Elizabeth slipped her arm away from her sister's touch."The room is rather warm."
"Warm?"Mr.Bennet glanced up from his plate."I find it perfectly comfortable."
Jane pressed her palm to Elizabeth's forehead.The touch burned, Jane's familiar berry-maple scent suddenly nauseating.
"You're burning up.Perhaps you should retire early?"
Elizabeth lurched to her feet, the chair scraping against floorboards."Yes.Yes, I think I shall."
She didn't look at anyone as she fled.Couldn't.The stairs stretched endlessly upward, each step requiring conscious effort.Lock the door.Bar it with furniture if necessary.Endure.
Everything swayed.Elizabeth caught herself against paneled wood, legs threatening mutiny.The heat—Christ, the heat—it blazed through her like wildfire through dry grass, consuming everything in its path.Worse than yesterday's torment.Worse than the humiliation of begging Darcy for relief she hadn't understood.Her body felt foreign, too small to contain whatever writhed beneath her skin.She bit her lip hard enough to taste copper, using pain to anchor herself.But even that couldn't stop the trembling, couldn't quiet the howling need that had her pressing her fevered forehead against cool plaster.The corridor stretched endless in both directions.Too far to her room.Too far to anywhere safe from this consuming fire.
Sweat beaded along her spine, between her breasts, behind her knees.Every heartbeat sent fresh agony pulsing through her, and she pressed her burning cheek to the blessedly cool wall, wondering if one could die from wanting something one didn't understand.
Strong hands caught her before she hit the floor.
"Elizabeth."
Her name alone, ragged and desperate on his lips.The familiar dark richness of him wrapped around her, and she had to bite back a sob of relief despite her struggle to wrench herself away.
"I can't—I shouldn't—"
The words came out broken, desperate.She couldn't do this to him again, couldn't burden him with her need, couldn't stomach another morning—
Darcy didn't answer.His arms swept beneath her knees, lifting her against his chest.Elizabeth's protests died as he strode down the corridor toward his chambers.
"You can and you will."His voice was flat, emotionless."I'm not letting you suffer."
No tenderness in the words.No declaration.Just stated fact, as though he were discussing ledgers or estate management.
He shouldered open his door, kicked it closed, deposited her on the bed with efficient movements.He stepped away, and soon the lock was turning.
Elizabeth pressed her face into his pillow, drowning in his scent.
CHAPTERSEVEN
Darcy turned to face her.
The candlelight turned him into something mythic.Elizabeth's heat-fevered gaze traced the harsh planes of his face, the shadow beneath his jaw, the way his chest rose and fell with barely contained restraint.He looked nothing like the proper gentleman who'd sat across from her at dinner.This was something else entirely—primal, barely human, carved from hunger and darkness.
Every line of his body screamed tension—shoulders rigid, hands clenched at his sides, the muscles in his jaw working as though he fought some internal war.His eyes weren't the composed brown she knew.They'd gone black, pupils blown wide, wild with something that made her pulse race even faster.He looked—God, he looked dangerous.Like a wolf that had slipped its chain and hadn't quite decided whether to flee or feast.
"I'm sorry," Elizabeth whispered.
"Don't."His voice came out harsh, scraped raw.His coat hit the floor.Then his waistcoat, fingers working the buttons with violence.
Elizabeth whined—a sound she'd never made before, would be mortified by tomorrow—because he stood too far away.The space between them felt like an ocean when she needed him like air.
Darcy approached the bed with controlled purpose, each step measured despite the wildness in his eyes.Not the careful restraint of previous nights but something darker, hungrier.
Her gown ceased to exist.One moment she was wrapped in layers of fabric, the next she wasn't—the transformation so swift she might have imagined the garments had ever been there at all.The dress went first, buttons yielding to his impatient fingers.Then the chemise, pulled over her head in one fluid motion that left her gasping.No gentle coaxing, no tender unveiling.When his palms met her bare skin, they were rougher, less careful, leaving trails of fire wherever they touched.
Elizabeth wanted to tell him to slow down, to look at her, to stop treating this like some terrible duty to be dispensed with as quickly as possible.But the words wouldn't come.Because beneath his cold efficiency, she could feel it—the barely leashed hunger in the way his knuckles brushed her collarbone, the infinitesimal pause when her chemise caught on her hips before he tugged it free.He was racing against his own restraint, and they both knew which would win.
She gasped at the contact, and he paused—just a heartbeat.
"Tell me to stop if you need to."
