85Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡQL8k2OER2JElliot sat in his room, holding Darcy's letter.
For the third hour straight.
He'd reread it over and over until he'd memorized every word. Every phrase. Every confession.
I love you.
I'm captivated by your scent: bitter chocolate and old books. Unusual. Wrong. Perfect.*
His chest constricted each time he reached those lines. Warmth spread where before there had been only emptiness and anger.
Outside the window, rain drizzled. Grey sky merged with grey earth, turning the world into a blurred smudge.
Elliot stood, approached the window. Placed his palm against the glass.
Rosings Park loomed in the distance, grand and indifferent. Somewhere in that enormous estate, Lady Catherine watched over everyone like a spider at the center of her web. Somewhere in there Annabella nursed the wounds of her pride.
And Darcy...
Darcy had left for London. Without farewell. Leaving only a letter.
*What have I done?* Elliot whispered to the empty room.
He'd pushed away someone who perhaps truly saw him. Not his family, not his position, not his potential usefulness.
Him.
Elliot with his sharp tongue and pride. With his unusual scent and strange gift. With all his flaws and virtues.
Darcy loved him for exactly that.
And Elliot had called him a monster and run off in the rain.
A knock at the door.
"Ellie?" Sher's voice. "Can I come in?"
"Yes."
Sher entered with two cups of tea. Handed one to Elliot.
"You haven't eaten since morning."
"I'm not hungry."
"I know." Sher sat in the armchair by the window. "But drink anyway. You need something warm."
Elliot took the cup but didn't drink. Simply held it, feeling warmth seep through the porcelain.
Sher was silent, not rushing him. They sat like that for several minutes, listening to the rain outside.
Finally Elliot spoke:
"I want to leave."
"When?"
"Tomorrow. Morning train." He looked at his friend.
Sher shook his head.
"Ellie, there are no morning trains to London. There's only an evening one, at six."
"What?" Elliot felt a stab of disappointment. "So I'm stuck here all day..."
"I'm afraid so."
Elliot gripped the cup tighter, his scent sharpening with frustration.
"I can't stay here anymore, Sher. Every time I look at this place, I remember everything. The lunch. The gazebo. His face when I ran away."
Sher nodded slowly.
"I understand."
"Do you?"
"Yes." Sher sipped his tea. "After my wedding to William, I wanted to run too. Every day. But there was nowhere to run. You have a home. Family. People who love you simply for existing."
Elliot felt a lump in his throat.
"Sher..."
"Go home, Ellie." Sher smiled sadly. "Think about everything in a calm environment. Decide what to do next. And then, maybe, you'll write to Darcy. Or not. But it will be your choice. A choice made not in haste, not in anger."
Elliot nodded, clutching the cup.
"Thank you. For everything."
"Nothing to thank me for." Sher stood. "Rest today. Tomorrow I'll drive you to the station."
When he left, Elliot looked again at the letter lying on the bed.
Tomorrow he would leave.
Go home.
And there, far from Rosings Park, from Lady Catherine, from all this chaos, he would decide what to do with his heart. Which, he was beginning to understand, no longer belonged only to him.
***
The following morning was grey and dank.
Elliot woke early, packed his few belongings. He folded Darcy's letter and tucked it into the inner pocket of his jacket, close to his heart.
Like a talisman. Like a reminder.
At breakfast William muttered something about his parish duties, but Elliot barely listened. His thoughts were elsewhere.
"...so Sher and I will be at Mrs. Holbrook's until evening," William finished. "Poor woman is completely bedridden. We need to bring her groceries, help around the house."
"Fine," Elliot nodded absently.
Sher looked at him with concern.
"Will you be alright alone? The train isn't until six."
"I will." Elliot forced himself to smile. "I just need some time to myself. Maybe take a walk. Need to clear my head before the journey."
Sher nodded, but the worry didn't leave his face.
"Be careful," he said quietly, rising from the table.
"I will."
When they left, Elliot remained alone in the quiet cottage.
The clock on the wall ticked monotonously. Outside the rain had temporarily ceased.
Elliot took his jacket, checked for the hundredth time that the letter was in place, and stepped outside.
He needed to walk. Breathe. Clear his head before the long journey home.
And try not to think about Darcy's loving gaze. The taste of his lips. The words that had changed everything forever.
***
Elliot left the cottage around noon.
The sky was overcast with grey clouds, the air damp and heavy. It smelled of approaching rain.
He walked along the path leading to Rosings Park, lost in thought. Darcy's letter was in his jacket pocket, warm from his body heat.
His thoughts churned. About what he'd say to James when he returned home Charles Bingley was still in London, perhaps all wasn't lost. About Darcy, and what to do with this feeling growing in his chest. Write? Call? Or simply appear on his doorstep and confess everything?
Elliot didn't know. One thing was clear: the silence between them was becoming unbearable.
He was so absorbed in his thoughts he didn't notice the car until it drove right past him.
A black sedan, expensive, with tinted windows. It moved slowly, crawling along as though the driver was searching for someone.
The rear window was down.
Elliot glanced that way involuntarily and met the gaze of a man sitting in the back seat.
An alpha, about fifty. Grey hair neatly combed back. Expensive suit. Sharp, merciless features.
But worst of all was his scent.
Even through the distance, even through the closed car doors, Elliot caught it. Sandalwood and something chemical, almost medicinal. The smell of a laboratory, sterility, and control.
Their eyes met.
The man nodded slowly, almost ceremoniously. And smiled.
That smile sent chills down Elliot's spine. It was impeccably polite, completely controlled. But there was nothing human in it. Only icy assessment. As though he was looking not at a person, but at a specimen.
A sample.
Elliot instinctively stepped back.
The car drove off without accelerating. The window rose.
But Elliot still felt that gaze assessing and studying. As though invisible fingers had slid across his skin, leaving a frigid trail.
Elliot quickly turned into the park, away from the road.
His heart beat too fast. His hands trembled.
Who was that? Why did he look at me that way?
He quickened his pace, going deeper into the park where the trees grew thicker, where the paths disappeared into greenery.
Elliot needed to collect himself. Catch his breath. Sort out his thoughts.
He walked without watching where he was going while his mind raced between memories: Darcy's letter, his confession, his love; the kiss in the gazebo, heat, passion and desperation; Wickham, his lies, his manipulations; Lady Catherine, her questions about his gift, her foundation that 'studied' special omegas.
All of it swirled in his head, forming a picture he was afraid to see completely.
Elliot walked so long he didn't notice how far he'd gone. The park around him had become wild, untouched. The paths vanished, leaving only narrow trails between trees.
He stopped, gulping air, trying to orient himself.
And then he heard voices.
Male. Two of them. Speaking quietly, but the words carried clearly in the park's silence.
"...don't understand why such urgency. We have time."
"There is no time. Darcy's become too involved with the omega. Could ruin everything. And you're no longer in control."
Elliot froze.
Something in those voices made him stop. Made him alert.
He carefully peered from behind a thick oak trunk, squinting through the tangle of branches and foliage.
Several dozen meters away, in a small clearing, stood two men. He could see their silhouettes through the trees blurred but distinguishable.
One in a green jacket. Familiar. Too familiar.
Wickham.
Icy terror pierced him.
The second, a tall figure in a dark expensive suit. Standing with his back turned, but even at a distance Elliot could see grey hair, broad shoulders.
They continued talking, but now the words became indistinct. Only fragments of phrases. Tone. Tension in their voices.
Elliot pressed against the tree, his pulse hammering at his temples.
What is Wickham doing here? Who is he meeting?
And then the thought struck him, clear and merciless:
The de Bourgh Foundation. Lady Catherine. They're connected. Wickham works with them.
Everything fit. Everything formed a horrifying picture.
They know about my gift. They're watching me. Wickham was sent. To observe. To study. And now...
Panic gripped his throat in an iron vise.
He had to leave. Immediately.
Elliot began slowly backing away, trying not to make noise, not to step on dry branches.
One step. Two. Three.
His foot landed on a fallen branch.
CRACK.
The sound was loud as a gunshot in the park's silence.
Both men instantly fell silent and turned in his direction.
"Who's there?" a sharp voice cut through the silence.
Elliot spun and ran.
His heart tried to tear from his chest. His hands shook. His feet tangled in roots and tall grass.
He heard shouts behind him. The pounding of feet.
"After him! Don't let him get away!"
Elliot ran without watching where, through trees, bushes, puddles. Branches whipped his face, scratched his hands. He stumbled, fell, got up and ran again.
His lungs burned. A stitch pierced his side. But fear drove him forward.
He burst from the park onto the road, nearly getting hit by a car. The driver slammed the brakes, honked, shouted something out the window.
Elliot didn't stop. Ran onward, toward the cottage.
When he burst into the house, his knees buckled. He collapsed on the floor in the entryway, gasping, his scent so sharp with fear the air became nearly suffocating.
His hands shook so violently he could barely grip the door handle.
They know. They want to abduct me. God, what do I do?
A thought pierced him, clear and terrible: he wasn't safe here. Wasn't safe anywhere while they were searching for him.
He had to leave. Now. Immediately.
Elliot rose on unsteady legs. Went to his room. Grabbed his suitcase, his bag. Made sure Darcy's letter was still in his pocket.
Then wrote a note for Sher with a trembling hand:
"Sher,
Sorry I'm leaving so suddenly. Something happened. Can't explain now. But I need to leave immediately.
Thank you for everything. For your friendship and support.
Take care of yourself. And forgive William if he's upset about my sudden departure.
Ellie"
He left the note on the kitchen table, weighting it with the salt shaker.
Then left the house, closed the door, and headed for the station.
***
An hour later Elliot stood on the station platform with his single suitcase and a bag over his shoulder.
Darcy's letter lay in his pocket, next to his heart. He pressed his hand to it from time to time, as though it were protection.
The station was nearly empty. A few passengers waited for the train, reading newspapers, talking on phones.
Elliot stood apart, at the edge of the platform, staring at the tracks.
His thoughts were chaotic, painful.
About Darcy, about his letter, about words of love that echoed in his head.
About James and Bingley, about their happiness that could be restored.
About Wickham, his lies, the danger he represented, about what Elliot had seen in the park.
About himself. About his pride that hadn't let him see the truth sooner. About his prejudices.
What now? Write to Darcy? Ask for help? Try to explain? Or is it too late?
Elliot didn't know the answer.
Knew only that his life had changed irrevocably. There was no going back.
The speaker announced the train's arrival.
Elliot picked up his suitcase, headed for the platform.
And froze.
At the station exit stood a man. Tall, lean, in that familiar green jacket.
George Wickham.
He smiled that charming smile of his that had once seemed so friendly, so warm.
Now it looked like a predator's snarl.
His scent of bergamot and cedar enveloped Elliot, but now there was something else in it. Something metallic and harsh.
"Ellie!" he exclaimed, approaching, spreading his arms. "What a meeting! I was just about to call you!"
Without thinking Elliot stepped back, gripping his bag strap. His scent turned defensive, sharp.
"George."
"You look tired," Wickham tilted his head, studying him with the same calculating assessment as the man in the car. "Rosings Park wasn't as pleasant as expected?"
"What are you doing here?" Elliot's voice was distant and wary.
"Waiting for you," Wickham answered simply, his green eyes unblinking. "We need to talk. Something happened. With your brother. With Lloyd."
The blood froze in Elliot's veins.
"What? What happened to Lloyd?"
"Nothing serious. Yet." Wickham stepped closer, and Elliot felt his instincts screaming: *danger*. "But I'm afraid he's gotten into trouble. Serious trouble. And I'm the only one who can help him."
He extended his hand, palm up. An inviting gesture.
"Come. I'll explain everything on the way. I have a car nearby."
Elliot stared at that hand and remembered words from Darcy's letter.
He's charming. Charismatic. Knows how to find vulnerable people and exploit them.
And then something else surfaced in his mind: the meeting in the park. Wickham with that man. Secret conversation away from prying eyes.
The de Bourgh Foundation. He works with them. All this time he's been watching me. Studying. And now he's trying to lure me. Lloyd... it's bait.
Elliot understood.
This was a trap.
Lloyd was fine. Had to be. This was just a way to make him come willingly.
"No," Elliot said firmly. "I'm not going with you."
Something flickered in Wickham's green eyes. Something predatory and almost inhuman.
"Ellie," his voice softened, almost pleading. "I'm your friend. I'm trying to help. Don't you trust me?"
"No," Elliot stepped back again. "Not anymore."
Silence. The scent of bergamot and cedar that had always seemed so warm and welcoming now changed. Became sharp, metallic, dangerous.
"So he got to you," Wickham lowered his hand, his face becoming a mask without emotion. "Darcy told you his version."
"He told me the truth," Elliot dug his fingers into the bag strap, his own scent growing even more defensive.
"Truth?" Wickham laughed, and there was nothing mirthful in it. Only contempt. "He told you what he wants you to believe. About poor little Georgiana. About evil, cruel Wickham. Beautiful story, isn't it? Very touching."
"He has proof," Elliot felt his voice trembling but forced himself to speak firmly. "Documents. Letters. Receipts. Everything."
"Documents can be forged," Wickham stepped closer, and Elliot backed away. "Especially when you have as much money and connections as Darcy. He can buy any testimony. Any lie."
"Stay away from me."
"Ellie, listen," Wickham raised his hands in a conciliatory gesture, but his eyes remained calculating and emotionless. "I understand. Darcy's persuasive. After all, he's influential, wealthy, handsome. Of course you believed him. Who wouldn't? But think logically: why is he trying so hard to convince you I'm bad? What does he want from you?"
"Nothing," Elliot clenched his fists so hard his nails dug into his palms. "He wants nothing except..."
He didn't finish, but Wickham understood. His lips curved in a knowing smile.
"Ah, so that's it. He confessed to you. Said he loves you. How romantic." He spoke the last word with mockery. "And you believed him, of course. Because who wouldn't want Fitzwilliam Darcy, one of England's wealthiest and most influential alphas, to love them?"
"That's none of your business," Elliot hissed.
"You don't understand, Ellie," Wickham shook his head, and a note of pity appeared in his voice false, theatrical. "You're an experiment to him. A toy. Something unusual, exotic that he wants to add to his collection. An omega with an unusual scent. With unusual abilities."
Elliot went numb. The world tilted.
"What did you say?"
"Oh," Wickham smiled wider, triumphantly. "You thought I didn't know? About your little secret? Psychometry, right? The ability to see the past through touching objects?"
Elliot couldn't breathe. Couldn't move.
"How did you..."
He broke off, and understanding pierced him.
*Of course, from the Foundation. They know. Lady Catherine knows. That's why she questioned me so carefully. That's why Wickham appeared in my life exactly when he did.*
Everything fit. The whole picture formed something terrifying.
"I have my sources," Wickham shrugged casually. "And I'm fairly certain Darcy knows too. More precisely, his family knows. They're very interested in people like you. Their foundation... well, let's just say they don't only help special omegas. They study them. Collect information. Control them."
"You're lying," Elliot whispered, but his voice was uncertain.
"Me?" Wickham laughed. "Ellie, think. Why was Lady Catherine so interested in you? Asking about your work, about what you feel when touching old things? Why did she want you to marry her clergyman, become part of her controlled circle? Why did Darcy suddenly start courting you after months of ignoring you? Do you really think that's love?"
"Stop," Elliot turned. "I'm leaving. Don't follow me."
He took several steps toward the train, but Wickham was suddenly beside him. His movements were fast, almost inhuman.
"I'm afraid I can't let you go," he said quietly, and there wasn't a trace of pretend friendliness left in his voice. Only determination.
Elliot felt a prick in his neck. Sharp, burning, like a wasp sting.
He jerked around and saw the syringe in Wickham's hand. Empty. The needle gleamed in the light.
"What did you..." his voice became slurred, as though his mouth was stuffed with cotton. The world began swimming before his eyes, colors blurring, sounds becoming muffled.
"Sorry, Ellie," Wickham caught him as his knees buckled. "But we have plans for you. Very interesting plans. Your gift is too valuable to let you escape."
Elliot tried to fight, but his body wouldn't obey. His arms and legs became useless, like cotton. His eyelids filled with lead.
He wanted to scream, call for help, but only a quiet moan escaped his throat.
The people on the platform... why wasn't anyone helping? Why didn't anyone see?
Through the haze clouding his vision, Elliot saw some passengers glancing their way. But Wickham smiled at them, charmingly, reassuringly.
"My friend's feeling ill," Elliot heard his voice from far away. "I'll take him home. Everything's fine."
And people turned away. Returned to their newspapers, phones. No one cared.
Consciousness slipped away, reality fragmenting.
Black car... pulling up... tinted windows...
Window lowering... blurred... that man...
Voice... distant and muffled...
Finally... good catch...
Second car... silhouettes... large... two of them...
Elliot tried to fight... to scream... but the darkness was stronger...
It covered him.
And the world disappeared.
85Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡPqWUx8d2K3
85Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡu0phyLgKS2
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