by Piper Scott
That had been nearly three years ago and Finch still didn’t quite know what to make of the gift, but he wore them faithfully. They were, he supposed, a kind of badge of office. That Hugh trusted him with even a small part of his hoard was, in dragon terms, a rather extravagant measure.
Dragons took jewels. They did not gift them.
Ever.
Except, of course, when they had a mate.
Finch had only met one dragon’s mate—Hugh’s brother-in-law Peregrine—and he wore so much treasure that he tinkled as he walked.
Finch tried not to read too much into the gift of the cufflinks, but sometimes he did, late at night in his bed, just before he fell asleep.
After donning shoes he’d polished the night before, Finch made his way to the main kitchen to see how Hugh’s breakfast was coming along. He wasn’t pleased to hear raised voices coming from Cook’s domain.
“Bitch!” That was Bella, one of the maids and a former member of the Pedigree. She’d aged out three years ago and was still trying to figure out her life and what she wanted from it. So far, she hadn’t made much progress.
“Whore!” And that was Emma, the cook and reigning dictator of the kitchen and pantry.
“Emma, maybe you should leave the poor girl alone,” said George, Emma’s husband and Hugh’s chauffeur. The two of them were betas with two beta sons. No Pedigree for them.
Finch stepped into the room and it fell silent, the only sound the faint echo of Bella’s aborted shriek. “What, precisely, is going on?” he asked, not needing to raise his voice.
Bella pouted. “She started it.” She pointed her thumb at Emma.
Self-consciously, Emma patted her tight gray bun. “I was only trying to instruct the girl, Finch. You know how she is.”
“Instruct me, my ass. You’re just mad I went on a date with Javier last night.”
Finch sighed, sorting out the mess in his head. Javier was the groundskeeper, and he pretended to be straight, but was actually bi. Emma and George’s eldest son had been trying to date him for years with no success. That Bella had scored a date with the handsome man probably was grating to Emma, who doted on her sons. Meanwhile, Javier and Gabriel, the pool boy and assistant groundskeeper, had been carrying on an affair for several months in secret. It was all very sordid and messy, two of Finch’s least favorite things.
“Emma, you aren’t the girl’s mother. Leave her personal life alone,” he said. “Bella, be careful when you date the staff. There isn’t always a happy ending like there was for Emma and George. Emma, where is Mr. Drake’s breakfast? Bella, I believe there is dusting that needs doing in the east wing. George, we might need to use the car soon. Please make sure it’s fully tuned up. And I will be displeased if I hear any further shouting. Is that understood?”
“Yes, Finch.” They didn’t say it in unison, but it was a near thing.
“Good. Don’t let me keep you.”
Bella and George scurried off in separate directions. Emma turned back to her stove. “Mr. Drake’s breakfast is nearly done. Today it’s crepes with raspberries, brie, and honey. I can have it plated in a jiffy.”
“Thank you, Emma.” Finch got Hugh’s breakfast tray and spread a linen cloth over it. He set it with cutlery, a glass of orange juice, hot cocoa, and a small carafe of black coffee, then added a folded napkin and a copy of the morning paper. Finch dreaded the day that the newspaper ceased to be published in physical form. Hopefully, it wouldn’t occur until after he’d retired.
After taking Hugh’s covered plate from Emma, Finch placed it on the tray, which he carefully lifted. He’d had to develop muscles in order to do this. When he’d aged out of the cloister, Finch had been pale, thin to the point of emaciation, and as delicate as a piece of bone china. He was still pale, but he’d put on a tasteful amount of muscle in his arms and legs—enough that he could do his duties and look properly correct in his suits. Lifting heavy objects wasn’t the struggle that it had been in his mid-twenties. He thought of those first few months after his release and gave a mental shudder. While he’d been happy to leave the cloister, Finch didn’t want to ever have to relive those first six months of living on his own in London. It had been a nightmare of culture shock, ill-preparedness, and bone-deep loneliness.
This was better. This was what he’d always wanted. Finch had been trained to serve dragons from the age of thirteen. It was all he knew, and he did it to the utmost of his abilities. That he served with labor rather than as a dragon’s semen receptacle was immaterial. It was the service that was important, and Finch took great pride in offering it to the very best of his abilities, no matter what the task.
Technically, Hugh had a butler—Francis—whose responsibility it was to see to Hugh’s flights of fancy, but he was over seventy and refused to retire. He did little these days but putter around and open the door for visitors and tradesmen. On paper, Finch was Hugh’s secretary, but he also acted as major-domo, referee, and disciplinarian for the rest of the staff. It was his job to make sure that Hugh’s life ran on tracks as smooth as silk, and so it did. Hugh didn’t have to worry about a single thing, and he didn’t.
Except for one.
It was the one thing Finch couldn’t fix, and it was the thing that plagued his employer the most—Hugh wanted a clutch, and he wanted it badly. Finch would hazard to say he was obsessed with the idea, and had been for longer than Finch had been alive. He’d been trying, without success, for centuries.
But maybe, just maybe, Finch’s hard work would make Hugh’s dream come true.
The thought was bittersweet. While Finch longed to see Hugh happy, there was a part of him that didn’t want to give up the fantasy that one day, Hugh might sweep him off his feet and add him to his hoard. It was an absurd notion, of course. Finch was too old for a dragon, and even if he weren’t, the fear that he would break Hugh’s heart by failing to bear him offspring was too great to overcome. He would much rather remain Hugh’s faithful servant and daydream of what could be than risk the happiness of his employer in the name of pseudoscience. Disgraces were not and would never be dragons. His kind—the human children of dragon sires—had been tossed away for hundreds, if not thousands, of years, and for good purpose. To assume a mistake had been made eons ago, and that Disgraces had been dragons all this time, was…
Finch paused briefly at the upper landing of the staircase to think of the word he was looking for. He thought of it and proceeded onward to Hugh’s bedchamber.
It was untidy. And Finch hated anything that was untidy.
Without knocking, Finch let himself into Hugh’s bedroom. He kept his back to the massive bed and placed the tray on Hugh’s breakfast table.
“Is that you, Finch?” came Hugh’s voice from the four-poster. “Bloody hell, is it breakfast time already? It seems I just managed to fall asleep.”
“It is, sir.”
Hugh stifled a yawn. “I was up far too late last night delving into that list you made for me. If you wouldn’t mind, would you bring breakfast to me and come sit for a while? I may have found a candidate, but I’d like your opinion, if I may.”
“Of course, sir.”
Displeasure ran through Finch like a crack across ice. Despite it, he collected the tray and turned to face his employer. The esteemed Mr. Drake was sprawled in the middle of the bed, entirely nude. His modesty was barely shielded by a thin sheet. All Amethyst dragons were attractive, but Grimbold’s brood of seven was particularly handsome. To Finch’s eye, though, the best and the worst of the lot was Hugh. He was, quite simply, lovely, with silky black hair unmarred by gray, perfectly sculpted features, and striking plum-colored eyes. Something about him, even after many years and much familiarity, never failed to make Finch wish that—
Never mind. There was no point at all in wishing for the impossible. Especially not now.
Finch carefully placed the tray between Hugh’s spread legs, then collected the file folder containing the list from Hugh’s nightstand and came to si
t at the bedside, where he’d be able to see Hugh’s chosen profile while maintaining a polite amount of distance. His employer had other ideas. After collecting the breakfast tray, Hugh scooted across the bed to sit at Finch’s side, so close their arms were brushing. The sheet over his groin had fallen away. Finch resolved to keep his chin level and his eyes on the matter at hand, but a low tingling spread through his stomach regardless. He wished it would mind its own business and go away.
“What do you think of her, Finch?” Hugh asked in dulcet tones, selecting the topmost profile from the stack and presenting it to Finch. “Astrid Forsberg, an Opal Disgrace. She’s beautiful, isn’t she?”
Astrid was quite beautiful. With long white hair done in a crown of braids, a strong but narrow jaw, and crystalline blue eyes, she would complement Hugh’s darkness. They would be day and night, her and her dragon, a stunning marriage of classically defined femininity and old-world chivalry.
“I think she would be an excellent choice, sir,” Finch remarked in a quiet voice.
Hugh rested his head on Finch’s shoulder, and Finch could feel his smile. “I think so, too. Would it be within your purview to send her a calling card on my behalf?”
Finch closed his eyes and hoped his hammering heart would not alert Hugh that something was amiss. “Of course, sir.”
“Wonderful.” Hugh sank onto the bed and stared blissfully at the ceiling. The sight of him smiling so handsomely worsened the beating of Finch’s heart. “Just think of it… after all these years, a clutch of my own.”
Finch eased up from the bed and responded in a neutral tone before he left to continue on with his day. He would never let on that he had thought of it. Often. Sometimes incessantly, much to his own chagrin. But a pretty Opal omega had never been part of the fantasy.
With a quiet smile, Finch dismissed the thought and threw himself into overseeing the production of Hugh’s calling card. It was his duty, after all. He’d serve his dragon as nature intended and take comfort in simply being near him, no matter how badly his heart wished otherwise.
3
Hugh
The seconds passed in tandem with the click of Hugh’s soles on the hardwood. He paced the front hall endlessly. Weeks had passed since he’d issued Astrid his calling card, and since then, travel arrangements had been made and preparations for her arrival had begun. The staff, under Finch’s watchful eye, had been charged with scrubbing the house from top to bottom. Not a speck of dust was to be tolerated. Every wooden surface had been polished, including the floors, which now shone like newly minted pennies. The windows, Hugh noticed, had been washed to the point of being entirely clear, and every hanging picture frame had been straightened until it was precisely parallel to the floor.
As was expected of a task overseen by Finch, the house was perfect.
Unfortunately, Hugh was not.
He’d stood in front of his bedroom mirror for hours that morning smoothing the wrinkles from his shirt and adjusting his belt buckle. He’d burned off his outfit’s every loose thread with tiny bursts of flame from his fingertips and styled and restyled his hair until it was so saturated with product that he’d had no choice but to strip down and shower. Finch had hovered nearby the whole time, sometimes fetching the things Hugh requested, at others insisting Hugh take one more bite of his breakfast, lest his empty stomach make him irritable. But through it all, Finch was a constant pillar of support. He’d been the one to slip the comb out of Hugh’s hand before he could make a mess of it a second time and the one who’d chosen Hugh’s suit. It was him who’d put Hugh’s mind at ease when Hugh had expressed concern over the potency of his cologne, and the one who’d dropped to one knee to buff Hugh’s shoes to a shine. And now that Astrid was minutes away from their lair, it was Finch who stood patiently to the side while Hugh wore a groove into the floor.
“Do you think it possible George lost his way?” Hugh asked upon checking his wristwatch. George’s estimated time of arrival had elapsed. He’d been due home five minutes ago.
Stomach tied in a knot, Hugh came to a stop in front of Finch, whose impartial expression was unwavering.
“No, sir,” Finch replied. “George is quite competent.”
“Then was the flight delayed, perhaps?” Hugh worried his lip. “Will you check the flight status, Finch?”
“Of course, sir.”
While Hugh resumed his hurried pacing, Finch took a sleek, glossy-backed phone from his pocket and went about tapping on the screen. “The flight arrived on time, sir.”
“Then what could the matter be?”
More tapping. “Traffic, sir. It appears there’s been an accident on the highway, leading to congestion on the northbound corridor. Reports specify that commuters will experience a delay of approximately ten minutes.”
Relieved, he sighed loudly before taking a seat on the grand staircase close to where his most trusted Attendant stood. Finch returned the phone to his pocket and folded his hands politely behind his back. “Oh, Finch, how good it does my heart to hear that. What would I do without you?”
“I’m not sure I know, sir.”
“Nor do I, and I hope never to find out.” Hugh afforded Finch a good look. As always, he was prim and proper, a picture of perfection, but Hugh also saw what Finch tried not to show—the tension that ran all the way from his thinned lips down to the backs of his knees. How exhausting it had to be, embodying excellence at all times, no matter the circumstance. Wanting to show the man kindness, Hugh patted the space beside him. “Will you come sit with me?”
Finch eyed the step, and a glimmer of something uncharacteristically wild reared in his eyes. It was gone a second later, and Hugh had to wonder if it was real, or a product of his addled mind. Whatever the case, Finch nodded curtly and came to sit next to Hugh, lowering himself onto the step with tremendous grace and delicacy.
They sat for a short while in silence, during which Hugh took simple comfort in the close physical proximity of someone he held in such high regard. Then, when the rushing beat of his pulse became too much to bear, Hugh turned to Finch and asked, “How do you think I’ll know when I’ve found the one?”
The tips of Finch’s ears went red. “I’m not sure I understand your question, sir.”
“The right omega,” Hugh elaborated. “When Astrid arrives, how am I to know if she’ll be the one for me, or if I’m better off choosing another candidate from amongst the profiles you curated? There are so many. I think part of the reason I’m such a mess comes down to fear I won’t have made the best choice.”
Finch cleared his throat. “That’s… understandable.”
“I’ve never entertained the notion of finding a mate before.” Hugh rested his elbows on his thighs and hung his head, watching as he worried the thumb of one hand over the knuckles of the other. “All I ever wanted was a clutch, but now I have the potential to gain so much more. The stakes are higher than they were before. If I make a poor choice, it could mean a lifetime of unhappiness, but how am I to know what a poor choice looks like?”
Finch was silent for a short while, undoubtedly considering the question—the faraway look in his eyes gave him away. At last, he said, “The other Mr. Drakes ought to have better insights into this than me.”
“Sebastian, you mean?”
“Any of your brothers, sir. I believe they’re all mated now, aren’t they?”
Hugh frowned and folded his hands together, following the zigzag pattern made by his woven fingers with his eyes. “All of them but Bertram, yes. But I’m not sure I can ask them. It would arouse too much suspicion—particularly from Everard, who’d find a way to flap his gums even if his mouth were taken away.”
To Hugh’s surprise, Finch laughed, but by the time he’d lifted his gaze, all signs of it had been stricken from Finch’s face. “My apologies, sir.”
“For what?”
“For laughing. It was inappropriate.”
“I made a joke, Finch.” Smiling, Hugh laid a hand on Finch�
��s thigh and squeezed. “It’s all right to laugh at it, even if it was at my brother’s expense. Lord knows he’s done the same to me.”
A shiver ran the course of Finch’s spine, culminating in a tightening of his posture. Hugh, confused, took his hand away. Why was it that Finch was so averse to his touch? Not for the first time since Finch had come under his employment, Hugh wondered if the man secretly despised him. But that was foolish. Finch was his model employee, and the only one Hugh trusted with his innermost thoughts and feelings. If Finch bore any kind of hatred in his heart for Hugh, it would have come back to bite him long before now.
“Finch,” Hugh said softly, “I—”
Before he could say what was on his mind, the crackle of rolling tires on the driveway stole Hugh’s attention away. Heart in his throat, he jumped to his feet. “It must be the Audi! They’re here. God, Finch, I’m nervous all over again. How will I know?”
Finch came to stand beside Hugh, the anchor to his storm-swept ship. “You’ll know because when you see her,” Finch said, “you’ll think to yourself there’s not a creature in the world who could rival her beauty. When you hear her speak, you’ll hope a day never comes when she runs out of things to say. And her laugh—you’ll know from the second you hear it that you’ll pursue it for the rest of your life. Her very presence will resonate inside you, and you’ll know.”
What a fount of reassurance Finch could be! Heartened, Hugh spun to face him and pulled the man into a tight embrace. Finch went rigid in his arms.
“Thank you, old friend,” Hugh whispered into Finch’s ear. “I truly don’t know what I’d do without you by my side.”
Finch said nothing, but Hugh felt him tremble just slightly, as if what Hugh had said had warmed him so much that the rest of the world had gone cold by comparison.
When Hugh let him go, Finch took a hasty step back and bowed his head. “You’ll have to excuse me, sir. I’ve just remembered I neglected to dust the baseboards in the guest room Astrid will be staying in. As she will be arriving shortly, it’s of utmost importance I get it done.”
