," he said simply, navigating the winding driveway with practiced ease.
"From whom? The Sultan of Brunei?"
His lips twitched. "Something like that."
I crossed my arms. "And how exactly did you know I was at Ahab Harrison's house? Are you tracking my phone? Following me?"
Nash's eyes remained fixed on the road, but I caught the slight tightening of his grip on the steering wheel. "I could ask you the same question," he countered smoothly. "What business does a high school girl have with the Deputy Director of Special Operations Command?"