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in some cases, it was unavoidable. One day, Hugh would understand.
Grimbold led them into the room, which appeared to be a library. Shelves of books with ancient
spines lined the walls and formed great freestanding columns from the tops of which tumbled
vines of pothos, their vibrantly green leaves in contrast to the sun-bleached buckram bindings
beneath them. Close to the library door was positioned a lamp—currently switched on—and
an oversized armchair in which was curled a young man with sandy hair and porcelain skin. A
book was beside him, no doubt plucked from one of the nearby shelves. Finch wasn’t one to
stare, but in this case, he couldn’t help it. The boy was beautiful—a jewel of the Pedigree if
Finch had ever seen one.
Strangely, the boy stared at Finch as if he were thinking the same.
“Walter,” Grimbold said gently as he approached the armchair. The boy blinked and turned his
attention from Finch to the senior Mr. Drake. “This is my son, Hugh.”
Walter made no move to get up from the armchair. If what Finch saw was to be believed, he
curled up on himself all the more. Perhaps it was premature to assume he was of the
Pedigree—no omega, Disgrace or otherwise, would ever show a dragon such disrespect.
Grimbold, however, was seemingly unfazed by the egregious display. He swept over to
Walter’s side and sat on the armchair with him, tucking the boy protectively into his arms,
where he brushed his sandy hair back from his forehead. “He’s safe, sweet. He won’t harm
you. None of my whelps ever will.”
Within Grimbold’s embrace, Walter relaxed. He looked at Hugh with less trepidation. “Hello.”
“Hello,” Hugh almost whispered. He’d raised his hand as if to wave, but dropped it slowly to
his side, seeming more crestfallen than ever. It was torture to see him so afflicted. Finch’s hand
twitched as if to comfort him, but he resisted the urge and kept to himself. When they were
alone, he would make sure Hugh had his support, but he would not make his employer look
weak in front of his own father no matter how much it pained him to do so.
Walter whispered something to Grimbold, who nodded and kissed his forehead, then rose from
the armchair. “I’ve just remembered there are éclairs in the kitchen. Hugh, will you help me
fetch them? I’m feeling a bit peckish.”
“Sweets, Father?” Hugh asked dubiously. “You’ve never cared for them. Things really have
changed, haven’t they?”
