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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

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