Hello everyone! So I should mention that this chapter is dark and anyone who reads it should heed the M rating that I have set. But hopefully the people still reading will end up liking it! Please let me know what you think. I'm desperate for feedback. 😊

Chapter 7

October, 1903

Katherine Moore knew that her time was almost up.

In some barely conscious corner of her mind, she had heard the fading ticks of a clock, each lessening beat bringing her deeper into darkness. After days of fighting tooth and nail to stay afloat, she finally felt herself succumbing to what seemed to be her inevitable drowning.

She was going to die.

The pain that had once seared into every inch of her body—the burns and cuts upon her skin, the bruises that ached within her bones had gradually dissipated. Her terror-filled thoughts now quieted into a gentle hum. And instinctively, she knew that this feeling was so far beyond the foggy weakness that the bitter concoction being regularly forced down her throat had caused. No, she was certain now—her body was beginning to shut down.

She had battled against this moment for so long—running to every safe space she could find, hiding in every crevice she managed to squeeze into. But all her clever sidestepping had been for naught, because here she now lay, tied to the devil himself's bed with nothing left to call her own.

He had broken her body—shattered her very soul. And now that her limp, fractured form held no more fire, he was going to let her die.

After all, John Cooke had always told her that it would end this way.

She wondered when she had finally seen him for the monster he really was. When her long-time friend Julia had first introduced him as her new beau? When he had offered her a special position within the charity he ran, allowing her to escape the cruel Manhattan streets? The streets where, for too many years, she had been forced to trade her own blood and tears for her parents' seemingly endless debts?

Although something about the handsome 32-year-old philanthropic heir to his father's fortune didn't quite sit right with her, she knew her desperation had blinded her to the early warning signs. Besides, their initial interactions had always been above reproach, occurring either around Julia or within the context of a crowded rally. Truthfully, she had never found herself alone in a room with him.

Until the night he had cornered her in the back hallway of Sunny's after she had spoken off-script to a group of Red Hook longshoremen.

The way he had slammed her against the darkened hallway wall, pinning her there with his much taller form as his strong fingers had jerked her face to meet his own had been wholly unexpected, if not outright terrifying.

But the words he had whispered in her ear had been so much worse.

"Don't think for a second that anyone here gives a damn about what you have to say. I allow you to speak at these events for one reason—so those fools will be so distracted by the thought of fucking you that they hand over more dues than they owe. You stick to my script with a goddamn smile on your face. Do we understand each other, Katherine?"

The deadly fury in his soft voice and the insidious glimmer in his dark blue eyes left no room for argument. She shakily nodded and he released her, but not before he allowed his hand to run down her neck, slowly sliding across her chest to rest tightly upon her hip.

The humiliation and disgust that filled her at his inappropriate touches brought tears to her eyes and bile to her mouth.

"Get off me!" she hissed, thrusting her hands against his chest to push him away from her. "And you should know I'm going to tell Julia all about this!"

But he only laughed, a cruel gleam in his eyes as he said, "Tell whomever you please. But I should warn you, it won't change anything. Honestly, I'd be surprised if anyone believed you…or cared."

The dismissiveness in his voice pushed her to ask, "Why?"

A cold, predatory smirk grew on his handsome face as he leaned in closer to her. "Because whoever I can't charm, I can buy. Or bury."

The threat in his statement was clear, but the way his eyes squinted at her before he turned away almost seemed like a subtle challenge—as if he was daring her to push back.

And so she had—many, many times.

But now she knew all too well how foolhardy her consistent subversion had been. Because John had been proven right about everyone and everything.

Her close friendship to Julia had shattered within a year of his influence, her parents disowning her shortly after that. With a snap of John's fingers, the humanitarian aid she had worked so hard for quickly dissolved into nothing, the people that had depended on her forgotten in turn.

And then there was her relationship with Spot Conlon.

The man Julia had warned her about for years, with gory details of his womanizing ways, selfish habits, and callous manner. All were legitimate deterrents, yes. But none had been able to stop her from eventually running straight into his arms.

And he too had turned his back on her in the end. Because men like Spot Conlon were not made to love.

So there Katherine Moore lay, her hands tied tightly to a rusted bedframe, her chemise ripped and stained with her own blood, and her body dominated and broken by John Cooke's sadistic desires.

And now all that was left to do was fade away.

"…oh God…shit…Katherine...are you…stand up…fire…you have to…come…have to…..open…"

Katherine felt a sharp pain begin to spread throughout her body, her eyelids heavy as she forced them into slits. Everything around her was dark and blurry, but her nostrils picked up a hint of something—something burning?

"Jesus fuckin' Christ—is that—is that fuckin' harbor rope? What in the hell were they doin' to you here?"

A new voice entered her awareness, one that she had never heard before. But was immediately distracted by the pain shooting down her arms as she felt a sweaty hand take hold of her wrists and noted the flick of a knife unsheathed above her face.

"Oh, no…please…don't…don't hurt me…please," she moaned in a hoarse voice, every syllable she uttered making her lungs scream in agony.

But as she readied herself for what she thought would be the pain of a blade slicing through her skin, she only heard a sawing noise rhythmically fill the space between her and the unknown man beside her.

And then, after days—or maybe even weeks of her arms being tautly pulled and tied above her head, she felt the rough edges of the rope cutting into her wrists suddenly gone.

A grunt escaped her lips as a new aching pain slowly replaced the numbness that had been there for so long before.

"Shit! Your arm—I think your arm is broken—goddamit, we don't have any time to deal with this—we—we gotta go!"

And before her eyes could focus on the hazy face that appeared above her, she felt the scratchy wool blanket from the bed wrap about her cold legs and torso as the man hauled her unceremoniously over his shoulder.

The pain made her see white and she hissed against the stranger's shirt, confusion and fear warring against the darkness slowly creeping back into her vision.

"C'mon, kid. Let's get the fuck out of here."

She felt her legs hit against something hard as the stranger moved forward with nauseating speed. "No…please…help…please…"

But the man softly shushed her as he picked up the pace, repositioning her roughly against his chest. "Don't worry. I'm bringing you to a safe place, kid."

"Where? Who?" she managed to whisper as she clenched her eyes shut against the searing hurt radiating throughout every muscle in her body.

"To Spot Conlon. To Brooklyn."

But before she could verify whether this extraordinary series of events was simply dream or a more complicated reality, a disconcerting numbness coldly pricked up her feet, then legs, until her whole body hummed in a state of uncomfortable shock. And within moments, her eyelids snapped shut as her vision flooded with black.