Chapter Eighteen

The flickering lamplights cast a golden glow on the cobbled streets as Catamount ascended the stairs to his flat. The weariness of a hard day as the captain of the Bow Street Runners weighed heavily on him. He and his men had searched all day for the murdering bastards with no luck.

His grumbling words resonated through the narrow corridor as he strode down it, a solitary rumble of discontent. "Bloody Revivalists. Slippery as eels, the lot of 'em. Can't make a damn move without them slithering away into the shadows."

As he reached the door to the flat, a peculiar sensation tugged at his heart. The rhythmic thumping in his chest intensified, a primal recognition that something awaited him beyond that familiar threshold. Juliette . Christ, he'd thought of her all day. Felt her all day, right in the center of his chest around his heart.

With a deliberate pause, he stood before the door, key in hand, the weight of the day gradually lifting as his mind danced on the edge of a revelation. The idea crept into his consciousness, unfurling like the tendrils of ivy on a brick wall—a realization that stirred feelings long veiled by the practicalities of his profession.

Having someone— her —to come home to was heavenly.

Taking a deep breath, he inserted the key into the lock, turning the mechanism with a quiet click. The door creaked open, and the faint light within spilled into the corridor, revealing the familiar contours of his flat. Pushing the door wide, he entered the room, scanning the space, expecting her to be there.

But she wasn't. Juliette wasn't there. His flat was empty.

The door swung shut behind him with a soft thud. A wave of panic seized Catamount as he swept his eyes across the familiar surroundings. It was as he feared all day—Juliette had left.

He barked into the room, "Juliette!" The name echoed, unanswered. A disquiet settled over him as he searched for any sign of her presence.

Then, in the stillness of the room, his attention was drawn to a small figure by the window. Her kitten, Odette, sat there, eyes wide and watchful.

"Where is she?" he demanded, his voice sharp and urgent. The kitten remained unmoved, a silent sentinel in the room that held the secrets of Juliette's absence. Nothing seemed amiss, and yet the air was charged with tension. "Where the hell did she go?"

A swell of emotion, something dangerously close to love, surged within Catamount's chest as he stood in the middle of his room. The fear that something might have befallen her stirred with the sentiment that he was hesitant to acknowledge. His mind, often clear and decisive, was clouded with emotions. The room pulsed with the imprint of her presence, each corner whispering the silent connection that had unexpectedly woven its threads into the fabric of his life.

He spotted a note on the table and clenched his jaw, impatient and frustrated. "Damn it, Juliette!" He snatched up the note, scanning her handwritten words. The note detailed her destination—a decision she'd made in defiance of his explicit instructions for her to stay put. The tension in the room heightened, responsibility he felt for her mingling with an undercurrent of something more profound—a sense of protectiveness tinged with a realization that Juliette's choices, however well intentioned, had the power to unravel the carefully constructed boundaries he had placed around her safety.

Catamount's frustration spilled out in gruff mutterings as he reread the note. "I told her to stay put, damn it. Can't she follow a simple order?" The kitten, perched nearby, observed as he paced, his agitation palpable. "Stubborn woman. Doesn't she understand the danger she's in? I can't protect her if she goes off on her own."

He turned toward the kitten, exasperated. "You'd think she'd listen, wouldn't you?"

The feline offered no response, merely blinked nonchalantly. Of course.

Catamount's frustration simmered beneath the surface as he grabbed his long coat. "Can't believe she went off on her own," he growled, his steps purposeful as he stormed out of his flat.

His expression was stern and his strides agitated as he navigated the familiar paths that led to Tipton House, his childhood home. "I've all my available men scouring the streets for the Revivalists, and she's off visiting my sisters like it's nothing. What the bloody hell?"

The evening air hung with a crisp bite, a reminder that autumn was giving way to the colder days of winter. The sun, having dipped below the horizon, left behind hues of twilight that painted the sky in soft shades of orange and pink. A gentle breeze carried the scent of fallen leaves, earthy and rich, through the quiet streets. Occasionally, the distant sounds of horse-drawn carriages added a rhythmic backdrop.

Overhead, the skeletal branches of trees stood stark against the fading light, their silhouettes etched against the darkening sky. November evenings held a certain melancholic beauty, a quiet transition between the vibrancy of autumn and the stillness of winter, a time when the world seemed to draw itself into a den of contemplation.

Consumed by frustration and worry, Catamount marched with a singular determination that left him oblivious to the encroaching chill, his mind preoccupied with thoughts of Juliette and the dangerous path she might have ventured onto.

The flickering gas lamps cast elongated shadows as he moved through the dimming streets, his long coat billowing behind him. His furrowed brow and clenched jaw betrayed his emotions, and people gave him a wide berth as he passed. Which was fine with him. More than fine.

Unless one of them was a Revivalist. Then he wanted to punch his face in. And more. Christ, he wanted to do so much more to them for hurting his Julie.

The weight of his frustration heavy upon him, Catamount stormed into the drawing room of Tipton House, expecting to find Juliette alone with his sister-in-law, Sadie. To his surprise, the room was filled with the entirety of his family. His mother, Crawford, Carenza's husband Damon, his sister Nora and her husband Rainville, his youngest sister Lottie and her brand-new husband Thatcher—all were gathered, creating an unexpected family gathering.

Fuck .

He stopped dead in his tracks. "What in blazes is going on here?" he demanded, the frustration that had fueled his journey finding a new target.

His mother, a picture of calmness, offered a smile that belied the underlying hurt. "Just a family dinner night, my son. You were, as always, invited. But, as always, you never replied."

Caught off guard by his mother's reproachful words, Catamount felt a twinge of guilt beneath the veneer of his frustration. The burden of responsibility, both to his family and to Juliette, weighed heavily on his shoulders.

He caught sight of the woman he sought right before she spoke. Juliette, obviously sensing the tense undercurrent, interjected in a diplomatic tone, "Your family has been gracious in inviting me to dinner. I appreciate the generosity of their welcome."

Like she hadn't left his home when she said she wouldn't, risking her life.

Her life .

How could she be so foolish with something so precious?

Catamount's eyes met Juliette's across the expansive drawing room, a promise hot in them—one that said very clearly that they would discuss her choices later. Her serene smile in response hinted at defiance.

His family laughed and chatted on around him, drawing Juliette into their animated discussion, and his attention drifted to the weight of the ring tucked safely in his inside coat pocket. His constant companion for three long years, it suddenly felt like a substantial burden—a tangible reminder of a life he'd already lost once. The heft of it lingered in his awareness, a symbol of promises yet to be fulfilled.

As his gaze lingered on Juliette, his mind drifted to the time when he had planned to propose to Julie. A surge of poignant emotions swelled within him—regret, sorrow, and the awful what-ifs of a love that never had the chance to fully bloom. The intensity of his feelings, not quite love but undeniably profound and close to it, welled up in his chest.

Crawford, ever perceptive, approached him. A knowing look passed over his face, and he spoke with a touch of playful teasing. "I see the way you're looking at her, Cat. Don't try to hide it," he remarked. In an instant Catamount's feelings were laid bare, acknowledged by a damnably perceptive brother. Leaning in close, Crawford whispered conspiratorially, "I can't help but notice how much Juliette resembles your beloved Julie." His pale blue eyes practically glittered with sympathy and curiosity.

"It's not the same," Catamount growled, a defensive edge in his voice.

His brother gave a small nod. "I know it's not the same, but the heart yearns for familiarity, even when the circumstances differ. Cat, brother," he said, studying Catamount's undoubtedly troubled expression, "I have to ask the hard but obvious question. Do you want Juliette for who she is, or are you hoping she'll fill a void left by Julie?"

Catamount scowled, caught off guard by the directness of the question. "I… I don't know, Craw. I just can't help but see Julie in her. And she's got memories of the Seven Dials attacks. Not of me and our time together, but of the Revivalist attack. Which places her there that night. You tell me that you wouldn't draw the same conclusion."

Crawford nodded sagely. "I hear you, Cat, I do. But the truth is that Juliette deserves to be loved and wanted for who she is, not as a replacement for someone else. Or because you think she might be someone else. Take your time, figure out your feelings for her —and for Christ's sake, be fair to her. You both deserve that."

Blast it, his brother was right. The heart's journey was complex.

Yet love, in its truest form, required only acceptance. For what was, not for what might be.