by Piper Scott
Shoot. “Hello, Bertram.”
“This is quite the setup,” Bertram remarked as Hugh stepped into the room to join him. The diamond he’d once held was gone, no doubt having been returned to the staircase. “I tip my hat to your interior decorator. An ambiance like this isn’t easy to achieve.”
Hugh nervously balled his hands into fists. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” Bertram tucked his hands in the back pockets of his gray wool trousers and looked Hugh over. Hugh did the same. As always, his brother was meticulously dressed, his suit carefully fitted to his athletic frame. Dark stubble shaded his jaw. While he wasn’t as muscular as Sebastian, he held himself with a cool, unstated kind of confidence that suggested he was stronger than he looked. If he’d been anyone but a Drake, he would have looked like he belonged at an event like this, but Hugh knew better, and he dreaded the reason behind Bertram’s visit. No doubt he was here to announce Hugh’s ball would not go on as planned.
Hugh swallowed hard.
It was strange to be both devastated and relieved at the same time.
“You might be wondering why I’m here,” Bertram continued when Hugh made no attempt at conversation. “I can assure you it’s not on anyone else’s agenda—as far as I’m aware, no one else knows of my whereabouts. Not father, not Sebastian, and especially not Everard. I’m a lone agent tonight.” Bertram spared a glance at the front door, from beyond which came the sounds of conversation. “And I’d like to keep it that way. Walk and talk with me. We’ll head upstairs.”
Francis, who’d hobbled off to the sitting room after alerting Hugh there were “guests,” appeared once more. He shuffled toward the door.
“Direct our guests to the ballroom, Francis,” Hugh ordered, then nodded toward the stairway and started to climb. Bertram followed behind. “I’ll be down later this evening to usher in the first dance.”
“Yes, sir.”
“You should consider giving that poor man a break,” Bertram said in a quiet voice when they were well up the stairs and out of earshot. “He had no idea who I was when he greeted me at the door.”
“His oversight worked to your benefit.” They arrived on the top landing and cut toward Hugh’s study. “Why tell me to fix something that’s broken in your favor?”
“Because I care about you, Hugh. There are people in the world who wouldn’t hesitate to harm you. If your butler is letting everyone in regardless of who they are, you’re at risk.”
They arrived at Hugh’s study door, which Hugh hastened to open. He stepped inside, Bertram on his heels, and only replied once the door was latched. “There’s more going on here than you’re letting on, isn’t there?”
Bertram only smiled. “Isn’t there always? Now let’s stop pussyfooting around. I need into your kitchen. I don’t suppose you could show me the way?”
22
Finch
Finch walked away from the ballroom and through the house in a daze. He felt, somehow, that he’d just barely missed something momentous. The look in Hugh’s eyes had been hungry and possessive. It was the sort of expression one would expect to see in a predator, but that seemed ridiculous, because Hugh was the exact opposite of a predator. He was sweet, sometimes a bit silly, and thoroughly adorable. When meeting with other dragons, Finch always knew he was dealing with a deadly creature, but he’d never felt that way with Hugh. From their first meeting, when he’d interviewed with Hugh and Geoffrey to become Hugh’s secretary, he’d felt safe in Hugh’s presence. And despite the way Hugh had looked at him, he still did. Only now, Hugh the man and Hugh the enormous purple dragon had conflated in his mind, and Finch couldn’t stop thinking about what Everard had said: it’s my professional opinion as a celebrated medical doctor that my brother is unwittingly courting you.
When Hugh looked at him like that, Finch couldn’t disagree.
Heart aflutter from all that had happened, Finch hurried to the mansion’s large kitchen to check on things and distract himself from the turmoil raging in his head. When he arrived, it was bustling with activity. Maids and manservants rushed about while Cook directed her temporary help like a general ordering about a battalion of soldiers. The room was full of delicacies in various states of preparation and everything looked perfect. Finch’s heart swelled a bit with pride at a job well accomplished.
“You’re all doing a splendid job,” he announced.
That brought all eyes to him, followed by all the questions and last-minute problems to be dealt with. It was a relief, if he was honest. The busier he kept himself, the better. With that in mind, he threw himself into the work and hoped it would keep him occupied for the entirety of the ball.
The first and most immediate issue in need of fixing was the champagne—the wrong bottles had been taken from the wine cellar, depleting Hugh’s personal stores while the stock ordered for the ball went untouched. Luckily, the mistake had been caught before any of the bottles were opened, so all Finch had to do was venture into the cellar to fetch the right ones. There was an access elevator near the kitchen that would lead him right to it, so off Finch went. On his way there, someone tugged at his sleeve. “Please, sir. A moment?”
Finch turned and saw an exceedingly lovely omega standing there. He had raven-black hair, piercing blue eyes, and a slight Irish accent. His features were perfect and delicate, so much so that he looked out of place in the kitchen, dressed as he was in his uniform and matching apron. He was pretty enough to be one of the guests at the ball.
“Yes,” Finch said. “How can I help you?”
“I have a bit of a problem, and I think you’re the only one who can solve it.”
“Can you walk and talk? I’m on my way to the wine cellar. If not, I suppose—”
“Oh, no. This is just perfect. I can help you carry bottles. More hands make less work.”
“Thank you, um…”
“Bran,” the omega supplied.
“Right. Thank you for your assistance, Bran.” They arrived at the service elevator. Finch hit the button, and in no time at all the doors opened, granting them access to the cabin. Both men stepped into it, fitting around the empty wine cart that had been left inside. “Now, what was it that you wanted to talk about?”
Bran hit the button that would take them to the cellar. The doors closed, and the elevator started to move. “I’m sorry, sir. I need a second still. It’s so very embarrassing, and I’m not quite sure how to say it.”
The elevator arrived and opened into the dim light of the cellar. While Bran composed himself, Finch grabbed the cart and backed it out of the elevator.
“Sir,” Bran called. “I’ve figured it out. Wait a second, please.”
Finch waited until Bran reached his side. “Excellent. There’s no need to be embarrassed, you know. It’s quite all right. Now, what was your question?”
Bran nodded, but it seemed Finch’s reassurance was not enough, for he bowed his head and mumbled something Finch couldn’t understand. To hear him better, Finch bent his head to be closer to him. Finch wasn’t an overly tall man, but Bran was considerably smaller than he was. “I didn’t catch that. I’m sorry. A little louder, now. No one will be able to hear you. Once I know, I’m sure we can sort things out.”
“I hope so,” Bran said. He moved his arm and Finch felt a stinging pain in his neck.
Finch slapped his hand to the spot. “What on earth?”
A strange tightness clenched inside of him, and the world felt as if it was tipping, but then he realized that it was just him as he crumpled to the ground.
Bran looked down at him dispassionately. His accent shifted from Irish to American. “What you’re feeling now is a very potent muscle relaxer and paralyzing agent. It’ll last long enough for me to get away, but not nearly long enough to save you.”
Finch tried to speak, but found his lips and tongue wouldn’t cooperate.
“Yes, speaking is off the table for a bit as well,” Bran went on cheerfully. “This way I can explain my devious plan
without interruptions and still have time to escape. Because you need to know exactly what I’m doing and why. It’s important.”
Finch could do nothing but lie there and hope he wasn’t about to die. Bran leaned over, pried his lips open, and pressed something into his cheek. A sweet taste underlaid by something sharp and bitter flooded his mouth. Finch longed to spit it out, but couldn’t.
“That, Finch Drake, is a heat stimulant. By the time the muscle paralysis wears off, it will start kicking in.”
Finch’s birth name was a secret, known to nearly nobody. He’d had it legally changed shortly after arriving in America. “Drake” was not a useful last name to have, especially in Hugh’s household. How on earth could this small, innocent-looking omega know his real name? He was fairly sure the only person on the continent who knew it was Geoffrey, because it had been through him that he’d made the change.
“Oh, don’t worry. I won’t tell anyone your little secret. But I know who you are, Finch. I know what you are. And while it isn’t fair, I’m going to use you as a sacrifice to save the rest of the poor Disgraces that have been conned into coming to this travesty of a meat market to fight for the ‘privilege’ of being mated to a dragon. It had to be you, of course. You’ve been consorting with the enemy for years and this party is your doing. You planned it down to the last detail, pleased to know that you would be dooming one of your own to an eternity spent as an incubator.” An unhinged cackle rose in Bran’s throat, but he choked it off with a growl before it could materialize in full and ended it all by spitting on Finch. “Filthy traitor. I should kill you, but I think giving you a taste of your own medicine is a far better plan. In about,” he checked his watch, “seven minutes, I’m going to drag you into the elevator and send you on up. About that time, you’ll start coming to and the heat stimulant will have taken effect. You’ll do absolutely anything at that point to get an alpha knot inside you, and the only alpha here is your ridiculous employer. He’ll knot you, of course. You’ll beg for it, and he’ll do it over and over until you’re stuffed full of his eggs. That will end this disgusting ball and save dozens of Disgraces from spending their lives as living wombs in service to a dragon. You’ll be the one stuck as the eternal incubator. The one whose eggs are taken away from him and who gets shipped away until it’s time to breed again. Isn’t that all neat and tidy? I think so. And when that brother of Hugh’s comes nosing around and asking you what happened, which he will, you can tell him it was all Raven’s fault. He’ll know what you mean.”
Bran’s accent continued to slip as he spoke, shifting from American to Irish to something vaguely Eastern European. Finch was too terrified to keep track of it. The omega was truly, utterly mad.
“No,” he managed to say. He tried, unsuccessfully, to spit out the pill.
Bran’s eyes danced. “Oh, good. It’s show time.” He dragged Finch back toward the elevator by his arms. “I wish I could be here to see the action, but I have other fish to fry. I’m sure you understand.”
The elevator door opened as they arrived, but it wasn’t empty. Two men were in it, although all Finch could see were shoes. His nose, however, smelled alpha. Strong, musky alpha, plus the smell of good tobacco, old paper, and expensive brandy. It was the most wonderful thing he’d ever smelled in his life. He wanted to roll the scent around him like a soft and comforting blanket.
“Raven,” a voice said. Finch didn’t recognize it.
“Shit,” Bran hissed, then took off at a run.
The strange man moved as if to follow, but hesitated when he noticed Finch. “Dammit all to hell.”
With a groan of frustration, the stranger dropped to his knees and stuck his finger in Finch’s mouth, where he proceeded to fish around for something. It was decidedly uncomfortable, not to mention mortifying, but Finch couldn’t move enough to turn his head away.
“I say, get your own omega, Bertram. This really is the outside of enough. You come to my party, demand I follow you to the kitchen instead of greet my guests, and now you’re fingering my secretary. I must insist you stop right this instant.”
“Got it,” the strange man—Bertram—announced. With his dark hair, handsome features, and purple eyes, he had to be Hugh’s mysterious brother. He pulled something from Finch’s mouth, examined it quickly, and flicked it away. “A heat stimulant. Of course. Some was absorbed, but not a whole dose. I doubt it will take effect. Well, not full effect. Probably.”
“Probably? I don’t like the sound of that.” Hugh frowned while wringing his hands. “Is there anything we can do? Should do?”
Bertram stood and sighed. “Have someone watch over the omega while he recovers. Make him drink water, and if possible, milk. Give him bread. I think he’ll be fine.”
“Too. Close,” Finch managed, but neither dragon paid him much attention. He couldn’t blame them. The paralyzing agent was making quick work of locking up his jaw, and he couldn’t find it within himself to relay the rest of the message—that his natural heat was only a week away, and that even a small dosage could make it come early.
“Your best bet is to get him settled in bed so you can monitor him,” Bertram continued. He’d moved outside of Finch’s field of view, so all Finch saw were his shoes. Polished leather. Waxed, not conditioned. “By the looks of him, I wager he’s been hit with a paralyzing agent as well. As long as the dosage was correct, he should recover without issue, but if the dosage was off, there’s a chance his heart could fail. He’ll need supervision. Unfortunately, there’s unfinished business I must see to, so I’ll have to entrust his care to you. Be well, brother.”
Thudding footsteps sounded, receding into the distance. Finch failed to follow where, exactly, they were headed, because Hugh had stepped into his line of sight and was peering down at him with anxious eyes. “How are you feeling, Finch? Are you quite well?”
Finch desperately wanted to say he was fine, but instead all his mouth could come up with was, “No.”
“Bugger.” Hugh scooped Finch up into his arms. He saw Hugh’s nostrils flare. “I’ll get you upstairs to a bedroom, then. You can lie down until you feel better. How’s that?”
“No. Party. You.” If Finch could have shaken his head, he would have. He didn’t need tending, he just needed time and sleep and probably about a gallon of tea and a whole loaf of toast. He’d be fine. He didn’t need Hugh fussing over him while the ball was going on.
Either Hugh didn’t hear him or he ignored Finch’s words. He held Finch closer, enveloping him in his delicious alpha scent, and bore him off to who knew where.
23
Hugh
There was something different about Finch, Hugh thought as the service elevator ascended. Something pleasant. Something… sweet. Bertram had mentioned that not enough of the stimulant had been absorbed to take effect, so it couldn’t be his heat. A new cologne, perhaps? Hugh did enjoy Finch’s signature vetiver scent, which was papery and proper and clean, but there was an undeniable allure to this new fragrance that made him want to press his nose into the dip of Finch’s shoulder and indulge. When Finch was recovered, Hugh would have to inquire as to what it was.
Until then, he’d simply enjoy it.
“You gave me quite the scare, you know,” he told Finch, who he had cradled in his arms. “What happened? The elevator opened and you were on the floor with a young man beside you…” A horrible thought occurred. “Finch, does this have something to do with… you know… superin? Are you involved with harder substances?” The thought made Hugh’s heart want to break. “It’s all the stress of planning the event, isn’t it? You were hoping to take the edge off in the secrecy of the cellar with a drug cocktail, but the dosage was too high and knocked you off your feet.” It was the only explanation that made sense. Why else would Finch consort with a stranger in such an out of the way locale?
“No,” Finch moaned pitifully.
Which was exactly what someone who wanted to conceal their drug usage would say.
Hu
gh frowned. “All of this is my doing. I should have stepped in to help. I’d hoped our day out would provide you with some relief, but I suppose it was too little, too late. You’ve been shouldering all of this for so long that it was ridiculous of me to think a single day of pampering would help.”
“Nngh,” Finch argued.
“Well, it’s all behind us now, Finch,” Hugh told him. “I’ll make sure you’re taken care of and that you get well. If this is an ongoing issue, we’ll tackle your recovery together. You are not alone.” To prove it, Hugh nosed his soft hair and kissed the top of his head. Lord, the smell of him… Hugh closed his eyes and lingered there, wanting to breathe it in forever.
Which was how a small army of kitchen staff found them when the elevator doors slid open.
“Mr. Drake!” gasped Emma, scandalized.
Hugh opened his eyes and faced the crowd. “Well, this isn’t the second floor. I must have pressed the wrong button.” He eyed the panel. The button for the second floor was still lit. “Oh. Well. I… suppose you called the elevator, then?” He stepped to the side, making some—but not enough—room for the staff and their empty carts. “Come. If we squish, there should be space.”
“I…” Emma’s mouth hung open in astonishment, as if she’d never seen a dragon carry a man before. Several of her underlings looked equally as startled. It perplexed Hugh to the extreme. “We… no, thank you, Mr. Drake. We’ll wait. We’re destined for the cellar. There’s no sense in invading your privacy when we’re headed in different directions.”
“Ah! Of course.” The door began to close. Hugh stuck out his foot to block it. “Emma, since I have you here, could I talk you into doing me a favor?”
Emma glanced nervously to the side, then looked Hugh over carefully and offered him a thin smile. “Arrangements for bedroom dining until further notice, sir?”
“What? No. Although I do imagine I’ll be tired tomorrow, so perhaps having breakfast sent up to my room wouldn’t be such a bad idea.”
