Chapter 21

Manhattan, June, 1903

"You think you're clever, don't you?"

Kate felt herself tremble even as she maintained her defiant stance and harsh glare. But John continued to stare coldly back at her, the usual condescending amusement absent from his dark blue eyes. He stood leaning against the polished wooden desk in his office, the light from the fireplace flickering against his crisp white shirt and the surprising silver threading incorporated into his well-cut wool suit. His arms were crossed over his chest, his face clean-shaven and a well-contained wave of dark hair over his brow.

Kate often thought that he would have been a handsome man if not for the unimaginable cruelty of which he was capable.

"Answer me."

Kate shuddered at his threatening demand. She hated him—hated the authority in his voice, how it made her frightened. How it made her sick. But above all else, she hated that no matter how she fought and undermined him—methodically undoing all the insidious deeds with which he filled his days—he was always ten steps ahead of her. He always won.

And she always paid the price for her defiance.

But something was different this time. She could feel the air in the room tinged with something other than his usual humored warnings of punishment. Because he looked anything but entertained by what she had done.

In fact, he looked utterly bloodthirsty at the thought of it.

"If I have to repeat myself, Katherine, I assure you that you will not like the result."

His domineering tone made her jaw set tightly, even as she clenched her shaking hands behind her back.

And, as usual, he made good on his promise.

John's movements were swift, mind-boggling, as she felt him harshly grasp her upper arms, almost lifting her off the floor before slamming her upper body atop his desk and pinning her hips painfully against the wooden frame with his own. His hand harshly encircled her throat, leaving only enough room for her to gasp lightly for breath, his forefinger playfully running along her cheekbone.

His teeth were clenched as a sick smile grew on his lips. "We'll play this game again, shall we? Because I'm ever so good at it." He paused, tightening his grip on her neck just enough to make a strange grunt come from her mouth. "But you…you, silly girl, are so very inept."

Kate felt panic fill her as his hand tightened once more, her eyes widening before pained tears lined her lashes. "But oh, how I do love making you dance and sing—just for me."

Her hands, of their own accord, desperately clenched at his constricting grip, her legs and hips attempting to maneuver him off her, as a croak escaped her lips.

"So, last chance, my pathetic little doll. Do you…. think…. you are clever?"

The black haze at the edge of her vision caused Kate to begin losing her focus, her head shaking in dissent, and her voice rasping a breathless, "No."

And instantly his grip loosened. Kate blinked several times before her eyes were able to resettle on his sneering face above her. "There's a good girl," he murmured, smirking.

His hand moved slowly from her neck, nausea filling her when his fingers ran through her hair. But she cried out when he clenched a handful of curls harshly against her scalp.

"I don't either. Nor do I find your brashness and disregard for my rules acceptable. And I tire of having to remind you of them so very often."

"I do your ridiculous speeches," Kate hissed, even as her throat burned in protest. "I tell your lies. I stay on your stupid script—let you steal their money. But I won't convince those girls to sign that contract. I won't."

At that, John chuckled, yanking harder back against her hair. "Sad little doll—thinking you have any choice in the matter. Do you forget that I own you? That I have the power to destroy everything you love?"

"I won't," Kate said somewhat louder, even as her voice shook, and several tears spilled from her eyes.

And John's smile grew even more ominous, his stare reflecting an emptiness that set Kate's stomach on edge. "Burn all the papers you like— forge my signature and send out all the fake contracts and messages you can. It won't change the fact that I will win, and you will pay. Where others have failed with you, I will succeed. Make no mistake."

He paused, leaning even further into her, his face hovering inches above hers. "And oh, how I will take pleasure in breaking you. Piece by piece. Until you beg for death."

Brooklyn, December, 1903

"No!"

Kate gasped for air—disoriented and terrified as she searched for something solid to hold onto. But all she managed to do was tumble clumsily over, hitting her back on a hard, cold surface beneath her.

"Ugh!" Her voice sounded distant and strange when a grunt fell from her mouth at the harsh impact.

But she had no time to waste. John was here—somewhere near—and she needed to find her way out. To escape. Before he came back for her and made it so much worse.

She quickly rolled herself to her side, scrambling against her confusion and dizziness to attempt to stand. But all she managed to do was push herself to her hands and knees as the floor tilted and ebbed underneath her.

"Kate? What are you—what—what's wrong?"

The unexpected, concerned voice that entered her awareness caused her to snap her head up, her gaze coming face to face with a familiar pair of worried blue eyes. She shook her head, trying to clear her blurry vision as she felt gentle hands attempt to grasp her arms.

"No!" she yelled, aggressively pushing against the contact, clambering as far away from the dark figure as she could.

"Kate. It's Tom. Listen to me. Listen to my voice."

"Tom?" she gasped in confusion, shaking her head, and squinting as a small light filtered through the darkness. "You can't be here! Don't you understand? We have to—to go. To get out."

"Kate."

She attempted to stand again, this time her bare feet slipping over some type of fabric on the floor before she stumbled against a wall. "Dammit! We don't have time. He's coming—he's going to find me—us—here. He's here. We—we need to—need to—"

She lost her train of thought as she felt hands tentatively grasp one of hers, entwining her fingers within a firm, steady hold. Her breaths came in short gasps as her eyes finally settled on the furrowed brow of Spot Conlon kneeling next to her on the ground.

"Kate, you're in Brooklyn, with me, in Mary's apartment. You were just having a nightmare. No one is here but you and me."

She felt his hand pulse against hers, her eyes searching his face. "He's not here? I saw—I saw him. He could be—"

"Who?" Spot interrupted gently, his eyes narrowing in concern.

"John," she breathed, closing her eyes momentarily as several unshed tears slowly made cold trails down her cheeks.

"No," he murmured. She felt his thumb gently wipe the wetness off her face, her eyes slowly opening to meet his stare once more. "You're in Brooklyn and you're safe. It's December 25, 1903. No one is here but you and me."

And after several tense minutes of silence, his eyes shining in calm affirmation, Kate finally nodded. "Okay. Okay, just—just give me a minute to remember."

He nodded patiently, carefully watching her face as she tried to pull herself into the present—wherever that was. She was in Brooklyn, she had been for months at this point, right? Her mind flashed back to bandages, her arm tightly bound against her chest. And pain—so much searing pain in her limbs.

She felt a shudder move through her as she clenched her eyes against the vividness of her body's recall. No, that was so long ago now. She was better now, wasn't she? She rolled her left shoulder slightly, noting the ease with which it moved. Yes, she was better now.

But then she felt the cold, icy wind pulsing against her form, saw a flash of blonde hair and a pretty smile.

"Sunshine."

"Julia," she whispered automatically, as if in answer. When she opened her eyes, however, only Spot's increasingly worried face looked back at her.

"Kate, you gotta come back now. You're in Brooklyn with me. It's December 25, 1903. You're safe."

She blinked quickly before she narrowed her eyes in confusion. "It's Christmas?"

At that, Spot smiled lightly, a soft chuckle escaping his lips. "Yeah. Three A.M. on Christmas morning."

She felt his fingers gently run through the hair in her face, moving it out of her eyes, but she flinched back, pulling her hand out of his grasp, and turning away.

She heard him sigh before he pushed himself to standing, offering his hands to help her up as well. "C'mon. Let's get you back to bed."

She hesitantly accepted the open limbs, feeling a wave of embarrassment hit her as more of her present reality set in. It had been two weeks since she had attempted a permanent escape at the inlet between Queens and Brooklyn. Two weeks since she had madly acted on the only impulse that had made sense to her in all the months since she had taken. And truthfully, even though her attempt had failed for reasons beyond her current understanding, she still found herself often thinking of that option as an alternative to the constant chaos she could barely contain within herself.

Nothing felt right anymore. Her body felt strange and unfamiliar, her mind rarely running with her own thoughts. It was all noise and flashes of things she either couldn't fully remember or wanted desperately to forget.

The only thing that didn't feel that way was Spot. His body next to hers made the foreign numbness melt away and a quiet take hold of the chaotic hum within her brain. But he was the last person she should be leaning on right now. Because in her experience, all that Spot Conlon was able to reliably offer was inconsistence.

She stared silently at his form as she climbed back into the bed—his bed—that he had graciously offered to her since she had been brought to Brooklyn over three months ago now. His eyes were distant, his face still lined with worry when she scooted toward the wall, allowing him room to climb in beside her. He made sure to gingerly ease himself into a laying position, so as not to touch his body to hers in anyway. It was as if he instinctively knew that she had to be the one to initiate the contact.

And as much as she hated herself for it, she couldn't help but feel pulled to his body, to the safety and calm she automatically felt when her head laid in the crook of his shoulder and his fingers gently trailed through her hair. It was the most powerful sensation she had ever experienced, even as her brain attempted to jolt her away in protest.

So, just as she had done every night for the last two weeks, she moved to him, closing her eyes, and inhaling deeply for a moment, taking in his smell and the steady beat of his heart.

"I love you."

And then her calm was suddenly gone. Her body stiffened at his words, a knee-jerk reaction that happened every time he uttered them. And over the past two weeks that had been too many times to count.

A frustrated sigh blew out her nose and she found herself naturally pulling away from his form, rolling onto her back and attempting to steady the mixture of emotions surging within her.

"I do, Kate. I love you."

She clenched her eyes shut, biting the inside of her cheek as a tightness filled her chest. She needed to get control of herself, tame the rising panic and anger that seemed to combust her insides every time he said it. I love you, Kate. As if it were true—a fact that she needed to accept. But who was he kidding here?

At first, she had been able to brush it aside, ignore the murmured sentiments as if he weren't even speaking to her. Because he couldn't be. They had already been through this. They had covered this topic in far more depth than she ever wanted to delve into again. He had told her the very opposite—had laughed when she had dared to bring it up herself.

So, Thomas Conlon loving her? Ridiculous, improbable fiction was the only way she could look at it.

"It's the truth. I love you. And I should have said it a long time ago."

"Enough!"

Kate pushed herself up, the anxiety and fury filling her body with too much energy to stifle. She glared toward his surprised face, clumsily climbing around him, nearly falling over herself to get to standing. And when she saw him stand as well, stepping toward her, she backed several steps away, pointing her finger at him as she hissed, "NO! No more. I've had enough!"

Her eyes danced about his body and face. Her whole form was trembling, her brain ricocheting from one bad thought to the next. So, she wrapped her arms about herself, looking away from him. She was unsure of what exactly climbing out of bed and pacing about the room like a mad woman might achieve, but it didn't matter. All she knew was that she could not lay there next to him and hear those words coming from his mouth. Not again. Not anymore.

Spot was looking apprehensively toward her, his arms crossed over his chest, his eyes clear, but worried. "I'm not tryin' to upset you. I'm tryin' to tell you the truth."

Kate shook her head, squeezing her arms against her abdomen. "No. No—this—this is not the truth speaking. It's not the fucking truth that you would suddenly pull that out of your hat." She looked at him, cursing the tears forming in her eyes. "You're confused. That's what this is. You're confused."

"I'm confused?" he challenged. "Hate to break it to you, but out of the two of us right now, I'm the one that's thinkin' clearly."

Her eyes narrowed, anger bubbling up within her chest. "Just—stop it! Shut up! You don't get to judge me. You don't get to stand there and—and comment on how I am. We're nothing, remember? And I was a fool for ever believing differently."

Spot didn't even try to hide the hurt and regret in his features as he shook his head. "I know I said some horrible shit to you. And I know sayin' I'm sorry now doesn't even come close to makin' anything right, but I am, Kate. I'm sorry." He paused, making sure she was looking at him. "But there's somethin' you need to understand. Those things I said before—the ones you're holdin' so tight to—they aren't true. Never have been. Because...well, because I love you—it's just as simple as that."

His voice resonated with genuineness, his eyes clear and open. But Kate felt herself becoming more unraveled by his vulnerable manner. "It's not simple, Spot! None of this is. So, you have to stop. Please!"

"We may not be simple," he countered somewhat more emotionally, taking a step nearer to her. "But this feeling—the one in my chest and gut that I've been fightin' with for years now—every fuckin' time I look at you? It's basic—as natural for me as breathin'."

Warm tears slid down Kate's cheeks and she swiftly wiped them away with her shaking hands. But Spot's gaze did not falter, his blue eyes blazing in earnest need. Kate, however, could only shake her head in response before murmuring, "It's easier to say you love me than to say you feel guilty for all of the things that've happened. As much as I wish it were different, I'm certain you've confused the two."

She stared at him briefly, feeling an overwhelming sadness at the truth in her own words. But as the silent moments continued to pass, Kate noted Spot's face look anything but convinced. He seemed to consider his words carefully, a shocking smirk appearing on the corner of his mouth.

"You…wish it was different?" Kate widened her eyes, confused as to what he was getting at. He took in her apathetic shrug before he added, "Meaning, you still have feelings for me?"

Her mouth dropped open in honest shock as she was unable to help her scoff, "That's what you took from what I just said? What—what the hell is wrong with you?"

"A lot," he answered seriously, staring back at her. "Same as you. But I don't give a shit about any a' that right now—we'll get to that later. What I care about right this minute, is you bein' honest and tellin' me if there's anything—anything at all in you that still sees somethin' in me."

"You're unbelievable!" Kate exclaimed. "Why does that matter?"

"Because I know how I feel. But I ain't got a clue about what's goin' on in your head. So if you stand there now an' honestly tell me that you feel nothin' for me—that it's too late an' I fucked up too much, I might believe you." He smirked toward her before adding, "It won't make me stop tryin' to change your mind. Not even close. But at least I'll know where I stand."

Kate wanted to scream at him—throw objects at his head, curse him and then stalk off. Because he was a bastard—a stubborn, egotistical, selfish bastard. An ass that had hurt her, laughed at her vulnerability, and pushed her away from him too many times to count. A womanizing, guarded son of a bitch that had called her out for lying...and repeatedly apologized to her for his cruelty…

A man who had treated her as an equal from the beginning, supporting her progressive, revolutionary ideas without question. Who had dried her tears and soothed her nightmares on and off for years. A man who had seen the worst of her—every broken, raw piece, every awful vice—and had still chosen to stay.

The man who had nearly burnt down the city looking for her—tirelessly trying to save her when no one else even thought twice about her absence.

And damn it all to hell, she still loved him.

More tears escaped her eyelids as she crossed her arms stubbornly over her chest, muttering thickly, "You're a bastard."

And he smiled gently toward her with an exasperated chuckle before closing the distance between them. "That I can work with."

She allowed him to wrap his arms securely around her, breathing in the comfort as he pulled her head against his chest. And strangely, a laugh—quiet and breathy as it was—fell from her lips as well.

"It's a fuckin' Christmas miracle," he murmured into her hair, his body shaking in humor once more.

And, for the first time in a long time, she felt her lips upturning in a smile, slowly maneuvering her arms around his waist, and pulling him closer against her.

"How do we fix this?" she whispered after a moment, clinging even tighter against his strong body.

His fingers gently ran through the layers of her hair, soothing and simmering her insides simultaneously.

"From the beginning. One step, one piece at a time."