26Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡfnay0ICVzL
Elliot fled the house right after breakfast, under the pretext of going to the store for a laptop cable.
In truth he simply needed to get away from William, who'd been following him like a shadow. His wilting lilac haunted Elliot even in his own room. Away from his mother with her hysterics about the importance of impressing the neighbors. Away from the scent that had seeped so deeply into the walls of the house that Elliot woke to it in the night.
He wandered down Meryton's main street, hands in his pockets, gaze fixed on the ground. Autumn wind ruffled his hair, slipped beneath his collar. Somewhere in the distance a dog barked. Children played football on a lawn in front of a house. An ordinary day in a small town.
Lost in thoughts about the conversation he'd overheard the night before. Organizations that help omegas with unusual abilities. Unstable omegas require special attention from the authorities.
William's words echoed through him, cold and heavy. What organizations? What power did they have? And how real was the threat, or was his cousin simply trying to frighten him?
"Watch out!"
A strong hand grabbed his shoulder and yanked him aside. A bicycle shot past inches away, its bell ringing a belated warning.
His heart sped up.
"You all right?"
Elliot turned.
Before him stood an alpha. Young, handsome: dark hair, bright green eyes, an open smile. From him came the scent of fresh bergamot and warm cedar with light notes of sea salt, clean and inviting, almost refreshing.
"I... yes, thank you."
But Elliot, with his heightened sensitivity, caught something else. Beneath the pleasant composition was something metallic, sharp, like the smell of coins. Barely perceptible. But definitely there.
"Need to watch where you're going." The alpha smiled, but without judgment. "Though I'll admit I've got my head in the clouds half the time myself. George Wickham."
He extended his hand.
Elliot hesitated for a fraction of a second, then shook it.
"Elliot Bennet."
Their hands touched.
And...
Nothing.
Elliot froze.
Usually at least something slipped through. Even with strangers flashes of color, emotional background, the echo of thoughts. But here, absolute silence. As though he were touching not a person but a void.
Complete. Perfect. Silence.
He released Wickham's hand, trying to understand this unusual sensation. On one hand, relief. Finally someone whose touch didn't hurl him into foreign memories. On the other hand, something indefinably unsettling about this absolute emptiness.
Strange, the thought flickered.
"Bennet?" Wickham repeated, green eyes studying his face with interest. "You're from Longbourn?"
"Yes." Elliot frowned. "You know our estate?"
"Heard of it." Something flashed in his eyes quick, calculating but vanished instantly, replaced by friendly warmth. "Five omega brothers, right? Unusual situation."
The wariness intensified.
Wickham had said he'd only recently moved to town. How did he already know the Bennets' family details? That wasn't the kind of information people discussed with newcomers on the first day. Yes, people gossiped about the Bennet family, but for a stranger to immediately know about five brothers?
Elliot frowned. Wickham, apparently noticing the reaction, quickly added, "Sorry. Small town. Everyone talks about everything." The smile softened, almost apologetic. "I just moved to Meryton. I work for a charitable organization. We help omegas from troubled families."
Elliot nodded, but something continued to prick at him. Wickham had learned about them too quickly. Too thoroughly.
"That's... noble," he said neutrally.
"I try to make the world a little better." Wickham shrugged with an ease that looked rehearsed. "You know, your scent... it's unusual. Bitter chocolate and old books? Intriguing."
Elliot felt himself flush. Usually compliments about his scent sounded like veiled insults. But Wickham said it as though he genuinely found him attractive.
"Thank you. It's rare when someone says that."
"Then the people around you are blind." He tilted his head. "Are you in a hurry? Maybe grab coffee? I've only just arrived in town and barely know anyone. Would be nice to talk with a local."
Elliot wavered.
But there was something about Wickham that felt so easy and welcoming.
At least, it seemed that way.
Maybe I'm just paranoid. Maybe he really did hear gossip. Maybe my sensitivity is malfunctioning, he thought.
"Why not?" he said finally.
***
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They went into a small coffee shop on the corner. Wickham proved an excellent conversationalist witty, attentive, asking questions and genuinely interested in the answers.
He told stories from the military with such ease, such humor, that Elliot laughed out loud several times.
He explained he'd grown up in foster care, had always dreamed of helping others, and had recently received a grant to open a local branch of a charitable foundation.
"What do you do?" he asked, sipping his latte.
"Digital archivist. I work remotely for an archive in London. Digitizing old documents, letters, photographs."
"Sounds fascinating." A pause, and something shifted in his gaze. "And a bit lonely."
Elliot blinked.
"Why lonely?"
"Well, you spend all day immersed in the past. In other people's lives, other people's stories." Wickham leaned forward, his voice softening. "Where's your own story?"
The question struck with its accuracy. Elliot did sometimes feel that he wasn't living his own life but observing from the sidelines. That his existence was simply a collection of other people's memories, seen through the prism of his gift.
"I... hadn't thought about it that way."
"Maybe you should start?" Wickham smiled that perfect smile that seemed sincere. "Life's too short to spend it only on other people's memories."
Elliot was about to respond when he noticed Wickham's gaze flick toward the window for a fraction of a second. Quick, almost imperceptible. Checking something? Waiting for someone?
But the alpha immediately returned his attention to Elliot, all focus.
"You said you work with archives?" Wickham took a sip of coffee. "I suppose you're in London often?"
"Yes, last week actually. Met with the head of the archive." Elliot sipped his cappuccino. "They gave me a week off. Though the trip turned out to be... unexpected."
"How so?"
Elliot didn't know why he was telling this to a stranger. Maybe because Wickham listened so attentively. Or because after days in the house with William he simply needed to talk to someone. Someone normal.
"I ran into someone. An alpha." He stumbled over the words. "We don't get along. But he was there with an omega, beautiful, from his circle. And with her he was completely different. Warm. Attentive."
"And with you?"
"With me he was like a block of ice."
Wickham nodded with understanding, and something like sympathy appeared in his eyes.
"Alphas can be that way. One rule for their own, another for everyone else." A pause. "What was this alpha's name?"
"Darcy. Fitzwilliam Darcy."
Something changed.
Instantly.
Wickham's smile didn't disappear, but it became harder, strained. In his green eyes something cold flashed, almost predatory, before he collected himself.
The scent of bergamot sharpened, the cedar acquired a prickliness. And that metallic note emerged more clearly not just metal. Steel. Sharp.
"Darcy," Wickham repeated quietly, and in his voice was something dark. "You... know him well?"
"Not exactly. We've met a couple of times." Elliot frowned, watching the reaction. "You know him?"
"You could say that." Wickham took a sip of coffee, gathering his thoughts. When he spoke again, his voice was careful. "We grew up together. My father was the steward of his family's estate."
"Pemberley?"
"Yes." His gaze became distant, as though he were looking through the coffee shop walls into the past. "Old Mr. Darcy was a kind man. He saw that I was capable. He helped me. Promised support for my education."
He fell silent, and something like pain appeared in his eyes.
"When he died, everything changed. Fitzwilliam inherited and..." Wickham shook his head as though driving away memories. "Sorry. It's an old story. Not worth burdening you with."
"What happened?" Elliot leaned forward, curiosity overcoming caution.
"He decided the steward's son couldn't be equal to the heir of Pemberley." His voice grew quieter, bitterness threading through it. "His father's promises no longer mattered. I had to find other paths."
"That's not fair," Elliot said, and anger rose in a wave.
Wickham shrugged with that strained ease that betrayed hidden pain.
"Such is life. Alphas like Darcy think the world owes them. That they can use people and discard them when they're no longer needed."
He looked at Elliot, and in his gaze was something penetrating.
"Be careful with him, Elliot. He's not who he pretends to be."
Elliot was about to ask more, but at that moment the coffee shop door flew open.
A wave of aged whiskey with notes of smoke and oak barrel, damp earth after rain, and dark honey burst into the space.
Elliot turned and froze.
In the doorway stood Fitzwilliam Darcy.
Time seemed to stop.
Darcy froze on the threshold, and his gaze immediately shot to Wickham. Not to Elliot. To Wickham. As though he'd been looking for him. As though he'd known he'd be here.
The realization hit like lightning.
Darcy had been following Wickham. He knew he was in town. He hadn't come here by chance.
The alpha's jaw was clenched so tightly the muscles jumped. His hands were in his pockets, shoulders tense beneath the perfectly fitted dark coat.
Grey eyes slid over Elliot quick, appraising and in them something flickered. Concern? Fear? Before returning to Wickham. And in them flared something dark and furious.
The scent of whiskey became sharp, scorching. The oak notes thickened, turned burnt like charred wood. The damp earth transformed into something cold and dangerous, frozen soil before a storm. The honey vanished completely, as though it had never been there.
Wickham looked at Darcy too.
His body tensed, barely perceptible, but Elliot caught it. The bergamot turned sharp, the cedar acquired a prickliness. The metallic note emerged brightly steel, sharp as a knife blade.
Why is he displaying it now instead of hiding it?
"Darcy." Wickham's voice was stripped of its former warmth. Cold and mocking.
"Wickham." An icy response.
The silence stretched, heavy, oppressive. Their scents collided in the air: whiskey and bergamot, oak barrel and cedar, earth and sea salt. Two alpha auras battling for dominance. The air became thick, suffocating.
Other patrons of the coffee shop began looking around, sensing the tension on an instinctive level. The barista froze with a cup in his hands. An omega by the window hastily gathered his things and left.
Elliot felt his own scent flaring between them bitter chocolate and smoke, sharp and defensive. His omega instincts screamed contradictory messages: submit, flee, or defend.
Darcy didn't move from his position. Simply stood in the doorway, blocking the exit. His gaze was locked on Wickham, cold, full of disgust and... fear? Yes, fear. Elliot saw it in the tension of his shoulders, in how his fists clenched in his pockets.
"You're still here," Darcy said. Not a question. A statement. In his voice was steel, but beneath it something else. Something like pain.
"I have a right to be anywhere." Wickham smiled, but the smile didn't reach his eyes. "Not all of us inherited estates the size of counties."
The whiskey turned prickly, almost aggressive. Darcy stepped inside, and his presence filled the entire space of the coffee shop.
"Stay away from him," he said quietly, but every word was like a blow.
Elliot understood this was directed at him.
"Excuse me?" He stood, his scent flaring with anger. The chocolate became almost scalding, the smoke acrid. "You can't tell me who to associate with."
Darcy finally looked at him fully.
And in his gaze was something. Not anger. Something worse. Fear. Desperation. Pleading.
"Mr. Bennet." His voice softened, but only slightly. "You don't know who you're dealing with. He..."
"He what?" Wickham interrupted, standing. His scent became aggressive: bergamot turned into a sharp citrus assault, cedar mixed with metal, sea salt became salty as blood. "Not good enough for your circle? Unworthy of speaking with an omega from a 'decent' family?"
"You know why," Darcy's voice hardened, the whiskey searing the air.
"I only know that you robbed me of my future." Wickham stepped forward, and now only a meter separated them. "Everything your father promised. Everything I was owed."
"You didn't deserve a penny of what you're demanding."
"Is that what you decided?" Wickham smiled, but in his eyes something dangerous flashed. "The great Fitzwilliam Darcy, judge and executioner. Deciding who's worthy and who's not."
The whiskey exploded into the space sharp, overwhelming, with notes of charred oak. Darcy took another step, and now they stood mere inches from each other. Two alpha auras on the verge of collision.
Elliot saw how Darcy's hands trembled in his pockets. How every muscle in his body was tense. How in his grey eyes rage battled something else. Pain. Deep, old pain.
"Mr. Bennet." Darcy didn't take his eyes off Wickham, but the words were addressed to Elliot. "I strongly advise you to stay away from this man. He's dangerous."
"Dangerous?" Elliot felt anger flood through him. "The only dangerous person here is you, Mr. Darcy. You, who considers himself qualified to judge everyone around him. To decide who deserves happiness and who doesn't. Who can associate with whom and who should know their place."
Something flickered in those grey eyes. Pain. Deep, sharp, raw pain.
The scent of whiskey softened for a fraction of a second. The burnt oak gave way to something warm. The damp earth returned fresh and alive. And in the scent appeared a note of something desperate. Like honey trying to break through bitterness and smoke.
"You don't understand," Darcy said quietly, and in his voice was such exhaustion. "I don't want to hurt you. I just..." He stumbled, as though the words caught in his throat.
He looked at Wickham, then back at Elliot.
"Be careful," he said finally. "Please."
The last word sounded almost like a plea. Like a cry for help, strangled by pride.
He turned and walked out, leaving behind a trail of whiskey, damp earth, and something bitter. Something like regret.
The door closed.
Elliot stood staring after him.
Darcy hadn't looked angry. He'd looked worried. Frightened.
For me? He's afraid for me?
The thought was absurd. Darcy considered him an unstable omega from a family beneath his level. Why would he worry about Elliot?
Unless...
Unless Wickham really was dangerous.
But Elliot tried to push the thought away.
Wickham leaned back in his chair and exhaled. His scent slowly returned to normal—bergamot, cedar, sea salt, warm and inviting. The metallic note disappeared as though it had never been there. As though someone had flipped a switch.
He controls his scent. Perfectly controls it. Hides what he doesn't want to show.
"I apologize for that scene," Wickham said, running his hand through his hair. The gesture seemed embarrassed, but Elliot noticed how quickly the alpha collected himself. Too quickly. "There's old history between us."
"What happened?" Elliot asked insistently. "You said he robbed you of your future. How exactly?"
Wickham was silent, looking out the window where Darcy had disappeared.
"It's a long and painful story." He turned to Elliot, and in his eyes was sincerity. Or excellent acting. "Someday I'll tell you everything. But not today. Not here."
He stood, left money on the table.
"I need to go. Thank you for the company, Elliot." The smile returned, warm and friendly. "I hope we'll see each other again."
He left, leaving Elliot alone with a whirlwind of thoughts.
Something's not right here, Elliot thought. The emptiness when we touched. The metallic smell. Knowing about the brothers. Perfect control over his scent. And how did Darcy know Wickham was here? Too many coincidences.
***
Walking home, Elliot moved slowly.
The sun was sinking toward the horizon, painting the sky in orange-pink tones. The air was cool, smelling of fallen leaves and approaching rain.
Images circled through his head.
Wickham pleasant, easy, the warm scent of bergamot. The story of a lost future. Pain in those green eyes. But the refusal to say more. And those oddities that multiplied with every minute.
And Darcy: the scent of whiskey and earth, cold as ice. Arrogant. But his face in the coffee shop. That desperation. That fear.
Be careful. Please.
Why "please"? Why so desperately? He'd been following Wickham. He'd come there deliberately. He'd been afraid.
Who to believe?
Everything Elliot knew about Darcy confirmed his coldness. But something wouldn't let him rest.
The gift had been silent when touching Wickham. Completely silent. That wasn't normal. Even the most closed people gave at least some response.
***
He entered the house and immediately smelled wilting lilac. William was somewhere nearby.
Elliot walked into the sitting room and found the entire family. James sat by the window, pale and silent he'd returned from the Cotswolds yesterday evening and had barely left his room since. His scent of white acacia was saturated with bitterness and fear.
His mother floated around the room with an envelope.
"A letter! From Netherfield!" Her voice rang with delight. "They're hosting a ball! In a week! We're invited!"
James went even paler.
"Mother, I don't think..."
"Don't think?!" Mother turned to him, her perfume exploding with indignation. "James, this is a chance! Mr. Bingley has returned! He wants to see you!"
"Or he's just being polite," James said quietly, his voice trembling.
"Nonsense! I'm certain he'll announce the engagement! We'll all be there! In our finest! I'm already thinking what to wear..."
Elliot walked over to his brother and sat beside him. He took his hand.
No visions, just James's familiar warmth, his worry, hope desperately battling fear. Fear of being rejected again. Fear that his mother was right and this was merely politeness.
James squeezed his hand gratefully.
"Ellie," he whispered so quietly only Elliot could hear, "I can't go. Can't see him. Not after what I heard from Caroline and Darcy..."
"You'll go," Elliot said firmly, looking into his brother's eyes. "And you'll hold your head high. You'll show them you're not broken. That they haven't broken you."
James looked at him, and tears glimmered in his eyes.
"You'll go with me?"
"Of course. I'll be right beside you every second."
"Wonderful!" William appeared in the doorway, his lilac filling the room, heavy and cloying like rotting flowers. "We'll all go! As a family! And you, dear cousin Elliot, will you reserve the first dance for me?"
Not a request. A demand disguised as a question.
Elliot's stomach clenched.
"Cousin, I don't..."
"Don't be modest!" William beamed with that cloying smile. "It will be a wonderful evening. And after the ball..." He lowered his voice, but everyone could still hear. "After the ball I'd like to speak with you about an important matter."
Elliot's stomach tightened. He knew where this was leading.
His father, seated in his chair, caught Elliot's gaze. His scent of cold Earl Grey turned sour with sympathy. He barely shook his head.
Hold on, son, his eyes said.
Mother continued planning outfits, William pontificated about the importance of family values and traditions. Lloyd was checking comments on his video.
Kit and Michael were silent, absorbed in their devices, but both cast worried glances at Elliot.
And James sat beside him, pale and silent, gripping Elliot's hand so tightly his knuckles whitened.
Elliot closed his eyes.
A week. He had a week until the ball.
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***
Later that evening, when the others had dispersed, Elliot found his father in the library.
Mr. Bennet sat in his chair with a book but wasn't reading. Simply staring out the window where dusk was gathering.
"Dad?"
His father turned. His scent of cold tea was calm, but Elliot caught a note of concern in it.
"Come in, Ellie. Close the door."
Elliot closed the door and perched on the edge of the chair opposite.
"I need advice."
"I assume this concerns our dear cousin William?"
"Not exactly."
Elliot told him about the meeting with Wickham. About the oddities: the emptiness when they touched, the metallic scent, knowing about the brothers. About the confrontation in the coffee shop. About how Darcy was clearly tracking Wickham. About the lost future and old Mr. Darcy's promises. And about that strange feeling that wouldn't leave him alone.
His father listened silently, fingers steepled. When Elliot finished, he looked out the window for several seconds.
"What do you know about Mr. Darcy?" he asked finally.
"That he's arrogant, cold, thinks he's above everyone..."
"How do you know this?"
Elliot opened his mouth... and closed it.
"He acts that way. Everyone says so. He called me unstable..."
"You saw him standing apart at a party," his father gently interrupted. "That's not the same as knowing a person. You heard gossip. That's not the same as facts."
A pause.
"And what do you know about Mr. Wickham?"
"That he's kind, charming, works in charity..."
"How do you know this?"
"He told me himself."
"So you believe the words of a stranger you've known for a few hours?" His father leaned forward. "And you don't believe someone you know nothing about except gossip?"
Elliot felt a stab of shame.
"The best lies always sound believable," his father said quietly. "Manipulators are masters of their craft. They know what words to say, what emotions to show. They tell their stories easily. Too easily."
He stood and walked to the window.
"Those who've truly suffered stay silent. The pain is too deep, too personal to share with strangers on the first day."
"But when I shook his hand... nothing. Complete emptiness."
His father turned to him.
"What if it's not an accident? What if he knows about your gift?" His voice became serious. "What if he took measures so you wouldn't feel anything?"
Cold ran down Elliot's spine.
"You think he deliberately sought a meeting with me?"
"I think it's worth asking that question." His father returned to his chair. "He knew about five brothers. How? He works in charity, but you haven't heard about new organizations in town. His scent changes perfectly, at his will."
Elliot remembered another detail those thin, elegant watches on Wickham's wrist. He'd glimpsed them in the coffee shop. Clearly expensive. Very expensive.
He complains about poverty. But wears a watch worth several thousand pounds?
"Be careful," his father said. "With both of them. Don't rush to trust beautiful words. And don't rush to condemn for silence."
A pause.
"Darcy could have defended himself in the coffee shop. Told his version. But he didn't. Why?"
"Because..." Elliot stumbled, understanding coming slowly.
"Because he knows: whatever he says, you won't believe." His father looked at him seriously. "Wickham has already taken the position of victim. Any attempt by Darcy to justify himself will look like a rich alpha trying to silence a poor omega. He lost that battle before it even began."
Elliot was silent, digesting the words.
"What should I do?"
"Watch. Listen. Think." His father placed a hand on his shoulder. "The most dangerous people aren't those who are openly hostile. But those who smile while holding a knife behind their back."
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****
Late that night Elliot lay in the darkness, unable to sleep.
Fragments circled through his head.
Be careful. Please.
He robbed me of my future.
Don't rush to trust beautiful words.
Small town. Everyone talks about everything.
Something didn't add up. Too many details that didn't fit together.
Wickham knew about the brothers. How?
The gift was completely silent. Why?
Darcy appeared at the coffee shop. How did he know?
The metallic smell. What was it?
Elliot sat up in bed, reached for his phone on the nightstand.
He typed: "George Wickham charity Meryton."
No results.
"George Wickham charity."
Several articles about different people. None matched.
"George Wickham Pemberley."
One short notice in a local newspaper, five years old: "Son of Pemberley estate steward George Wickham has entered military service."
Nothing about a will. Nothing about scandal. Nothing about stolen inheritance or forged documents.
If there really had been a loud scandal, the press would have written about it. Rich heir steals from poor orphan perfect story for tabloids.
Elliot typed the next query: "Fitzwilliam Darcy Pemberley."
Multiple results.
Charitable events. Donations to education. Scholarships for omegas from low-income families. Funding for mental health research. Shelters for victims of domestic violence.
Elliot scrolled through article after article, feeling something tighten in his chest.
Mr. Darcy donated one million pounds to create a support center for omegas with PTSD.
The Pemberley heir financed construction of three shelters for domestic violence victims in Derbyshire.
Fitzwilliam Darcy continues his father's tradition of supporting educational programs for children from disadvantaged families. Over the past three years more than two million pounds have been allocated for scholarships.
How could I not know about this? Why didn't anyone mention it?
Because you listened to gossip instead of checking facts, his father's voice echoed in his head.
This didn't sound like a man who would steal an inheritance from a servant's son. Like a man who despised those beneath his station.
Elliot lowered his phone to his lap.
What if I was wrong? What if Wickham is lying? What if Darcy was telling the truth?
But then it meant Elliot had believed a beautiful lie and rejected an awkward truth. That he'd condemned someone without knowing the facts.
Be careful. Please.
Not a command. Not a threat. A request. Almost a plea.
He was trying to warn me. And I...
Elliot closed his eyes, shame and doubt battling in his chest.
Too many questions. Too few answers.
But one thing he knew for certain: in a week, at the ball, he would learn the truth.
At any cost.
Outside the window the moon slid across the sky, counting down the hours until the moment when everything would change.
And Elliot lay in the darkness, feeling something inside
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him hardening. Preparing for a battle that hadn't yet begun.
But was already inevitable.
ns216.73.216.141da2
and then Add to home screen.