Page 102 of Bound to the Scarred Duke of Thornwood

“And healed.”

“Yes,” she said softly. “Healed.”

The cat rose, stretched, and leapt lightly to the stones. It paused, casting them a contemplative glance, then slipped into the deepening dusk.

“It will return,” Benjamin murmured.

“I know.” She smiled. “It always does.”

They lingered in the fading light, watching the first stars kindle in the darkening sky. The air was cool but gentle, scented faintly with roses beyond the wall.

They remained there until the sky was thick with starlight, wrapped in one another’s arms, listening to the small, living sounds of the garden. At last, the evening chill persuaded them indoors. They walked slowly through the gap in the crumbling wall and along the familiar paths, arm in arm.

The house shone ahead of them, its windows warm against the night. Within, there was movement—lamplight crossing corridors, the quiet industry of servants concluding the day. The steady pulse of a household at peace.

“I am happy,” Eleanor said, and the simplicity of the words startled her. “I do not think I have ever said that without qualification. But I am. Entirely.”

“So am I.” His arm drew her closer. “I had forgotten the shape of it. I believed it belonged to some earlier version of myself. And now—”

“Now?” she prompted softly.

“Now it greets me each morning.” He stopped and turned her gently toward him. “In the sight of you beside me. In the sound of your voice at breakfast. In the knowledge that I am not alone—and that I am chosen. Repeatedly. By a woman I admire more than I can adequately express.”

Her eyes shone. “You will make me cry.”

“Then I shall consider that an honour.” His thumb brushed the tear from her cheek. “It means you are no longer guarding yourself from feeling.”

“I have shed more tears in recent months than in years past.”

“Then perhaps they were long overdue.” His tone was light, but his gaze was earnest. “I would rather see you moved than hiding.”

She caught his hand before he could withdraw it. “And you? Will you permit yourself the same grace?”

“I am learning,” he said. “Slowly. I may falter. But I will not retreat from you.”

“That is all I require.” She pressed a kiss to his palm. “We are both unlearning solitude.”

“And relearning joy.”

“Yes.”

They resumed their walk, steps unconsciously aligned, fingers intertwined.

Behind them, in the quiet of the courtyard, a small grey cat emerged from the shadows and began to follow.

It had found its belonging, at last—and meant to keep to it.

The End