Page 43 of Protecting His Finch

I can’t remember ever feeling protected like this.

As a child, I’d lie in bed and watch the door, the raucous sounds of my father’s gambling club leaking through the door. Waiting for something terrible to happen.

When I lived with the Rossis, I lived in fear of Raphael sneaking into my bedroom in the middle of the night.

In boarding school, my fears stayed with me, and I’d shove my bookshelf a couple of inches across my bedroom door to keep everyone else out.

But here, wrapped up in Archer’s embrace, I feel safe. For the first time in my life.

I clutch his large hand and press a kiss to the tops of his fingers. He’s so deep asleep, he doesn’t even notice when I gently unwind myself from him.

I want to save this moment in some small way. My notebook sits on the bedside table. I pick it up, along with a pencil, and pull up my legs. I prop my notebook against my thighs and turn to a blank page. I use the dawn’s gentle light and start tracing all the lines that make up Archer.

Archer is strong lines with soft shadows. A sharp jaw. Dark shades of beard. The nose of a Norse Viking. Intelligent eyebrows. It’s the eyes, though. Gentle in sleep. Even closed, he has sweet eyes. Eyes full of heart. Eyes with worry, eyes that have seen too many things and can’t shake them. Empathetic eyes. Compassionate eyes.

Underneath that thick muscle and (literally) killer arms is the heart of a man who loves. Hard. I try to capture that in my drawing. The morning light is angled just right on him that it softens his features. Brings out his warmth. My fingertips and knuckles are black from all the places that I’ve smudged pencil to make the harsh lines softer.

I want to pull the angel from the stone.

I’m King Arthur. His soul is Excalibur.

A finch starts to sing outside. Morning light catches on Archer’s eyelashes as they flicker open.

He squints against the sunshine. Holds up a hand to block it from his face and rolls to his back, ruining my scene.

“What’re you doing?” he asks.

“Drawing.”

“Drawing what?”

“You.”

“Can I see it?”

I can’t help the smile that plays on my lips.

“It’s not finished,” I tell him.

“I can handle it.”

I turn the pages, folding the sketchbook shut. I put the book and the pencil on the bedside table beside me. “I’ll show you when it’s done.”

“Tease.”

I ghost my lips over his. He tastes warm, and musky, and sleepy. He tastes like Archer.

He makes my bones hum. I want to please him. I want to be the best woman he’s ever had in his bed. No—I want to be the best woman he’s ever had in his life.

I want to ruin him for every woman that comes after me.

He’s made me terribly covetous, and I can’t shake it.

I want to be his good girl. And I want him to be my Archer.

“I’m going downstairs,” I say. “Do you want coffee?”

“Yes, please.”

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