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November draped Meryton in a grey blanket of rain and fog. Days grew shorter, nights longer and colder. A strange, tense atmosphere settled over Longbourn, as though the house had frozen in anticipation of something inevitable.
Mrs. Bennet still hadn't forgiven Elliot for refusing William. She spoke to him only when necessary, and every word dripped with resentment. Her scent of cloying fruity perfume had turned sour, mixed with the smell of cheap wine she now drank more and more often. In the evenings her sobs and lamentations about ungrateful children and approaching poverty drifted from her room.
James moved through the house like a shadow. His usual soft scent of white acacia and warm milk had dulled, become grey and lifeless. He no longer smiled, no longer conducted his online workshops, barely ate. He simply existed, mechanically performing daily tasks, but somewhere far away, in a place no one could follow.
Elliot tried to talk to him, but James only nodded and said everything was fine. But his scent betrayed him the familiar softness of acacia and milk had faded, leaving only grey bitterness.
Michael locked himself in his room with stacks of old family papers and genealogical trees, muttering about some "great discovery" he was about to make. His scent of dry wormwood and dusty parchment became even sharper and more suffocating.
Kit and Lloyd continued living in their world of music, videos, and social media, barely noticing the drama unfolding around them. Their scents were the only bright spots in the house's general greyness.
Mr. Bennet retreated even deeper into his study, rarely emerging even for meals. His almost imperceptible scent of cold Earl Grey became distant and detached, as though he were trying to wall himself off from the chaos around him.
And Elliot... Elliot sought salvation where he could find it.
***
"Another latte?" George Wickham smiled, sitting across from Elliot in their usual coffee shop. "This is our third meeting this week. People will start talking."
His scent of fresh bergamot and warm cedar was welcoming, dispersing the greyness of the November day. But Elliot noticed that thin metallic note that always hid beneath the surface. Wickham smiled that easy, charming smile of his that made everything seem simpler and brighter.
"Let them talk," Elliot shrugged, taking a sip of his coffee. "I needed to get out of the house. A little longer and I'll go mad."
"That bad?" Wickham tilted his head, his green eyes full of sympathy.
"Worse," Elliot lowered his gaze to his cup. "Mother isn't speaking to me. James is... James is broken. The house is like a tomb."
"And your brother still hasn't heard from Bingley?"
Elliot shook his head.
"Not a word. Not even a text. As though nothing ever happened."
Wickham was silent, the bergamot sharpening slightly, a light edge of bitterness appearing.
"I'm not surprised," he finally said. "Charles Bingley is a good man, but weak. He's easily influenced. Especially by his sister. And Caroline Bingley..." He grimaced. "She's one of those people who think money and connections are the only things that matter."
"And Darcy?" The question escaped Elliot before he could stop himself.
Something flickered in Wickham's eyes. He sipped his espresso before answering, and the metallic note in his scent emerged more sharply.
"Darcy is a puppeteer. He always has been. He doesn't dirty his own hands, but he pulls the strings, controlling those weaker than himself. Bingley is a puppet to him. An obedient, trusting friend who can be steered in the right direction."
Elliot felt something tighten in his chest.
"Do you really think Darcy convinced Bingley to abandon James?"
"I don't think. I know," Wickham leaned back in his chair. "I've known Fitzwilliam Darcy my entire life. He considers himself above everyone. Especially above those without money and connections. To him, your brother is an unsuitable match. An omega from a poor family with a 'problematic' reputation. Of course he intervened."
A pause. Wickham looked out the window, his aroma growing heavier.
"Remember I told you I'd tell you the whole story? About what happened between me and Darcy?" He turned to Elliot. "I think it's time."
Elliot straightened, all attention.
Wickham took a deep breath, old pain appearing in his scent the cedar becoming dry, the bergamot sour.
"Old Mr. Darcy promised me more than just help with education. He promised me a living. A clergyman's position at one of the Pemberley estates. It was in his will. I saw the document with my own eyes." His voice grew quieter. "But when he died, Fitzwilliam decided I was unworthy. That a steward's son couldn't claim such a position. He found a loophole in the will, wording that could be interpreted two ways. And stripped me of everything."
"He couldn't just..."
"He could. And he did." Wickham smiled bitterly. "He offered me monetary compensation instead of the living. Three thousand pounds. Sounds generous, doesn't it? But it's nothing compared to what I was owed. A permanent income, position in society, a home, stability. Everything I'd dreamed of."
He ran his hand through his hair.
"I refused. Pride, probably. Foolish pride. I said I wanted what I'd been promised, not charity. And you know what he did?" Green eyes met Elliot's. "He spread rumors that I was demanding more than I was entitled to. That I was an ungrateful upstart trying to blackmail the Darcy family. Who believed me? A poor alpha with no connections? No one."
The metal in his scent became sharp as a blade.
"I had to join the army. It was the only way out. I served three years. Saw things I don't want to remember. And Darcy? Darcy lived at Pemberley, managing a fortune that could feed half the country. And never once thought about how he'd destroyed someone's life."
Silence hung between them, heavy and painful.
"I'm sorry," Elliot finally said. "I'm sorry that happened to you."
Wickham shrugged, and his aroma slowly returned to normal bergamot fresh again, cedar warm, though the metal didn't disappear completely.
"The past can't be changed. But I want you to know the truth about the man everyone considers so noble." He looked at Elliot seriously. "Darcy knows how to play a role. The impeccable gentleman. The generous philanthropist. But it's only a mask. Beneath it is a selfish man who cares only about himself and his position."
Darcy's voice echoed in Elliot's memory: You're the most right thing I've ever...
Elliot felt confusion. The desire he'd read in that moment at the ball had been real. Strong. Almost desperate.
But maybe Wickham was right. Maybe desire was one thing and actions were something else entirely. Maybe Darcy really did want Elliot but simultaneously considered him unworthy. And that's why he'd convinced Bingley to stay away from James.
"Ellie?" Wickham's voice brought him back to reality. "You drifted off."
"Sorry," Elliot rubbed his hands over his face. "Just tired. The last few weeks have been... difficult."
"I heard about your cousin," Wickham smiled sympathetically. "About how he proposed and you refused. That was brave."
"Or stupid."
"Brave," Wickham repeated firmly. He reached across the table and covered Elliot's palm with his own. "Not everyone can sacrifice security for their own dignity. You should be proud of yourself."
The touch was warm, friendly. And most importantly no visions. No flashes of foreign memories. Just the pleasant warmth of skin and the scent of bergamot and cedar that was calming.
Elliot didn't pull away.
In recent weeks he'd felt so alone that any genuine concern seemed like a lifeline.
Wickham didn't press, didn't wait for explanations. He was simply here when Elliot needed someone beside him.
"Thank you," Elliot said quietly.
"Always welcome," Wickham squeezed his hand and released it. "You know, there's a small party in town next week. Nothing pompous, not like the Netherfield balls. Just a gathering of local young people. Music, drinks, conversation. Want to go? You could use the distraction."
Elliot hesitated. The idea of spending an evening in a noisy crowd of strangers didn't inspire him. But the prospect of another evening in gloomy Longbourn was even worse.
"All right," he agreed. "Why not?"
Wickham smiled broadly.
"Excellent! I promise you won't regret it."
***
At home Elliot found an unusual scene. Mrs. Bennet was bustling around the sitting room with her phone in hand, her aroma for the first time in weeks not quite so sour. A note of excitement, almost jubilation, had appeared in it.
"James!" she was shouting. "James, come here immediately!"
James descended the stairs slowly, his face indifferent, his scent grey.
"What happened, Mother?"
"I just got a call from Mrs. Harrington!" Mother waved her phone. "Diana remember! My school friend! She's inviting you to London! For two weeks!"
Something flickered in James's eyes. A spark of interest that hadn't been there for weeks.
"To London?"
"Yes! She's organizing a charity auction to support omega entrepreneurs! Raising funds for a microlending program!" Mrs. Bennet beamed. "Diana remembered your workshops I've told her about them so many times and said you'd be perfect as a consultant! You'll help with the program, speak at the presentation! It's a wonderful opportunity! You'll meet influential people, make useful connections!"
Elliot saw something change in his brother's face. The scent of acacia became slightly brighter, warmer, the milk stopped being quite so rancid.
"When?" James asked.
"Next week! For two whole weeks! Oh, this is so wonderful! You'll go, won't you? Say you'll go!"
James was silent for several seconds. Then he slowly nodded.
"Yes. I'll go."
"Wonderful!" Mrs. Bennet clapped her hands. "We need to buy you new clothes! And cologne! You need new cologne! Oh God, there's so much to do!"
She ran to her room, muttering shopping lists. James remained standing in the middle of the sitting room, his face thoughtful.
Elliot walked over to him.
"James?"
His brother turned to him, and in his eyes Elliot saw something that made his heart clench. Hope. Desperate, painful hope.
"He's in London," James said quietly. "Mr. Bingley. He's in London."
"James..."
"I know what you're thinking," James raised his hand, stopping the objection. "That I shouldn't. That he abandoned me. That I'm humiliating myself by even hoping to see him. But Ellie..." His voice trembled. "I can't help hoping. Even if it's foolish. Even if it hurts."
Elliot hugged his brother, feeling him tremble.
"Just... be careful," he said quietly. "Protect your heart."
"Too late," James whispered into his shoulder. "It's not mine anymore."
***
That evening Elliot stopped by his father's study. Mr. Bennet sat by the window, looking at the rain. His scent of cold tea was sad.
"James is going to London," Elliot said, closing the door.
"I heard," his father didn't turn around. "Your mother couldn't contain her delight."
"He's hoping to see Bingley."
"Of course he is."
Silence. Then his father turned.
"Son, I can't protect you from everything. Can't shield you from pain. But I can give advice: don't let hope turn into despair. James is going to London with an open heart. It will either save him or break him completely."
"What should I do?"
"Be there. When he returns, he'll need a brother. Not a judge. Not a comforter. Just a brother."
Elliot nodded.
His father extended his hand, and Elliot shook it. A rare gesture of closeness.
"Ellie, no offense intended, but... aren't you spending rather a lot of time with Mr. Wickham?"
Elliot froze.
"Why do you ask?"
His father was silent, his scent of cold tea becoming thoughtful.
"You see, son, when someone appears in your life precisely when you're most vulnerable... when he says exactly what you want to hear, exactly about the people you're already prepared to hate..." He looked into Elliot's eyes. "That might be coincidence. Or it might be calculation."
"George isn't like that..."
"I'm not saying he's a bad person," his father gently interrupted. "I'm saying that in your current state after everything that happened with James, after William, after that ball you're especially susceptible to someone offering simple answers to complex questions."
A pause.
"Friendship is a wonderful thing. But true friendship doesn't require you to choose sides. Doesn't require you to hate someone in order to love it."
He squeezed Elliot's hand a bit tighter.
"Just be careful. Listen to what he says. But listen even more carefully to what he doesn't say."
***
A few days later Elliot saw James off at the station. His brother looked better, there was a gleam in his eyes, his scent brighter. He even smiled when boarding the train.
"Call when you arrive," Elliot said.
"I promise," James hugged him. "And Ellie... thank you. For not trying to talk me out of it."
"I'm always on your side," Elliot answered. "Remember that."
The train pulled away, and Elliot watched as it disappeared into the distance, taking his brother and his fragile hopes with it.
Please let everything be all right, he thought. Please don't let his heart be broken again.
But the sky was silent, grey and indifferent.
***
The party Wickham had invited him to was held in a small club on the outskirts of Meryton. Music blared, lights flashed, and the air was thick with a mixture of scents alphas, omegas, betas, all blended into one intoxicating cacophony.
Elliot felt out of place. His scent of bitter chocolate and smoke seemed foreign in this atmosphere of artificial gaiety. But Wickham kept a hand on his elbow, guiding him through the crowd, introducing him to his friends other alphas, several omegas, a couple of betas.
"This is Elliot Bennet," he said with pride that seemed genuine. "My close friend."
People smiled, nodded, tried to strike up conversations. Elliot responded politely but distantly. His thoughts were occupied with James in London, with Sher now living with William somewhere in a parish under Lady Catherine's patronage, with the house that was becoming increasingly suffocating.
And with Darcy. Always with Darcy.
You're the most right thing I've ever...
Why wouldn't those words leave him alone? Why couldn't he just forget them?
"Hey," Wickham appeared beside him with two glasses. "Drink. Relax."
Elliot took the glass and sipped. Something sweet with a light taste of alcohol. Not too strong, but enough to dull the sharp edges of thought slightly.
"Thanks," he said.
He watched the dancing crowd but didn't see them. Before his eyes still stood that scene from the ball. Darcy's hand on his waist. Grey eyes full of something desperate. The unfinished phrase that haunted him.
"You're here but not here," Wickham said gently. "Something's eating at you from inside. Or someone?"
Elliot flinched as though caught red-handed.
"Is it that obvious?"
"To someone who knows how to look," Wickham sipped his drink. "Let me guess. Tall, cold, smelling of whiskey and superiority?"
Elliot felt himself flush. His scent flared—bitter chocolate mixing with something warm, almost sweet before he could get himself under control.
"I'm not..."
"Ellie," Wickham looked at him with sympathy. "I understand. Darcy... he knows how to make an impression. He's rich, handsome, influential. But beneath all that exterior is a cold and cruel heart. He uses people like chess pieces. And discards them when they're no longer needed."
Wickham sighed, the bergamot in his aroma becoming bitter.
Elliot didn't respond, but his silence was a question.
Wickham looked into his eyes, and in his gaze was old pain.
"I saw it with my own eyes. I saw how he destroyed my life..." Wickham looked into his eyes, and in his gaze was old pain. "How he took everything I'd been promised. How he threw me out like trash because I wasn't good enough, not noble enough in his eyes."
He took a sip, his hand trembling slightly.
"You're a good person, Ellie. Too good for someone like Darcy. He'll break you if you let him get close."
Elliot wanted to object. Wanted to say that in that moment at the ball he'd felt not coldness but something entirely different. Desperate, hot, almost painful desire.
But the words stuck in his throat.
Because Wickham was right, wasn't he? Darcy considered his family unworthy. He'd convinced Bingley to abandon James. He looked at Elliot from the height of his position and wealth.
What he felt didn't change what he'd done.
"I'm not planning to let him get close," Elliot finally said.
"Good," Wickham smiled, and his scent became warm again, the bergamot freshening. "Now let's try to forget about all this for at least one evening. Dance?"
Elliot hesitated, then nodded. Why not? Anything to distract from the thoughts gnawing at him from inside.
They went onto the dance floor, and music washed over them in a wave. Wickham danced easily, naturally, drawing Elliot along. His scent of bergamot and cedar mixed with Elliot's bitter chocolate, creating something warm and pleasant.
And for a few minutes, just a few precious minutes, Elliot let himself forget.
Forget about Darcy.
About James.
About Lady Catherine de Bourgh and her suspicious interest.
About the fear that some organization would come for him.
Just dance, feel the music, be alive in this moment.
But when the song ended and the lights grew brighter, reality returned with all its weight.
And Elliot understood that escape was impossible.
No matter how much he danced.
***
The next day a message came from James.
Arrived. Mrs. Harrington met me. The house is very beautiful. Tomorrow we start working on the auction. Everything's fine.
Short. Dry. Nothing about Bingley.
Elliot knew what that meant. James hadn't seen him yet. Or he had, and the meeting hadn't gone as he'd hoped.
He replied:
‘Glad you're safe. Keep me posted. I'm here if you need me.’
There was no answer.
***
That night, already home, Elliot sat by his bedroom window looking at the stars. His phone buzzed.
A message from James.
‘Ellie. I saw him. Mr. Bingley. By chance, on the street. He was with his sister. He... he walked right past me. Didn't even say hello. As though I didn't exist.’
A pause. Then another message:
You were right. He doesn't deserve me. But why does it hurt so much?
Elliot gripped his phone so hard it nearly cracked.
Rage white and hot flared in his chest. His scent exploded in the room: bitter chocolate turned to charred bitterness, smoke became acrid and toxic.
Rage at Bingley, who was too weak to think for himself.
Rage at Caroline Bingley, who manipulated her brother for her own ambitions.
And rage at Darcy.
At Fitzwilliam Darcy, who had convinced Bingley to abandon James. Who considered himself entitled to decide who deserved happiness and who didn't.
Who had destroyed his brother's hopes.
You're the most right thing I've ever...
Elliot typed a response:
Come home. Please. You don't need to stay there. Not for him.
The answer came almost immediately:
I can't. I promised Mrs. Harrington I'd help. I'll hold on.
Elliot lowered his phone and closed his eyes.
Everything was falling apart. Slowly but inexorably.
James broken by news of Bingley walking past as though he didn't exist.
Sher living at Rosings Park under de Bourgh supervision, surrounded by their power and control.
Mother blaming him for the collapse of family hopes.
This was the same man who had destroyed James's happiness. Who, according to Wickham, had stolen an inheritance and ruined his life.
And somewhere out there, in the shadow of all this chaos, a threat was approaching. Elliot felt it in every cell. He didn't know from where, didn't know when, but it was coming like a storm on the horizon.
And he had no idea how to protect himself from it.
L
***
James returned home on a grey December afternoon when the sky hung low over Longbourn, heavy with unshed snow clouds. Inside him everything was as grey and heavy as that winter sky.
Elliot heard the sound of the taxi and ran out onto the porch without even throwing on a jacket.
His brother got out of the car slowly, as though every movement required incredible effort. His scent of white acacia and warm milk, which had always been so cozy and calming, now sounded discordant. It had become drier, harsher, with a bitter note of despair.
"James," Elliot hugged him, feeling his brother tense before carefully returning the embrace.
"Hi, Ellie," James's voice sounded even, too even. "I'm home."
But something in the intonation betrayed internal tension. Part of James still remained in London the very part that continued to believe, hope, love.
An internal monologue washed over him with a wave of memories. Charles wasn't like typical alphas. He listened, heard, was gentle. James remembered their first meetings tentative touches, warm glances, promises about the future. Charles spoke about their life together so sincerely that James had believed he'd finally met the one.
And then sudden emptiness. A letter from Caroline, followed by complete silence.
Mrs. Bennet ran out after them, her cloying aroma mixing with the cold air.
"James! My boy!" She tried to hug him, but he gently but firmly pulled away.
"Mother, please. I'm tired."
Something in his tone made her fall silent. She stepped back, her scent turning sour with hurt and worry.
James picked up his suitcase and walked into the house without looking back. His back was straight, his steps firm, but Elliot saw how his shoulders trembled.
The first three days James barely left his room. He worked, conducted online workshops, answered emails about branding for omega entrepreneurs. Outwardly composed, professional.
But at night, when the house slept, Elliot heard quiet, muffled sounds. The bitter aroma of acacia saturated with despair seeped under the door.
On the fourth day Elliot couldn't stand it.
"James," he carefully sat beside him. "Please tell me what happened?"
James was silent for a long time. Then he slowly closed his laptop.
"I saw him," he said quietly. "Three times in two weeks."
And he began to tell. About meetings, about chance intersections. About how Charles was still just as gentle but now a stranger.
"He was so... polite," James's voice trembled. "Like with someone barely acquainted. As though there'd been nothing between us."
Elliot hugged his brother. This time James didn't resist.
"Promise me," James whispered, "that you'll never let yourself be treated so cruelly."
Elliot squeezed his hand.
"I promise. I swear it.”
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