Finch: A Forbidden Desires Spin-Off Story

by Piper Scott

  Even so, Finch often found himself bored and lonely. He dreamed of Hugh day and night, and the wound caused by their separation refused to heal. Finch even thought, once or twice, of contacting Hugh, but each time he stopped himself. The only thing that would do was bring on more pain. Hugh needed to forget Finch and move on to a proper Pedigree omega who would bear his clutch and wear his mark. Finch would never have either one, and that thought hurt him in a way it never had previous to falling into Hugh’s bed.

  This will get better, he told himself over and over. I will get better.

  But he didn’t. Finch sank deeper and deeper into a melancholy funk that he couldn’t seem to crawl out of. In addition, ever since he’d moved back to England, he’d felt mildly ill. At first, he’d blamed jet lag, but no one’s jet lag lasted a month, let alone two. The only rational explanation was that he had the flu and couldn’t seem to shake it. There was always someone in the castle staff who was sick, and Finch began to think that they all had the virus and took turns passing it back and forth.

  Whatever it was, it wasn’t something Finch had to be concerned about. Summer would come eventually even to northern England, and being in the sun would help. Finch was sure of it. All he needed was more sunlight and another nap. And perhaps a slice or two of Battenberg cake.

  “You, omega!” Atticus shouted in a querulous voice. He pounded the wooden floor of the library with his silver-tipped walking stick.

  Finch looked up from the letter he was transcribing, with his best calligraphy, from his shorthand notes. “Yes, your grace?”

  “You may call me Atticus, you know,” the dragon boomed. “My title is no longer extant. We have been over this, have we not?”

  “Yes, your grace.” Finch went back to his transcription.

  “Then why don’t you heed me? I hate being ‘your grace.’ It sounds positively idiotic. I am a dragon, not an adjective.”

  Finch hid a smile. “Of course not, your grace.”

  “Blasted omega. I should send you packing.”

  Not that he would. Finch had figured that out the first week. “I will call you something besides ‘your grace’ the day you stop calling me ‘omega,’” he said in a mild tone. He put his pen down carefully and massaged his scalp. He was getting another one of his headaches.

  Atticus let out a bray of laughter. “Put me in my place, didn’t you, pup?”

  “Perhaps.” Finch tried to smile at his employer but the churning misery in his stomach made that difficult. He was coming down with that blasted virus again. “Was there something that you needed?”

  Atticus pointed the walking stick at Finch. “You look peaky, boy. I mean, Finch. Like a stiff wind might blow you over. I don’t like it.”

  “I’m fine, sir,” Finch insisted, although he felt terrible. This round of illness was the worst one so far.

  “Atticus!”

  “I’m fine, Atticus. When I’m finished with this missive, I’ll go get a few ginger biscuits from Cook, then lie down. I’m sure I’ll feel better tomorrow.”

  The dragon huffed and a plume of smoke came out of his nostrils. “What you need, boy, is a doctor.”

  “Finch,” he said firmly. “Not omega and not boy. Or I’ll go back to saying ‘your grace.’”

  “Impertinent baggage. But point taken. You can finish the letters tomorrow. None of them are urgent. Go lie down. I can’t have you dying on me. It would be dashed inconvenient.”

  “I’d hate to put you to any trouble,” Finch replied.

  Atticus snorted more smoke. “Just go. Stay in your rooms until you feel better. I’ll have Cook send up biscuits and tea. You’ll be right as rain in no time.”

  “Thank you, Atticus.”

  The grumpy dragon was, at his core, quite the dear. Finch stood, then put out a hand to steady himself. He felt quite faint, but it was probably from sitting too long and standing too quickly.

  “Finch. Are you quite—”

  Finch never heard the rest of what Atticus was going to say because a sharp knock sounded at the door before it opened to show a somewhat flustered butler.

  “Sir,” said Willoughby, who didn’t call anyone by anything as crude as their given name, “there are visitors to see you.” He turned an accusing look on Finch. “Unannounced and unscheduled.” As if Finch had control of every dragon and could predict their movements.

  “Which of my get have come to trouble me today, Willoughby?”

  “None of them, sir. These are American dragons,” he said with a slight curl to his lip to show his distaste.

  Finch began to tremble. It couldn’t be. It couldn’t. Spots swam in front of his eyes.

  “We are,” said a dry voice from behind Willoughby, “to be precise, your great-grandnephews.”

  Was that Geoffrey? Finch thought it might be. Why was he here and not in California?

  “Well, strictly speaking, I’m not,” said another voice. One much easier to identify. It was Harrison.

  “You are, cantaloupe, through me. Much as Father is your father-in-law.” That was Everard.

  Finch looked down and wondered if he could hide under the desk. It would probably be his best option.

  “The dragons here to see you,” Willoughby announced in forbidding tones. “I had asked them to stay in the drawing room where I put them, but it seems etiquette is lost on those hailing from across the ocean. They claim they’re here to see you regarding a missing person.”

  “Indeed.” Atticus shot Finch a look, complete with raised silver eyebrow. “And who might they have misplaced?”

  Finch tried to calm his racing heart with deep breaths, but to no result. He felt nauseous, light-headed, feverish, and utterly exhausted. He was in absolutely no fit state to deal with any of this, but it didn’t look as if he had a choice.

  “Misplaced, my ass. You abducted Finch and I demand to have him back this instant!” It was Hugh’s voice. Hugh was here. Hugh was here for Finch.

  Geoffrey groaned. “Did I not say you weren’t to do any of the talking?”

  “You did say that,” Harrison supplied helpfully. “I heard you say it many times.”

  “Finch,” Atticus boomed. “Would you care to explain what’s going on?”

  “I—” Finch took out his handkerchief and mopped his sweaty brow. It was hard to think over the spikes of pain in his head and the blood rushing in his ears. He stepped closer to Willoughby, drawn by Hugh’s presence. He wanted to touch his dragon. Somehow, someway, Finch felt that all would be well if he could just lay one hand against Hugh’s cheek. Everything would be better if he could smell Hugh’s skin and look into his plum-colored eyes.

  Finch shook his head. No. That was nonsense. He had to be strong. He had to make Hugh leave. It was for his own good.

  “Get out of my bloody way, you jumped-up footman,” Hugh snarled. Willoughby might have been formidable, but dragons were strong. The butler found himself shoved, albeit humanely, aside, and in strode Hugh. He looked awful. His hair was unkempt, there were dark circles under his eyes, and his suit was wrinkled and hung on his frame as if he’d recently lost weight. “I need my Finch and I need him now.”

  Close on Hugh’s heels was a resigned-looking Geoffrey, an amused Everard, and a bespectacled Harrison, who was mercifully lizard-free.

  The second Hugh spotted Finch, he rushed toward him. “Finch, my darling. I’ve been looking everywhere for you!”

  “This is the most interesting day I’ve had in centuries,” Atticus said to the room in general.

  “This is a nightmare,” Geoffrey muttered at around the same time. “I knew it would be, and here I am, proven right yet again. Why does no one ever listen to me?”

  “It’s because you’re a prat,” Everard called out over his shoulder.

  Geoffrey fell into a sulky silence, Willoughby looked thoroughly affronted, Atticus amused, and Hugh had the most determined look on his face that Finch had ever seen. It was worse than the Funfetti incident.

  Hu
gh came a few steps closer to Finch. “Darling, are you well?”

  “I—” Finch said again. He had no idea what he should say and it was far too late to hide under the desk.

  “You look flushed. I say, Everard, don’t you think Finch looks flushed?”

  Everard turned toward Hugh and Finch and pierced them with a magenta glare. “Perhaps,” he allowed, and strode over to them.

  “Should I have them all thrown out, sir?” Willoughby asked Atticus. Although how Willoughby proposed to carry that plan out was beyond Finch.

  Atticus ignored his butler and addressed Everard. “You’re the whelp doctor, aren’t you? Well, look at my secretary. I think he’s peaky. And then we’ll let Finch rest and we’ll sort this all out.”

  “No.” Finch tried to shout, but it just came out as a tired moan. He didn’t want dragons deciding his fate, and he couldn’t go back to living with Hugh. Not and retain his sanity. But he’d been nothing but ill the entire time he’d been in England, and it felt like his very cells cried out for Hugh despite his mind knowing it was impossible. Going to his dragon would be like curling up in bed under sheets still warm from the dryer.

  Before Finch could give in, Everard shouldered Hugh aside. “Let me see to your omega, you lummox. I can’t determine his health with you hovering so close.”

  Hugh moved away, but not far. He was still within Finch’s sight and from there, Finch drank the dragon up with his eyes. He knew he should look away, but he couldn’t. It had been so long, and there hadn’t been a day since he’d come to work for Atticus that his heart hadn’t mourned the decision. The very sight of Hugh now made Finch weak.

  “I think maybe you should sit,” Everard said to him when Finch failed to react to his presence.

  Finch shook his head, then regretted the dizziness that brought on. He was afraid if he sat he’d never be able to get up again.

  “Stubborn omegas,” Everard murmured. “Fine. Have it your way, feather quill. Let me feel your forehead. I want to see if you have a fever.”

  Finch didn’t agree or disagree. All he could do was hold on to the desk and gaze at Hugh. His lovely, impossible dragon.

  Everard put the back of his hand to Finch’s forehead, then pulled it back with a hiss of surprise.

  “What is it? Will he be all right?” Hugh moaned. He pushed Everard aside. “I can’t lose you. Not again. You were kidnapped, weren’t you?”

  “I’ve told you literally a hundred times over the past two months that your secretary was not abducted,” Geoffrey said indignantly, but no one seemed to be paying him any attention.

  Finch closed his eyes. He felt, absurdly, as if he would cry at the slightest provocation, and today’s events had been provoking, indeed.

  “Darling, please let me touch you.”

  “I don’t think you should—” Everard began.

  Hugh touched Finch’s cheek. “I’ve missed you so much, love.” Then he drew his hand back as if burned. “That’s not right,” he said.

  “I just have the flu,” Finch said wearily. “It’s nothing serious.”

  “Hm. I wonder,” interjected Atticus.

  “It’s not the flu,” Harrison said happily. “At least it’s not just the flu. Finch is—”

  “Not now, artichoke.”

  “He has a parasite, doesn’t he?” Hugh asked, horrified. “That’s what I felt. There’s a huge parasite inside him.” Hugh turned to Atticus. “Nothing like this ever happened when he lived with me. What sort of household are you keeping here?”

  Willoughby gasped in outrage. Atticus scowled. “Watch your tone, whelp.”

  “Hugh,” Everard barked out. “It’s not a parasite.”

  “Oh,” Geoffrey said. Then he repeated, “Oh.”

  “If it’s not a parasite, what is it, then?” Hugh demanded.

  Finch desperately wanted to vomit then lie down and sleep for a hundred years. Especially if he got to sleep in a room with no dragons, no uptight butlers, and most of all, no uncomfortable truths.

  “It’s a baby!” Harrison exclaimed. “Finch doesn’t have a parasite—he has a dragonet. I’m so excited! Congratulations, Hugh and Finch.”

  Hugh looked stunned, and not at all in a good way. Finch sympathized. Having a parasite seemed like a better option than having a Disgrace. He started to cry, which was so unlike him, but he couldn’t seem to help the embarrassing tears that pooled in his eyes then fell down his cheeks.

  Everard patted Finch awkwardly on the shoulder. “There, there, inkwell. Don’t cry. This is a good thing.”

  Finch swiped tears away from his eyes. He wasn’t even sad, or not completely sad. Mostly he was tired and frustrated and angry, but for some reason, that decided to manifest itself by making Finch into a watering pot. “No, it bloody well is not. I’m pregnant.”

  Hugh gasped, his lovely eyes round with surprise, then he fell down in a graceless heap.

  “Hugh!” Finch let go of the desk and flew over to his collapsed dragon, half falling and half sitting by his side. “Fix him,” he growled at Everard. “Now.”

  “He just fainted,” Everard complained, but he knelt by his brother and straightened out his limbs.

  “I say,” exclaimed a new voice. “What on earth is going on in here? It sounds like the circus has taken up residence in your study, Atticus.” The voice belonged to a man who was no doubt a dragon and, by his coloring, an Amethyst at that. There was no mistaking his striking purple eyes and dark hair. He wore a fine gray suit, the top few buttons of its shirt left undone, and had his hands tucked casually into his pockets. Compared to Atticus, he was a young dragon, but there was no telling his exact age. Not that Finch cared to. The only dragon he cared for at the moment was the one who’d just collapsed.

  “Oh, just a bit of family drama.” Atticus waved his hand dismissively. “I fear I may be in need of another secretary, which is a shame because this one was fairly young and had beautiful handwriting.”

  “Maybe you should get yourself one of those dragonets everyone’s been going on about,” the new dragon suggested. “A clutch of whelps would do you good, you old goat.”

  “Calvin,” Atticus warned. “You bite your tongue.”

  Finch looked up. “Calvin?”

  The new dragon strode over and extended his hand down to Finch, Hugh, and Everard. “Indeed. Calvin Drake at your service. You must be this crusty old dragon’s new secretary.”

  Finch was filled with unfamiliar rage. Had he been able, he’d have gotten up and struck the dragon. Granted, all that would get him was pain returned tenfold, but it might have been worth it. As it stood, all he could do was glare, which Finch did to the utmost of his ability.

  Calvin frowned and tapped a finger against his perfectly sculpted lips. “Why so frightened, little bird? I won’t harm you. I wouldn’t harm any of Atticus’s Attendants. That would be beyond rude.”

  Atticus stood from his chair, brushed by Harrison, and came to stand at Calvin’s side. “I believe he’s angry, Calvin, not frightened.”

  Calvin turned to the old dragon, confused. “Angry? At me? But why?”

  Finch wanted to shout every reason he had to be furious, but his throat was too choked with emotion to allow him to speak. “Because,” was all he was able to get out.

  “Because,” Atticus continued, “if I’m not mistaken, your little bird here is, in fact, your little bird.”

  “My what?” Calvin seemed affronted. “I’ve never seen him before in my life.”

  “Of course not,” Finch said, finally able to spit out the words that had threatened to suffocate him. “Why would you have ever bothered to see me? I’m only your son.”

  31

  Hugh

  The smooth, upraised edge of a large stone pulled back Hugh’s upper lip, and he woke up drooling all over it. It was, at first, a mystery how he’d made it to first base with what appeared to be a floor, but his memory was jolted by the voice of an angel himself—Finch—who snarled, “Do not touc
h me.”

  Finch.

  Finch.

  How Hugh’s heart sang to know that, at last, he’d found him. After almost two months of storming allied territories, sneaking into dragons’ lairs in search of clues, and interrogating every Attendant he could find, Finch was finally his.

  “I won’t do anything you don’t want me to, little bird,” said a new voice.

  Hugh’s eyes flew open.

  That voice… it was a dragon, wasn’t it? A dragon who was making Finch feel unsafe. With a wounded bellow, Hugh launched off the floor and promptly bowled over Everard, who’d been leaning over him. Everard went down with a startled shout, arms flailing. It was a pity, but not enough of one to stop Hugh from charging forward to where Finch was standing. Once arrived, he wrapped his beloved up in his arms. Finch startled—Hugh had approached him from behind—but must have clued in to his identity quickly, because no sooner did he tense than he relaxed.

  “You, there,” Hugh said to the young Amethyst dragon threatening his Finch. “You leave my Finch be. He wants nothing to do with you. I’ll have you know that any slight against him is a slight against me, and a slight against me becomes a slight against my family, up to and including my father, the esteemed Grimbold Drake. You will apologize for your wrongdoing immediately.”

  The young dragon before him widened his eyes. He tucked his hands into the pockets of his trousers and cocked his head slightly to the side, the crop of dark curls on his head tumbling across his brow. He wasn’t particularly large, as was the case for most of the British dragons, but in Hugh’s weakened state, they’d be more or less evenly matched. Thank god for Geoffrey and Everard, who’d insisted on tailing him after word had gotten back to the family that Hugh had been apprehended in Belgium, having trespassed into a Sapphire dragon’s lair. Together they would have the upper hand.

  “I’m not sure I’m following,” the dragon admitted. “What should I apologize for, exactly?”

  Hugh scowled at him. “You know!”