Chapter 5
CHAPTER FIVE
In her bedroom, Elizabeth collapsed onto the makeshift nest she'd built from shawls and pillows, but nothing satisfied.
The wool scratched, the linen felt coarse, the silk slipped away when she moved.
She rearranged them compulsively—this pillow here, that shawl there—but each configuration proved worse than the last.
Her body remembered. Every nerve ending recalled his touch with perfect clarity. The careful press of his fingers, the heat of his mouth, the way he'd known exactly where and how to ease the burning. She pressed her thighs together, but the ache only intensified.
Pride, she told herself. Have some pride.
She'd already debased herself before him once.
He'd made it clear this morning how unwelcome her presence was, trying to ship her and her family away like unwanted parcels.
Caroline would become mistress of Pemberley, would give him elegant omega children with perfect manners and refined sensibilities and perfect relatives.
The tears came then, hot and shameful. She buried her face in a pillow that smelled wrong—lavender and clean cotton when she needed dark chocolate and autumn leaves. Her skin burned, fever climbing despite the cold water she splashed on her neck.
Footsteps in the corridor. Mary and Kitty calling goodnight to each other, their voices muffled through oak doors.
Her mother's voice drifted past, regaling her father with some gossip about the Lucases that had already been rehashed several times before.
Normal sounds of a household settling for sleep while she writhed in sheets that felt like sandpaper against oversensitive skin.
Hours crawled past. She tried touching herself the way he had, but her fingers were wrong—too small, too familiar, lacking the authority that had made her body sing. The attempt only made the need sharper, more desperate.
By midnight, she wept quietly into pillows that offered no comfort. Her wrapper clung to sweat-damp skin. The nest she'd built mocked her—a poor omega who couldn't even build proper comfort for herself, who needed an alpha who didn't want her.
She lasted another quarter hour before surrender came.
Elizabeth didn't think, didn't plan. Her bare feet carried her from her chamber before conscious thought could intervene. The corridor lay in darkness, but she knew the way. Had memorized it without meaning to.
His door opened immediately, as though he'd been waiting. He shut it behind her.
"I'm sorry, I tried not to—"
"Don't." The lock clicked as he cut through her babbling. His voice wasn't unkind, just... controlled. Flat. "Come here."
Her feet moved, her body obeyed.
His chambers were exactly as she remembered—the massive bed, the banked fire casting shadows, his scent everywhere. It wrapped around her like silk, easing the worst of the fever's edge even as it stoked different flames.
Darcy's hands went to her wrapper, removing it efficiently. No tenderness in the gesture, just purpose. Then her nightgown fell to the floor. No words, no asking permission this time. He'd already seen her, touched her, tasted her. Why pretend at modesty?
Elizabeth stood naked before him, trembling from heat and something else. Shame, perhaps. Or anticipation. His dark eyes raked over her body—hungry, possessive—but his face remained impassive. As though she were a problem to solve, a task to complete.
"On the bed."
Two words. A command that brooked no argument, no negotiation.
Yes, her soul whispered. Yes.
She obeyed, sinking back against his bed.
He shed his coat and waistcoat with practiced movements, rolled his shirtsleeves to the elbow.
The methodical nature of it all made her feel like she was an account that needed settling.
He joined her on the mattress, his hand finding its way between her thighs without ceremony.
Nothing gentle about it, nothing tentative.
Her gasp came unbidden, back bowing at the sudden contact, and it no longer mattered if she was merely another task to be completed—every fiber of her being rejoiced.
His hands knew her body now—a terrible, wonderful truth. Every place that made her breath catch, every touch that made her spine arch. He wielded that knowledge without mercy, and she keened for it, for him.
Her hand moved of its own accord, reaching for the solid warmth of him, needing something to anchor herself against the tide threatening to pull her under. But he caught her wrist before she could make contact, pressing it down into the mattress with firm inexorability.
"Stay still."
Two words, delivered in a tone she'd never heard from him. Raw. Commanding. The gentleman's veneer completely absent. This was the alpha beneath the careful control, and her omega nature responded without her permission, going pliant and obedient.
The sound that escaped her throat might have been agreement or protest—she no longer knew.
His fingers never faltered, driving her toward inevitability with relentless focus.
The first climax tore through her like lightning, leaving her gasping.
He didn't pause, didn't gentle his touch, simply continued until her oversensitive flesh sparked with fresh need and she shattered again.
Elizabeth's hips bucked, seeking more, seeking less, seeking something she couldn't name. Then Darcy withdrew his hand. He moved down her trembling body without a word, shifting until his shoulders settled between her thighs, his hands spreading her open.
"Darcy, what—"
Then his mouth was on her and she nearly screamed. Oh God. OH GOD. This was—she couldn't—
He devoured her like a man starving. No gentleness, no hesitation. His tongue found places that made her sob, made her hands fist in the sheets until her knuckles ached. The wet heat of his mouth against her most intimate flesh sent lightning through every nerve.
When her thighs tried to close instinctively against the overwhelming sensation, his hands forced them wider, holding her open for his assault. When her hips twisted, trying to pull away from the intensity that bordered on pain, he pinned them down with bruising strength.
"Please—" The word broke on a gasp. "I can't—"
He growled against her—actually growled—and the vibration made her spine bow off the mattress. Her climax hit like a blow, tearing a broken cry from her throat as she shattered against his mouth.
He didn't stop.
How many times did she break apart? Three?
Four? The count dissolved into blurry senselessness.
She was sobbing now, words tumbling out—stop, don't stop, please—contradictions that made no sense.
When Darcy finally raised his head, his mouth shone wet in the dim light.
Those dark eyes had gone coal-black. He looked wild.
Unhinged. Unleashed. The civilised gentleman utterly absent.
Elizabeth could only watch, boneless and stunned, as his unsteady fingers worked at his breeches.
Darcy came up the bed, his thighs spreading her own apart with casual authority.
Elizabeth's breath stuttered when he captured her hand, wrapping her fingers around himself.
The hard heat of him pulsed against her palm—silk over steel, impossibly warm.
She'd never touched a man like this, never imagined she would.
His hand covered hers, larger and rougher, showing her the rhythm without words.
Just the steady glide of their joined hands, his breathing gone harsh and uneven.
Elizabeth watched his face, transfixed by the tightness there—the muscle jumping in his jaw, the way his eyes squeezed shut then opened to fix on her with burning intensity.
Control fraying at the edges, coming undone thread by thread.
How lovely her alpha looked like this.
Darcy's hand tightened over hers, the rhythm turning desperate. His other hand gripped her hip hard enough to bruise, anchoring himself. She felt him tensing, muscles coiling tighter, his breathing reduced to sharp pants. The tendons in his neck stood out like cords.
"Alpha." The word slipped out unbidden, barely a whisper.
Then he shoved her hand away roughly, taking himself in hand with movements that spoke of urgency beyond restraint.
"Don't move." The words came out through gritted teeth.
He positioned himself over her, and Elizabeth watched, mesmerized, as he brought himself to completion across her breasts and stomach. His jaw clenched so tight she feared he'd crack teeth, but he made no sound. Just the harsh rush of his breathing and the heat of him painting her skin.
The relief hit immediately—a cool wave dousing the fever's worst edges. Elizabeth sagged into the mattress, every muscle going liquid. Her bones might have dissolved entirely. Her eyes closed.
Darcy climbed off her, and through her closed eyes Elizabeth felt the mattress shift. No cloth from the washstand—instead his hands returned to her skin, warm and deliberate. He rubbed his spend into her heated flesh with patient dedication, each pass of his palm pressing his scent deeper.
The primal part of her brain that had awakened with her heat practically vibrated with satisfaction.
Yes, it whispered, this is how it should be.
His essence seeping into her, claiming her at a level that would linger for days.
Maybe weeks. His fingers worked with devastating patience, missing no spot, until she smelled more like him than herself.
Her body sang with it—every cell recognizing its alpha's scent, drinking it in like parched earth after rain.
When she finally cracked one eye open, his face had become unreadable marble.
Stone and shadow in the dying firelight.
He was already closing himself off. Already regretting.
"Thank you," she whispered, the words inadequate and necessary all at once.
His jaw clenched. A muscle ticked beneath the skin.
"Sleep." He turned away, withdrawing his hand. "It will return tomorrow night."
That was all he said.
The questions burned in her throat—Do you feel anything beyond duty? Am I more than an obligation to discharge?—but his face had become a cipher, all sharp angles and shadows. The words withered unspoken.
Elizabeth turned onto her side, drawing her knees up. His sheets still carried warmth from where he'd lain beside her. The pillow beneath her cheek smelled of him—that dark richness that made her omega instincts purr with contentment even as her heart twisted.
Darcy crossed to the wingback chair near the hearth. No blanket, no attempt at comfort. He sat like a statue, spine straight, fingers gripping the worn leather armrests. The dying embers cast orange light across his profile, highlighting the severe line of his jaw.
She watched him through lashes growing heavier by the moment. His chest rose and fell in measured breaths, but nothing else moved. The firelight flickered lower, throwing his features into sharper relief—the hollow beneath his cheekbone, the tense set of his mouth.
What thoughts churned behind that marble facade? Regret? Disgust? Or something else entirely?
Sleep pulled at her before she could puzzle it out, dragging her under while he kept his vigil in the dark.
Before too long, Elizabeth stirred, her body stiff from sleeping curled on her side. The fire had died completely, leaving the room cold.
Darcy remained in the wingback chair, chin dropped to his chest at an angle that would leave his neck aching.
Still in shirtsleeves and breeches, still gripping the armrests even in sleep.
The grey light revealed what darkness had hidden—purple shadows beneath his eyes, deep grooves bracketing his mouth. He looked haggard. Worn thin.
Elizabeth sat up slowly, clutching the sheet to her chest. Her nightgown and wrapper lay pooled where they'd fallen. She dressed in silence, fingers trembling with cold and something else as she watched him sleep.
Two nights now. Two nights he'd given his body to ease her suffering, asked nothing in return. Not even the comfort of his own bed while she slept in it.
He held himself completely apart.
The first tear fell as she reached the door and turned the handle. She couldn't do this again. Wouldn't.