Later, after learning nothing new from Lanie, Kate headed home. As soon as she walked in the door, she kicked off her shoes and dropped her coat, gun, and bag on the ground. She also wanted to grab the lamp off the table in front of her and throw it across the room, but she resisted.

The light was blinking on her answering machine, so she pressed the button. Josh's voice was breaking up and distant. She could hear a baby crying in the background. He sent his love and told her he missed her, promising to call her back as soon as he could.

Kate immediately erased the message, relieved that Josh was in Cambodia, relieved that she didn't have to explain what had happened today. She knew that most women would probably call their boyfriend the minute something like this happened—but she was not most women. And the fact that she wanted him away more than she wanted him close to her—well, that was something to figure out on a different day.

She opened the fridge to grab a beer and seeing none, she shut the door in frustration. After considering it for half a second, she instead grabbed a bottle of whisky from the cupboard and poured two fingers into a coffee mug. Grabbing the bottle, she slid down until she hit the kitchen floor. Stretching her legs out on the linoleum, she took a sip and finally let herself think about Castle.

She wasn't proud of her behavior back at the precinct. She didn't even really blame him for this—any of it. She hated hurting him, but she hadn't been able to stop herself. She was angry and it was just too easy to take it out on him.

The anger was from the sheer ridiculousness of this situation. One thing she had said to him was true. She had never wanted this, any of it—the book, the attention, the exposure. She was a cop and an incredibly private person. Sometimes she wondered why she had ever let him take this "ride along" thing so far. Sure, the pressure from the Captain and the Mayor had been nearly impossible to resist, but surely, at some point, she could have stopped things, before she had been made into some sex kitten super cop parading across the pages of Castle's over-active mind.

She glanced over at her bookshelf, at the entire row devoted to Castle, Heat Rises bookending the collection. Sometimes—most of the time—she enjoyed the blur of fantasy and reality that the books brought into her relationship with Castle. She enjoyed the thought of him writing about Rook and Heat in the throes of passion, wondering if he pictured her—the real her—when we wrote those lines. She didn't understand the writing process, how a writer envisioned his characters and their actions. Did he have some fantasy version of Nikki Heat in his head when he wrote or was he thinking of her body, her face, when he wrote?

The truth is, the lines had been blurred for a while. When she had read Heat Rises, she couldn't help but think of Castle. And when she was with Castle, she was bombarded by thoughts of Jameson Rook pushing Nikki against the wall, his hands on her breasts, his lips on her neck, his body pressed against hers.

If she was having trouble keeping the two separate and distinct, no wonder some delusional fan was blurring the lines, too.

Maybe she should have cut this off a long time ago, even risking the displeasure of the Captain, the Mayor, and the so-called "good publicity" the New York Police received because of Castle's celebrity.

She finished off the whisky and poured herself two more fingers, setting the bottle back down beside her.

Sometimes, it was nice to live in the hazy in-between with him—to flirt and have fun together, to see the power she had over him, the way he would stare at her, his mouth so close to revealing his thoughts.

The in-between was fun … and safe. Though she somewhat doubted the veracity of his infamous playboy reputation, she still wasn't sure she wouldn't become another conquest of his. That, when he got what we wanted, he would just sneak out the door and move on to some other muse. She figured if she never really analyzed her feelings, never really figured out how she felt about him, that he would never really gain access to her. She figured the fantasy version of herself was way more alluring—and enduring—than the real woman she was underneath it all.

She wanted to imagine him capable of deep, true love, capable of commitment, able to resist the next Nikki Heat that might turn his head at some industry party. She didn't know what exactly she wanted, but she was damn sure she would never be another notch on his bedpost, the wined, dined, and dumped flavor of the month in Rick Castle's wonderland.

She was a serious person, a guarded and cautious person. Even in her youth, when she should have been wild and crazy, she was careful. Truth be told, no one had ever been as close to her as Castle was—not her boyfriends, her girlfriends, not even her father. Castle already knew her better than anyone she had ever known.

Did he even know that? Did he even realize that the reason she pushed him away was because he was already too close?

Sometimes he seemed capable of deep emotion—he could be so kind and incredibly sweet to her. Other times, he acted like a teenager with a hard-on and a crush on the teacher. How could the same man who signed women's breasts with a mischievous twinkle in his eye also be such a wonderful father to Alexis, a patient and loving son to Martha, and such an important part of Kate's life? Could this often-silly man ever really be capable of the kind of connection Kate would need from him?

She sighed. This is why she didn't analyze her true feelings for him. She liked the way things were, again, the haziness of their relationship. The innuendo with no follow-through. Part of her knew that if she could ever truly open herself to him, he would have the power to hurt her deeply—and she couldn't risk it. She had already been opened up once before in her life and she would never go there again. It was just safer this way.

Feeling a little tipsy and needing to shut down these thoughts, she got to her feet and headed to her bedroom, thinking a bath would be just the thing to take her mind off of all this stuff with Castle. Maybe once she calmed down, she would call him later … or maybe just show up to work tomorrow and act like it never happened. He was usually fine with that, too. When you are running from feelings, it's so easy to stop, hide, and let them pass you by.

When Kate walked into her bedroom and started to unbutton her shirt, she looked at her bedside table, confused. On it sat a copy of Heat Rises—but she only had one copy, right? Didn't she just see it in the other room? Her heart seized for a moment—her cop instincts flaring up. But she brushed it off; maybe Castle had given her another copy at some point.

She laughed quietly to herself and was about to take off her shirt when she heard a noise behind her. In an instant, she reached for her gun and spun around to face the disturbance. But she didn't even have her gun—she had left it by the door when she came home, and he was way too fast. The man grabbed her arm and covered her mouth with a meaty hand before she had even had time to process exactly what was going on.

He twisted her arm up behind her, pushing it to the point of breaking, the pain rushing through her so swiftly, the breath was stolen from her lungs. He was incredibly strong, probably the strongest person she had ever faced in direct combat. She tried to stomp his foot and throw her head back to break his nose, but his hold on her tightened even more, making her cry out and then whimper in agony.

He threw her down and kicked her a few times in the midsection before she even registered she was on the ground. Then, he roughly yanked her up by her upper arms and pressed her down on the bed. She was shaking her head, trying to get the hair out of her eyes, when he struck her. Blood filled her mouth, and for the first time, in a very long time, Kate was terrified. All of her training, her sparring, her violent encounters with suspects and thugs, she had always felt in control and sure of coming out on top.

But when he backhanded her across the face again, the blow sending stars through her head and almost knocking her unconscious, she began to regret her decision to take this case lightly. In an instant, she knew this man could kill her, could do whatever he wanted to her. She could barely put up a fight.

Suddenly, his huge hands were around her neck and her airway was cut off. She looked up at him then, but could find no distinguishing features underneath the ski mask and the black hoodie he was wearing. Her arms now free, she weakly tried to pull his hands from around her neck while her eyes frantically searched for anything that work as a weapon, but she was failing.

Her eyes were starting to close, her brain starting to shut down. He chose to toy with her then, releasing his hold so she could catch her breath for a moment, just so he could strangle her again. And then he began to laugh at her, which was what finally broke her. She started crying, she could feel the hot tears running in streams from the corners of her eyes.

"Sorry, sweetie," he said, his voice roughly jerking her back into the reality. "If it were up to me, I would never kill you—you're way too hot."

She wanted to throw up when she saw his eyes sweep over her body.

"But orders are orders … she wants him, so you have to go …"

She? Him? Just as the words registered in her mind, his hands tightened again, for what she knew would be the last time. As her fingers gripped the sheets, she thought about Castle finding her here, how upset he would be, how he would blame himself. It was too much—so many things she could have done differently.

She was sure she had imagined the loud knock on the door until she felt the cool and sudden absence of his hands when he stood up above her. Choking, she tried to call out, but all she could do was cough.

"Hey Beckett, it's Esposito, open up! Cap wanted us to check in on you!"

At the edge of the bed, towering over her, the man put his massive boot on her stomach, like he was stepping on a insect. God, he was huge—even on her best day, she would never be able to overpower him. She tried to kick at him with her legs, but he pushed down harder, until she couldn't breathe again. She watched as he looked around, debating his options, half afraid he would just pull out a gun and finish her off. She opened her mouth to call for the boys, but she couldn't make even the slightest sound.

"Come on, Beckett," Ryan piped up. "Don't freak us out like this. We know you're in there!"

Finally, the man made his decision. In a flash, he was was out the window and heading down the fire escape. He didn't even have to say it—she knew he'd be back.

Beckett tried to go after him, at least see where he went, but she couldn't do anything except gasp for breath. She felt like a half crushed bug, grasping for anything to hold onto that would righten her.

Finally, the door was kicked in, and she heard the boys enter the apartment, searching for her. When they came into the bedroom, she closed her eyes in relief.

"What the hell?" Esposito asked, scanning the room. "Where did he go?"

Beckett weakly pointed toward the open window. He ran over to it, looked down, and radioed the situation to dispatch. He asked Beckett for a description, but she only shook her head. There was nothing she could tell him—some cop she was.

Ryan helped her to sit up on the edge of the bed and began to gauge her injuries, talking to her in a calm, soothing voice. She tried to explain what happened, but she still couldn't talk. He rubbed her back and looked over at Esposito.

"Call an ambulance," he told Javier, who nodded, and immediately got on the horn.

"Can I get you anything?" Ryan asked her. Beckett saw the alarm in his face, which just confirmed what she hated to admit—she had been beaten, literally and physically, and badly.

"Water …" she croaked.

"Got it," Esposito interjected, walking toward the kitchen. He came back with the glass and handed it to Ryan before heading over to the window to look for evidence.

Ryan had to help her hold the water, her hand was shaking so badly.

"God, Beckett, I'm so sorry," Ryan told her sadly.

"Just … glad … you're here," she managed, handing him back the glass. Ryan set it on her nightstand and faced her again.

"Lay back down," he told her, helping her move up the bed. "The EMTs should be here any minute. Can I get you anything else?"

She shook her head, swallowing.

"You sure? I could call …" he trailed off, leaving the unspoken hanging between them.

She hesitated for a moment, fighting the urge to ask for what she really wanted. But she shook her head again, determined.

"Jesus, Kate! Why do you have to be so …" Javier cried out in frustration, shocking all of them.

"Hey, man!" Ryan interrupted in warning. Javier huffed and turned away.

Ryan turned back to Beckett. "Please, Kate … he'd want to be here."

The way Ryan was looking at her, it hurt worse than the physical pain. He was a man truly capable of love and he didn't understand why she wouldn't want Castle here. Any normal person would.

He glanced down for a moment. He wasn't trying to, if anything, he was trying to hide it, but the way he had looked at her—he felt sorry for her. It made her feel like shit.

In an instant, she saw how damaged she had become, how far she had fallen.

How had she become so twisted up? If she had only been protecting herself all of these years, trying to protect the soft, loving person she saw herself to be, how had she become the opposite, this cold, unfeeling creature who actually reveled in her aloofness?

What was wrong with her?

Beckett tried to catch her breath to speak, but failed again. Gritting her teeth against the tears in her eyes, she reached out and touched Ryan's arm. She couldn't help it; she wanted him here so badly.

"Castle …" she whispered, looking away quickly.

Ryan looked over at Esposito, who was still furious and upset. "Call him."

Javier dialed the number and walked out of the room.