by Piper Scott
Peregrine smiled, but he looked a little sad. “Perhaps not everything. But my situation is neither here nor there.”
“I don’t think I can bear it,” Finch said in a hard, desperate voice that surprised even himself. They’d arrived at the staircase, and for each step they descended, Finch’s spirits shrank.
“Bear what, darling?”
“Seeing his disappointment. Seeing it reflected in his eyes every day that he sees me. I… I just can’t.”
“I think you sell yourself short,” Peregrine said as they crossed the marble floor of the grand foyer. “And Hugh. You sell him short as well.”
“My best-case scenario,” Finch said bitterly, “is to be carrying a human Disgrace.”
Peregrine paled and bit his lip, then seemed to collect himself. “Hugh can only father dragons and dragonets. There’s no such thing as a Disgrace. A dragon’s offspring, no matter what form they take, are never human. A dragon can only sire more dragons.”
“It doesn’t matter. None of it matters. Hugh doesn’t want a Disgrace or a dragonet. He wants a clutch. All he’s ever wanted was a clutch.”
Peregrine paused in front of the mansion’s large and imposing door. He smiled at what had to be a footman. “Gerald, please get Finch’s coat and hat. He wishes to go home.”
“Yes, sir.” The footman looked so deferential that in another time, he’d have likely tugged on his forelock. But then Peregrine was perfect, and people responded to that. Finch wasn’t perfect, and he’d never be perfect, no matter how hard he tried.
“I can’t believe you know the names of servants that aren’t even your own.”
Peregrine smiled and showed a sweet dimple. “I wasn’t always the mate of a dragon. But never mind that. I think that you’ll find Hugh doesn’t really want a clutch.”
Finch snorted. “I can assure you he does.”
Peregrine squeezed Finch’s hand. “I think that what Hugh wants is to be a father. Oh, and look. Here’s the very efficient Gerald now with your hat and coat. Think about what I said, Finch.”
Finch nodded but said nothing.
On the way home, Finch stopped at the store and bought a pregnancy test. Afraid to have it found in his trash by one of the housemaids, Finch took it into the restroom at the store and used it. He waited three minutes then looked at the result: one line.
He continued home in a state of numb misery. He thought of the job listings he’d saved on his profile in the Attendant network and the opportunities therein. Heart heavy, he accessed his profile from his phone and conjured up a phone number.
“Finch. I never thought I’d see the day your number appeared in my phone. It’s good to hear from you,” said the voice on the other end of the line. “Can I consider this an expression of interest in the available position?”
“Yes,” Finch replied, his tongue feeling heavy and thick with despair.
“Well, then consider this an official invitation to join our staff. We’d be lucky to have a man like you on the team. When can you start?”
“I can leave tonight and be there tomorrow.”
“Excellent. I think you’ll find you’ve made the correct decision.”
“Yes, sir.”
Call ended, Finch wilted into his seat and buried his face in his hands. His heart felt like it had been crushed and trampled under many careless feet, but his head knew this was for the best. Maybe, if he kept saying it over and over, his heart would believe it, too.
29
Hugh
Finch had prior arrangements, so rather than devote his day to adoring his beloved secretary, Hugh spent it doing other things. Namely, preparing the room he imagined Finch would want to nest in. It was in the south wing of the residence and boasted luxuriously large windows that let in ample sunlight. Better yet, it was in a section of the house with very little foot traffic, making it blissfully quiet. With just a few alterations, it would be perfect.
Hugh spent the morning hauling dusty, neglected furniture out of the room and the afternoon tidying. More than once he spotted Bella peeping at him from the doorway, eyes as wide as saucers. Whenever he noticed her, he’d stop to wipe his brow and lift a hand in greeting and she’d promptly scurry away. It was just as well. There was so much to do that the less time he spent distracted, the better. If he had his druthers, the room would be spotless by the time Finch came home.
Hugh started by sweeping the floor. When he was done, he cleared the cobwebs from the ceiling and chased a spider away with the bristles of his broom. He wasn’t entirely sure if brooms were designed for ceilings, but he had no idea what tool he’d otherwise use, and it did the job well enough. After scouring one of the supply closets for cleaning spray, he washed the insides of the room’s windows—the outsides would have to wait for warmer weather—then stopped to survey what he’d accomplished.
The room looked better, but not perfect. The floor was dull and lifeless, nowhere near as shiny as the other floors were in the rest of the house. Seeing as how construction crews weren’t in and out of the estate every other month to replace the flooring, Hugh deduced that there was some way the staff kept the wood vibrant. He discovered the solution by accident whilst returning the cleaning spray to the supply closet—“rejuvenating oil.” According to the bottle, it would clean and restore finished wood and penetrate deep. Hugh wasn’t necessarily interested in that last bit, but he tucked it in his back pocket for later should Finch come back home feeling feisty.
Hugh loaded himself up with five very large bottles of the stuff and carted his spoils back to the future nest room, where he dumped the oil straight out of the bottle onto the floor, working from the perimeter of the room inward. By the time he was done, the drab-looking wood shone like a carefully polished suit of armor. Pleased with himself, Hugh beamed at his new, stunning floor. It was, perhaps, slightly more wet than he’d like, but all liquids evaporated given time. Small, oily ocean aside, what an excellent job he’d done.
Now that the room was in pristine condition, it wasn’t hard to imagine what it would look like when it was complete. Sheers would be installed, of course, running from the ceiling to the floor. They would be paired with royal purple curtains of equal grandeur that would add a pop of color to an otherwise serene space. Hugh would have the light fixtures updated and the walls painted. An armchair would be placed in the corner and a stately dresser would occupy the far wall. Other furniture would be added, too, as per Finch’s instructions. There was no telling what a nesting omega might need.
Regardless of what other furniture would be installed, the crowning feature of the room would be the egg bed. It would be circular, as most egg beds were, with a solid wood headboard carved not to reflect, but to improve modern sensibilities. With its fine purple sheets and exquisitely soft blankets, it would be a marvel not only to look at, but also to touch. Comfort was important. Hugh would spare no expense when it came to his wytad’s wellbeing.
And how it made his heart sing to think that his wytad was Finch.
He would look stunning framed by dark Drake purple, curled around their eggs while they bathed in soft morning sunlight. Hugh imagined the way the light would play in his dark hair and soak into his skin to set him aglow. The eggs they made would be every bit as stunning, Amethyst gems in motley shades, the most important jewels of his life. Hugh would protect them always, and knew Finch would do the same.
What an amazing father his Finch would be.
Enamored with the thought of a lifetime with him, Hugh indulged in a wistful sigh before redirecting his focus to the task at hand. If he was to secure an egg bed before his clutch arrived, he’d need to get it ordered now. But from where? He’d need to get in touch with Sebastian, who’d commissioned one for his newest clutch not all that long ago. Surely he would know.
Now, where was his phone?
Hugh hurried out of the room to find it. Or at least, he tried. One second he was making haste toward the door and the next he’d fallen on his face.
The floor, wet with oil, had become a slippery deathtrap. Hugh, now facedown in it, had become its first victim.
“Finch!” he cried out instinctively while he flopped across the floor, trying—and failing—to rise onto his knees. “Help!”
Neither Finch nor help arrived. Hugh—poor oil-covered Hugh—was on his own.
Never one to give up easily, Hugh tried a few more times to lift himself onto his knees, but the second he put any pressure on his palms, his arms shot out from beneath him. After falling on his face a few too many times, he concluded there was only one way out of this. He rolled onto his back so he could unbutton his shirt.
“Sir?” Bella asked timidly when he was two buttons from sweet freedom. “What—” She gasped, sounding absolutely scandalized.
“Bella!” Hugh ripped his shirt open and flipped onto his chest to try to get a look at her. “I’ve never been so slippery. Send Finch!”
Bella gasped, all the more scandalized. All Hugh caught was a swish of her skirts as she raced away from the room. Curiously, she ran in the opposite direction of Finch’s office. Perhaps she had it on good authority where the man was hiding. In any case, while he waited for rescue, Hugh resumed what he’d been doing—attempting to save himself. He balled his discarded shirt and swabbed it over the floor, hoping it would suck up the oil, and it did. To a point. The problem was that there was much more floor than there was shirt, and Hugh still had a long way to go before he made it to the door.
“Bugger.” Hugh pitched the shirt across the room and was moments away from stripping out of his pants and repeating the process when an idea struck. Inspired, he lay chest-down in the oil slick and invited his dragon out to play. Dark purple scales tumbled down his spine and over his shoulders. While they did, his bones creaked and complained as his musculoskeletal system changed to accommodate his wings. Once they were present, he flexed them to warm them up. Then, with a few mighty flaps, he glided through the oil like a reptilian pontoon boat.
Hugh reached the door before Bella returned with help, which was just as well. Even outside the deathtrap that was their future nesting room, Hugh found it difficult to stand. In the end he had to remove his shoes and socks to get purchase on the floor. Shirtless, barefooted, and glistening with oil, he walked to his room in silence and spent the evening in the shower. Dinner was served late that night for shower-related reasons. Hugh, hair still wet, descended into the dining room and discovered the table had been set for one.
“Did Finch eat already?” he asked when a skittish Bella brought out his meal.
She shook her head and set his plate before him, then scurried away.
“Will you send for him?” Hugh called after her.
He could only assume by her squeak that she would.
Hugh waited a few minutes for Finch to appear. When he didn’t, a despondent Hugh ate dinner alone and returned to his room to wait for Finch to come home.
Hours passed. Close to midnight, Hugh ventured from his chamber to see if Finch had gone to sleep in his own bed. It would be unusual in the extreme, seeing as how they’d been cohabiting since Finch’s heat, but Hugh could think of no other explanation for Finch’s bizarre absence.
The estate was quiet as Hugh made his way through the halls. He came upon the door to Finch’s quarters and rapped politely upon it, then took a small step back and folded his hands behind him. When there was no answer, Hugh rapped again. Finch was likely asleep, and it would take him some time to throw on a robe and answer the door. There was no cause for alarm. But as time continued to pass, Hugh began to run out of excuses.
“Finch?” he called through the door. “Finch, are you quite well? Should I call for Everard?”
There was no reply.
“Finch?” Hugh tried again. When he heard nothing—not even the creak of the bedsprings—he tried the door and found it unlocked. “Finch, I’m coming in.”
The room was dark when Hugh entered. Finch had to be asleep. So as not to disturb him, Hugh left the overhead light off and summoned a flame that he held cupped in his hand. It cast a dull, flickering glow in a radius of several feet, allowing him easy passage.
“Finch?” Hugh whispered. He approached the bed, lifting the ball of fire so he could see Finch for himself.
Only Finch wasn’t there.
“Finch?” Hugh’s blood ran cold. He swiveled on his heel to look in the direction of the en suite bathroom, hoping to find Finch in it, but the door was open and the lights were off. Thoroughly alarmed, he rushed across the room to turn on the light and immediately wished he hadn’t. The room had been stripped bare of all of Finch’s personal belongings.
Hugh’s hand dropped from the switch. He looked from the wall, once covered with vintage record jackets, to the empty armchair over which he’d once spotted Finch’s beloved polar bear pajama pants. Nothing. Not a trace of the man he loved remained.
“Finch?” Hugh asked again in a small, broken voice. He crossed the room to Elizabeth and Eleanor’s gilded cage and saw that it, too, had been emptied. Eleanor’s wheel had been taken away, and Elizabeth’s beloved tissue box was gone. The girls were nowhere to be seen. Not even the small container holding their chocolate chips remained. Tears in his eyes, Hugh dropped his head. “Finch…”
What could have happened to cause this? Finch wouldn’t simply pack up and leave, especially not now that Hugh had come to his senses and claimed Finch as his own. Hugh brushed tears from his eyes and shook his head. If he wanted to get to the bottom of this, he’d need to pull himself together. Tears would solve nothing. Only action would bring Finch home.
Hugh spun around, eager to get to his office and piece things together, when he noticed something sparkling beneath the armchair. He dropped to his knees to investigate and uncovered a single amethyst cufflink. It was from the set he’d given Finch on his tenth anniversary of employment.
Finch loved his cufflinks. There was no world in which he’d leave one behind. All at once, Hugh saw the truth. Finch hadn’t left the estate of his own volition—he’d been kidnapped. Without time to leave a note explaining the situation, he’d thrown a cufflink down in the hopes Hugh would find it, figure it out, and rescue him.
Only who would want to kidnap his Finch?
Hugh looked wildly around the room, scrambling to find other clues. Why would kidnappers remove all of Finch’s belongings? To cover their tracks, of course. Doing so would trick Hugh into thinking Finch had packed up and left all on his own. Heartbroken over Finch’s decision, Hugh would be emotionally vulnerable… at which point, one of the jilted Disgraces from the ball could swoop in and woo him, securing his or her spot by his side.
It made so much sense, Hugh audibly gasped. His poor Finch, abducted by his own kind and taken god knew where all so another omega could lay their claim on Hugh’s heart. Well, the joke was on them, because Hugh saw through their little scheme, and he wasn’t going to stand for it.
“Never fear, Finch,” Hugh declared to the empty room. “I know what’s going on, and I will be putting an end to it. Be brave, my love. I’m on my way. Wherever you are, I will find you, even if it takes a lifetime.”
Blood rushing in his ears, Hugh sprinted from the room and down the hall. He had a bag to pack and a certain dragon lawyer to call. Visas to allied clan territories weren’t going to write themselves.
30
Finch
Just as the reviews on the Attendant network had promised, Atticus Drake was a good dragon to work for, if a bit of an odd duck. He was obviously a Drake, if only by his royal purple eyes. His hair was no longer black. Instead, it was a beautiful silver. His body, on the other hand, was as fit and trim as any dragon’s. Atticus was, even by dragon standards, quite old, and closing in on his third millennium. The only older dragon that Finch was aware of was Snorre Jorgenson, and like Snorre, Atticus was a trifle eccentric. It came, perhaps, with age. Either that or the odd ones lived longer. It was hard to tell, and not something Finch liked to dwell on, because
it brought his thoughts too close to Hugh, and that was a subject he tried not to dwell on.
Being away from Hugh was painful—far more painful than Finch had predicted—but taking up the post of Atticus Drake’s personal secretary was the correct decision. In the end, the only decision he could’ve made.
Unlike Hugh’s household, Atticus had a large staff that was run with military precision by a tartar of a butler named Willoughby. He was about as far removed from Hugh’s Francis as one was ever likely to get. Willoughby ran a very tight ship, leaving Finch with only his secretarial duties, such as they were.
Mainly, Finch wrote letters. Mountains of letters. By hand. On parchment. With a fountain pen. Some dragons weren’t very good with technology, and Atticus hadn’t progressed much past the seventeenth century in his daily living. The castle did have electricity, running water, and a decent internet connection, but Atticus preferred candles, a drawn bath by the fire, and letters.
There was a full bathroom adjacent to Atticus’s bedroom, but Finch didn’t inquire into whether or not the dragon used the loo or the garderobe. Some things didn’t need elucidation.
Other than writing letters and rearranging the dragon’s massive, and sadly misshelved, library, Finch had little to do. There were no disputes among the servants to mediate, no household to run, and worst of all, no Hugh to cater for. Still, as Finch reminded himself every day, this was better. Safer. More secure. Working with Atticus was a superior position in every way. And if he kept on repeating that, day after day, Finch might eventually come to believe it.
For an old and rather reclusive dragon, Atticus had a steady stream of dragon visitors. Probably, Finch thought, because the old dragon refused to use a telephone, let alone email. Willoughby had been the one to contact Finch, and once he had taken on the position, the job of communication between Atticus and the outside world fell mostly onto Finch’s shoulders.
