Page 70 of Protecting His Finch

He doesn’t respond. I can see the arrow on the speedometer climbing rapidly.

We were going fast. Now we’re going faster. Too fast.

Panic lashes through me. Archer is on our heels, but—

He can’t get me out of this. Only I can.

I hear Archer’s voice in my head.

You can do this.

“I can do this,” I repeat to myself under my breath.

“What?” Raphael asks.

I take off my seat belt. I move my hand to the center console.

It registers on Raphael’s face. But by the time he realizes, it’s too late.

“Finley, no!” Raphael shouts.

I pull the emergency brake.

His finch is flying. His finch is free.

33

ARCHER

I’m cutting my teeth miles over the speed limit. The Mustang is nearly within my reach. I’m going so fast, I almost don’t react in time.

The sky-blue car suddenly whips across the road. The wheels catch, and the whole vehicle goes airborne, flipping once before nosediving back onto the road.

I snap the brakes and twist my wheel. I avoid the wreckage, but I smell rubber burning and feel the whip of the car as it skids across the road before, finally, coming to a halt.

My jaw is locked, my hands white-knuckling the wheel, even seconds after the car has come to a stop.

Finley. Move. Finley needs you.

I throw open the door and launch myself out of the car. I run toward the busted Mustang. It’s right side up again, but the front has crumpled like origami. The car is hissing and smells like gas, like burning.

The front window is busted, cracked in a million places. The passenger door is open.

The seat is empty. Finley is gone.

My heart falls out of my chest.

I scan the road. Empty.

The crash must have launched her. I imagine her small body hitting the trees. The pavement cracking—

A sputtering cough catches my attention. I swivel back to the car.

Raphael is in the driver’s seat. He’s gripping the wheel still. His mouth is pulled in a tight grimace, and there’s blood in his teeth.

Which probably has to do with the sword sticking through the driver’s seat, through the center of his chest, pinning him like a bug.

He’s breathing, though. He’s still alive. Those blue eyes look at me, and there’s nothing but feral survival mode in them.

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