Page 66 of Protecting His Finch

A purr rumbles through its throat.

“Trouble,” it repeats. “Trouble.”

I know there’s a gun to the back of my head before I feel the kiss of its muzzle.

The cold metal presses against the juncture between my skull and my spinal cord. I don’t move an inch. I can’t. My gun is in the bedroom, under the mattress, under Finley’s naked body.

“Good evening, snake,” Raphael hisses.

A spark of pain hits the back of my head, and my tropical paradise goes black.

Consciousness returns at a slow trickle.

I’m acutely aware of three things:

1. My arms are stuck behind my back, bound to the back of the chair.

2. My head is pulsing like someone stuffed a second heart in the base of my skull.

3. Finley is in trouble.

There are three men in the kitchen. Two Rossi thugs with interchangeable bulldog faces stand in black suits, each holding a revolver.

Raphael sits in the chair across from me. He’s wearing a silver suit with an airy white shirt underneath. He’s also got a jagged pink scar that damages his pretty-boy face.

Finley is perched in his lap. She’s clearly been dressed quickly, stuffed into a little black dress which is meant to be worn as an oversized sun shirt. One of the straps is twisted on her shoulder. She looks uncomfortable, which may have to do with Raphael’s leering grin, the thugs in the room, or the tanto blade Raphael has pressed against the delicate flesh of her throat.

“Boss,” says Thug #1, “he’s awake.”

Mostly. My eyes feel like they have sandbags attached to the lids, and they keep falling down.

“I told you to subdue him, not put him in a coma,” Raphael complains, his voice high and whiney. “Snap him out of it.”

I hear boots on the tiled floors. A thick, meaty hand slaps me across the face a couple of times. It smarts, and the jolt of pain reminds my brain to wake. The Fuck. Up.

My eyes fly open. They’re locked on Finley now. Her eyes are wide, her irises pinpricks. She’s breathing hummingbird light, her chest rising and falling in quick successive breaths.

Raphael grins. “That’s more like it. Are you awake there, Archer? I want you to be awake for this part.”

“Let her go,” I tell him.

His smile tightens. “I don’t think you’re in a place to make demands.” He takes the blade from Finley’s throat. He pets the tip of his sword against the side of her face. He doesn’t cut her; it’s just delicate enough that the flat of the blade pushes her hair back from her face.

The act makes me see red. The ropes bite into my wrists as my body instinctively jerks forward, toward Finley. But I don’t go anywhere. The thug grabs my chin and dents my skin with his rough grip as he forces me to watch. Raphael, taunting. Finley, trembling.

I’m so mad, I can barely breathe.

“What do you want?” I growl.

“What do I want?” Raphael sighs. “I think we’re way past that, aren’t we? I wanted my virgin bride. I wanted a bodyguard I could trust. I wanted my mother, alive. But you’ve put a wrench in that.”

“I’ve put more than a wrench in it—” I start, but the thug’s fist collides with my face, and I taste the rings on his knuckles.

“Please!” Finley says suddenly. “Please don’t hurt him.”

I glance up at my captor. “Who, Miss America here? Couldn’t hurt me if he tried.”

He hits me again. I swallow my own blood.

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