Page 53 of Protecting His Finch

I consider this. “Is it okay if I still call you Archer?”

He laughs at that. “It’d be weird if you didn’t.”

“Tell me something else. Something personal.” I run my fingers along his shoulder. I’ve been careful not to touch the bandage. But I trace the raised scar that runs along his bicep. “Where’d you get this?”

“I was on a mission,” he tells me. “In Iraq. I was part of the stealth team, but someone tipped the other guys off. I got sliced through with a machete.”

I run my finger over the scar again, this time with wonderment. “That sounds terrifying.”

Archer doesn’t sound bothered by it. “If Jacobi hadn’t been there, they would’ve taken my head. I got lucky.”

“Strange luck.” I tiptoe my fingers up his bicep, across his shoulder, and along the slant of his neck. Underneath his ear, there’s a raised crescent moon. “And this one?”

A grin from Archer. “I fell off my bike. I was a kid. Busted my head open and scared the crap out of my mother.”

“What was your mother like?” I ask.

He sighs. “That’s a long story.”

But he tells his long story. And longer stories after that. Until the sky goes cerulean blue and he’s still holding me, sharing himself in pieces.

24

ARCHER

When I wake up, I’m still inside of her.

Finley and I are tangled together. My arms around her. Our legs entwined. Her soft heat, still gripping me.

Memories of last night live in my blood. Finley’s moans. The sharpness of her nails in my skin. The way she looked when she came—her eyebrows furrowed, mouth open, my name on her lips.

It’s enough to stir my blood again. But I restrain myself.

She’s too gentle right now. Soft as a baby rabbit, tucked up against my body.

I want to cuddle her. Kiss her. Keep her safe in my arms.

I’ve barely slept. Maybe a REM cycle, at best. It’s still dark outside, an owl hooting.

I need sleep. Food. Finley.

But all of my needs will have to get stored away for now. Because I’ve made a deal with the devil, and it’s almost time to collect.

Catherine Rossi expects me on the docks at 7:00 a.m. That’s four hours away—three and a half if I book it. I’m burning daylight, my last night alive.

I give myself a small grace. Five minutes. Five minutes to scoop Finley in my arms, kiss the back of her neck, and inhale her. She smells like raw earth. Like fire. Charcoal, the kind she draws with, twisted up with her DNA.

I want to remember this moment. I stay here until every small detail is etched permanently in my brain.

Five minutes. And then gently, slowly, I detach.

I unwind myself from Finley, lowering her into the pillow instead. She doesn’t wake; she just curls up tighter against the mattress. I kiss her shoulder and peel myself out of bed.

Leaving her will be the worst part of all of this.

I try to make it easy on myself. I dress as quietly as possible. My clothes are strewn around the room, and I pick them up, one by one, putting them on. I take a couple of items from the bedside, fold up a page, and head to the bathroom to rinse my mouth and clean up.

It’s not until I’m sitting on a wicker chair beside a pink plush rhinoceros and lacing my boots that Finley starts to wake up.

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