Chapter One
Archie
~~~
“She says she’s meeting me?”
A grunt bleeds through the phone, making me smile. Baz can be so funny.
“Well, send her in! We can’t keep our guests waiting. They’ll think we’re rude, you know.”
Another grunt, then the line goes dead. My smile grows. So, so funny, and he doesn’t even know it. What a travesty.
I give my chair a spin, skidding to a stop in front of my monitors. A couple of clicks, and I’m looking at the security feeds – mine and Stryker’s, not that the big grump needs to know about that. He’s my landlord, not my mum. I don’t need to tell him every time I breach his firewalls and encryptions. I’d never have time to do anything else.
I perk up as a light blue car gets closer to my house. I click the front of house feed, zooming in on my visitor as she parks and steps out of her car.
The first thing I notice is that she’s tall. The second thing I notice is that she’s cute – very cute. Cute enough to have my cheeks warm, which surprises me.
Intrigues me.
She has on a sweet pink dress that hits her higher than it’s probably meant to, but not too high. Shame.
No. No. Not shame, Archie. That is a woman who is to be respected . She does not exist for your carnal delights, you monster.
I frown, switching to the porch camera as she approaches my door. She tucks her long, smooth hair behind her ears, takes a visible breath, and knocks. Her hair swishes, one side to the other, as she rocks on her feet. Her hands meet in front of her, making anxious, endearing movements.
She’s mesmerizing.
She pouts at the door, and my brows furrow. Why is the angel upset? She lifts her arm and knocks again. Oh. Oh!
I shoot up, sending my chair flying behind me. I hear it slam into one of the metal tables as I race up the stairs. I slide to a stop in front of the door and just remember to check myself in the mirror before opening it. Yikes. I fix my fringe and wipe a bit of forgotten chocolate off of my mouth. Smile. Much better. Another knock sounds, and my chest constricts. It is impolite to keep a lady waiting like this. I whip open the door.
My smile falls as I see her face, and I am left gaping at the marvelous creature on my doorstep.
She’s just so… cute.
So, so cute.
Her eyes are locked on my face, big and brown and wonderous. Our kids would have brown eyes just like that, framed in lashes as soft as a moth’s wing. I decide immediately that I need to see that.
“It’s you,” she breathes. Her hands flutter, mimicking the beat of my heart. “Of course it’s you. This is your house. Where you live. That you built with, oh wow, those hands.” She pauses, seemingly overcome at the sight of my hands.
“You’re real,” she whispers. She’s nervous. It’s absolutely delectable, and just what I need to help me shake off the trance she has me in.
“Come in. You’ll catch your death standing outside in this weather.” It’s seventy-five degrees and sunny. I usher her in.
Taking a more direct route than I normally would with a guest, I guide her to the kitchen.
“Sit down, yeah? I’ll get you some tea. Are you hungry?” I eye her, noting the essence of skin and bones on her. Is that because she’s tall? Or is she not eating enough?
“Some tea would be amazing,” she says, looking around in awe.
I start the kettle and grab some cookies from the cabinet. They’re snickerdoodles, and I hope that she likes them. I ask her.
“Oh!” she exclaims. “Those are my favorite!” I beam. Her eyes lock on my mouth. “Wow,” she mutters. My eyes crinkle. The angel thinks I’m wow. What a cutie.
I put the cookies on my fanciest plate – a handmade ceramic thing that was a gift last Christmas – and set it in front of her.
“Thank you,” she says. The reverence in her voice is doing a lot for my ego. I reach out and touch her cheek with my forefinger. Her skin is soft as I run the digit over it. Real. One hundred percent genuine human girl in front of me. Well…
“Was your mother an angel?” I ask. She jolts.
“My… mother?”
“Yes, was she an angel?” She shakes her head.
“Your grandmother?” Another head shake. Hmm. “Your father?” Unlikely, as what man ever is, but perhaps he is an outlier.
Another head shake.
“You’re all human, then.” I touch her cheek again. Slide my finger down to her mouth. Run it across her lips. “Fascinating,” I murmur. I’d like to study her. I’ve never seen a woman so at odds with mere humanity.
Her lips part beneath my touch, and I feel the air around my finger as she inhales.
“Archibald,” she whispers. I tsk.
“Call me Archie,” I smile as I say it, but there’s no mistaking it’s an order. Archibald is a stupid name, and I’ll not have her voice uttering such nonsense.
She clears her throat.
“Archie,” she says. Her voice is at least two steps above a whisper now, and it’s quite possibly the loveliest thing I’ve ever heard.
I think I’ll keep her.
“Yes?”
“I… have a speech,” she says, and I’m delighted when she pulls out a primly folded piece of paper from her pocket.
I sit down across from her and plant my elbows on the table, propping my chin up with my hands. Her eyes flick to me as she unfolds her speech, and I struggle not to squeal. It’s just so exciting ! I haven’t been this engaged since the Holsom contract, and that was ages ago.
She clears her throat. I hardly breathe.
“Archiba– oh. Sorry! Archie!” A tiny little line appears between her eyebrows. Cute, but it has to go.
“That’s alright, love. Keep going.” She takes a visible breath, then nods.
“Archie,” she says firmly. She clears her throat. “I am here as a representative for The Fair Collective. You are subject to The Night Agreement, which you signed, under no duress, with full cognitive abilities intact. Do you acknowledge this to be true?” She glances up at me for confirmation. I grin. She’s so official and cute!
“I do,” I say. She blushes and looks back at her paper. Clears her throat again.
I am enraptured.
“Do you acknowledge the authority of The Fair Collective over your works, communications, payments, and dealings?” she asks.
“I do,” I answer merrily. She slows down as she reads through her next words, reluctant to get them out.
“As you have acknowledged your uncoerced signature of The Night Agreement, your position under the authority of The Fair Collective, and your identity as–as– a–” She stutters to a stop. Her face is the picture of mortification as she whispers, “Oh, no.”
Woodenly, she looks up.
“I missed a step,” she whispers. Her cheeks are bright red. She looks like she’d like the floor to swallow her up.
It’s torture and delight in one.
“We can start over,” I tell her. “I don’t mind.” She glances around the kitchen, unsure, then looks at her paper.
Pained, she says, “Do you have a pen?”
I retrieve one for her from a junk drawer. She takes it, pauses to read the “gone fishing” on the side of it, then bends over her speech to make her edits.
I study her, openly and happily.
The Fair Collective has never sent such an exquisite specimen before. She’s new. Even accounting for the nerves her blatant crush is causing, it’s obvious she hasn’t been working for The Collective long. I wonder if they thought I wouldn’t use my talents on someone so obviously green. They’d be wrong, of course. And yet…
They’re absolutely right.
I look at her – hunched over, muttering under her breath as she scribbles new words into her speech – and I know.
I’m not going to torture this girl.
Not the way I normally would when an unwanted guest shows up at my door.
No, she deserves something worse than knives and power tools. Something better than death. Something special.
And I know just how I’m going to do it.
I grin, and a new game begins.