Snowbound with Alpha Darcy (Pride & Prejudice Omegaverse Variation)

Chapter 1

CHAPTER ONE

The rain began as a whisper against the windows, soft droplets that gathered and ran in rivulets down the glass.

Elizabeth traced one with her finger from her perch on the window seat, watching it merge with another, then another, until they formed a small river racing toward the sill.

Outside, the sky had turned the color of old pewter, heavy clouds pressing down on Netherfield's grounds like a weight.

"Such dreadful weather," Mrs. Bennet proclaimed from her chair near the fire. "Thank heaven the bridge suffered that damage. Can you imagine attempting to cross in this? We might have been swept away!"

The bridge's central support beam had cracked clean through, the wood blackened with rot that the rain had finally exposed.

Bingley had reported that the local carpenter had taken one look at it yesterday morning and shaken his head—the whole structure needed shoring up before anyone could cross safely.

With the roads already turned to thick mud that swallowed carriage wheels up to their axles, bringing in proper timber would take days.

But Mrs. Bennet had declared it a catastrophe requiring at least a week's delay before they could safely return to Longbourn.

Mr. Bingley, still glowing with newlywed happiness, had insisted they must stay until proper repairs could be arranged.

Elizabeth watched the rain turn to sleet, ice crystals mixing with water, coating the garden paths in a treacherous glaze. Trapped. That's what she was. Trapped in this house with its elegant rooms and careful distances, trapped with her own realizations that had come far too late.

Three days since Jane's wedding. Three days of careful maneuvering through hallways, timing her appearances in the breakfast room, finding urgent letters to write whenever footsteps approached the library. Three days of avoiding him.

Months ago, she'd understood everything he had done.

Ever since Lydia had laughed over tea during her wedding visit in August, carelessly mentioning Mr. Darcy's role in her marriage.

"Four thousand pounds! Can you imagine? And tracking them all the way to London himself.

Wickham never stood a chance once Mr. Darcy decided to hunt him down. "

The words had frozen Elizabeth mid-reach for her teacup. Four thousand pounds. The searching. The negotiations. The saving of her family from complete ruin. All done quietly, without seeking credit or acknowledgment.

She'd loved him then. Or perhaps admitted what she'd known since reading his letter at Hunsford, since walking through Pemberley's galleries and hearing his housekeeper's praise. Certainly since that moment by the stream when he'd smiled at her with such unexpected warmth.

But what use were such admissions now?

From her seat, she could see into the drawing room where Caroline Bingley held court beside Mr. Darcy, her hand resting on the arm of his chair. He sat reading, or pretending to read—the page hadn't turned in ten minutes. Caroline's voice carried clearly.

"Lady Catherine writes that the grounds at Rosings are particularly lovely this year, despite her mourning.

Poor Anne. Such a sudden decline." Caroline adjusted her shawl, ensuring her omega scent—that cloying heather—wafted appropriately.

"Her ladyship mentioned she hopes to see Pemberley's mistress share Anne's refinement. "

Mrs. Hurst made some appropriate sound of sympathy. Mr. Darcy turned his page at last.

Elizabeth closed her eyes. A beta. She'd always known it, been comfortable with it.

Betas made excellent governesses, companions, maiden aunts.

They didn't inspire the protective instincts of alphas or suffer the physical vulnerabilities of omegas during their heats.

They were practical. Steady. Unremarkable.

"It's pathetic when someone reaches above their biology," Caroline had hissed yesterday when they'd passed in the corridor.

"You understand, don't you, Miss Eliza? An alpha of his standing.

.. well. He was quite clear at dinner last week.

'A beta could never truly satisfy an alpha's needs,' he said. Such refreshing honesty."

The insult had struck deep, yet Elizabeth had simply curved her lips upward and withdrawn to the safety of her room.

Caroline possessed an instinct for weakness that Darcy lacked—she knew how Elizabeth's breath caught at his footfall, how she hoarded his words to others like winter provisions, sifting through them for traces of forgiveness, of possibility.

He gave her emptiness.

He'd been unfailingly polite all week. Proper.

Distant. He rose when she entered, inquired after her health when society demanded it, passed the salt when requested.

But his eyes slid past her as if she were furniture.

When conversation required his response to something she'd said, he directed his words to the air slightly to her left.

Yesterday at dinner, she'd attempted a small joke about the weather. Jane had laughed. Bingley had chuckled. Across from her, Darcy had continued cutting his meat without a glance.

It was worse than anger. Worse than the proud disdain he'd shown at the Meryton assembly.

This indifference, this careful erasure of her from his notice—it spoke of a man protecting himself from further harm.

She'd wounded him at Hunsford, thrown his proposal back with accusations and bitterness.

Of course he'd armored himself against her.

He'd once asked for a beta's hand, knowing it could never satisfy him.

Now he knew better than to repeat such folly.

The sleet grew heavier, drumming against the windows with increasing force. Ice was forming on the bare branches of the oak tree, turning them to crystal. Beautiful and treacherous.

"Mr. Darcy," Caroline's voice rose again, "you must tell Mrs. Hurst about Pemberley's succession of drawing rooms. She's quite curious about the arrangements for large parties."

A pause. Then his voice, low and measured. "They are adequately sized."

Caroline laughed—that practiced, tinkling sound. "So modest! They're magnificent, Mrs. Hurst."

Elizabeth stood abruptly, needing movement, needing distance from that voice and its implications.

The rain had become a proper storm now, wind driving the ice against the house with sharp, insistent taps.

The ground had become a morass of slush that would breach any walking boot, penetrate stockings, and cling with miserable tenacity.

There would be no fleeing Netherfield today.

The library offered temporary refuge. Her father sat ensconced in his usual chair, spectacles perched on his nose, a volume of philosophy open on his lap. He glanced up at her entrance, one eyebrow lifting at her expression.

"Lizzy. You look as though you've swallowed vinegar."

She attempted a smile, but the wool of her shawl scraped against her neck like sandpaper. She yanked it off, then immediately felt exposed without it. "The weather has me out of sorts."

"Hmm." He returned to his book. "The weather. Of course."

Elizabeth selected a random volume—poetry, she noted without interest—and settled into the chair opposite him.

The leather felt wrong against her skin, too smooth, too cold.

She shifted, but that only made the seams of her dress press uncomfortably against her ribs.

Even turning the pages irritated her, the paper's texture rough beneath her fingertips, catching at her skin like tiny thorns.

After twenty minutes of pretending to read the same stanza, she retreated to her guest room.

The writing desk beckoned. Charlotte would want news of Jane's wedding. Aunt Gardiner deserved a proper letter after her kind correspondence last month. Elizabeth dipped her quill, watched the ink bead at its tip.

My dear Charlotte,

She stopped. What came next? Words scattered through her mind like leaves in wind, refusing to settle into coherent sentences. The quill's feather brushed her wrist—another irritation. She set it down, picked it up, set it down again.

The wedding was—

Was what? Beautiful? Jane had glowed. Bingley had stammered through his vows.

Mary and Kitty had not shown themselves poorly, and had even managed to allay their mother's tears as she bemoaned the few miles between Netherfield and Longbourn.

Darcy had stood beside his friend in dark blue that made his eyes—

She crumpled the paper.

Outside, ice continued its assault on the windows. She pressed her forehead against the cool glass, watching her breath fog the pane. The storm had turned the afternoon dark as evening, shadows pooling in the corners of the room.

The bed drew her attention. Something about the pillows seemed wrong—their arrangement too rigid, too formal.

She pulled one to the center, then another, creating a small bowl.

No. That wasn't right either. She added the bolster, propped two against the headboard, scattered the smaller cushions in what should have been a pleasing pattern.

It looked ridiculous.

With a sound of frustration, she grabbed them all, throwing them back to their original positions with unnecessary force. One bounced off the bed entirely. She left it on the floor.

Evening came. Dinner was an affair not worth mentioning. Jane had disappeared after dinner—ostensibly to review household accounts with her new husband, though her flushed cheeks suggested otherwise.

"—absolutely delighted to spend Christmas here at Netherfield! Such elegant arrangements you must have planned, dear Caroline."

A pause. Then Mrs. Bennet's voice rose with theatrical surprise. "Oh! Did Mr. Bingley not mention?"

Even though she was more engrossed in turning the pages for Mary at the piano, Elizabeth could imagine Caroline's expression—that particular shade of white that made her look consumptive.

Any other evening, Elizabeth would have savored it.

Tonight, she escaped with abbreviated courtesies, chin tucked low, unwilling to meet anyone's gaze.

The guest wing felt abandoned. Elizabeth changed into her nightdress, grateful for the loose cotton after the day's restrictive stays, then attempted to settle with Cecilia. The words swam before her eyes. She read the same paragraph four times without absorbing a single phrase.

She kicked off the covers. The room felt stifling despite the storm raging outside. Her skin prickled with heat that had nothing to do with the banked fire in the grate. She paced to the window, back to the bed, to the door, then returned to stare at nothing through the ice-glazed glass.

She returned to bed. Sleep refused to come.

Elizabeth turned onto her side, then her back, then her stomach—each position was worse than the last. She abandoned the bed, bare feet striking cold floorboards as she crossed to the window.

The latch stuck. She yanked harder. Thunder grumbled its displeasure while snow began to drift past—nature itself confused, ice and electricity warring in the same sky.

The December air bit at her face, yet her body continued its revolt.

She pressed her wrists to the frozen sill, seeking relief that wouldn't come.

Every joint ached. Every breath came shallow. Why couldn't she breathe?

A restlessness crawled beneath her skin like something trying to claw its way out. Wrong. Every nerve screamed it. She gripped the windowsill until her knuckles whitened. This was wrong, wrong, wrong.

The water jug stood no chance—Elizabeth drained it in desperate gulps before upending the remainder over her burning face.

Nothing. No relief came. She pressed herself into the farthest corner of the room, but Jane's scent clung to everything like morning fog.

Her sister's familiar sweetness of berries and maple had turned cloying, hostile, making her stomach turn and her skin itch as if she'd rolled through nettles.

Jane had been in here only that morning, whispering and giggling with Elizabeth over newlywed nights.

Elizabeth had savored the scent then, the familiarity, the pang of losing it forever, even to an honorable gentleman.

That once-comforting blend of berries and maple now scraped against her senses like wool on sunburnt skin.

The kitchens—that would serve as excuse enough.

Anyone discovering her could be told she required water.

It was true, after all. Elizabeth drew her wrapper tight and ventured into the darkened corridor, her bare feet silent on the runner.

The household slept. Good. She needed only to find somewhere, anywhere, that didn't reek of that terrible wrongness.

Three steps into the hall and she nearly retched.

The air hung thick with competing scents—each bedroom door leaked its occupant's essence into the corridor like smoke under a threshold.

Elizabeth covered her mouth with both hands, breathing through the fabric of her wrapper as she hurried past.

Heat pressed against her from all sides as she navigated the passage.

Her thoughts scattered like startled birds, leaving only the primitive urge to flee.

She rounded the corner too quickly, colliding hard with—not furniture—a person.

The impact sent her reeling. Firm hands steadied her, fingers wrapping around her upper arms, and she found herself staring up into Mr. Darcy's stunned expression.

He smelled wrong. No—that wasn't right. He smelled exactly right, and that was the problem.

Dark chocolate, the expensive kind her father hoarded in his study.

Autumn leaves decomposing into rich earth.

The combination should have been strange, but instead it made her mouth water and her skin burn hotter.

She wanted to press her face into his chest and breathe until her lungs burst. She wanted to run. She couldn't move at all.